Four Minutes Of Injury Time

It’s during those last few minutes, when the clock can’t tick fast enough and you’re afraid to blink, that you begin to remember all the downright filthy things you’ve done in your life. Every piece of trash you talked, all the dastardly, despicable stuff you wouldn’t admit to in presence of God himself. In those dying seconds, when you’re mere moments away from a cup final, the feeling that the universe is going to choose this place in time to hand down punishment is absolutely soul crushing. You’re pouring sweat and your retina’s are shriveling, crying out for moisture. On your knees, whispering prayers to anyone or anything that will listen. It’s only the Carling Cup, you know this, but it’s no use. Your breath stops short, that hard ball of regret for every miscue in your short time here swirling like the steady drum of a washing machine. And, then you hear it. It’s been a long time coming, ages in fact. Three blows on the whistle and a billions voices singing as one; we’re going to Wembley and you’re all invited.

Hybrid match review / match preview for the weekend to follow. It’s late and I’ve been drinking again.