Young Writers Society

Sometimes you just get that feeling there’s another force at work. Like what has just happened in front of you was the work of supernatural devices. Like God himself just changed the events in your favour. It’s astounding when it does happen; it’s almost unbelievable. It doesn’t sink in – you can’t fathom how what your eyes has just told your brain can be true. But it feels fucking great nonetheless.

It’s just past half eight on a Wednesday night. I’m stood upstairs in my bathroom feeling like the world has gone against me, thinking about tomorrow at school, thinking about how all my dreams have been tore to shreds and left bleeding on the ground. I wouldn’t go as far to save my life is over, but at this one moment it feels like nothing else matters. I’m not ashamed to admit the tears were forming in despair in my eyes, ready to drip solemnly down my cheeks. I had the red scarf hung around my shoulders, but it was beginning to slide to the floor. I didn’t stop it, and it dropped without a sound. Just like my dreams, it lay in a crumpled heap, broken, forgotten, lifeless.

I stare into the mirror without emotion, and decide I may as well make this night the best I can. Ruffling my hand through my hair and gulping, I turn to walk at the door. But I pause as I reach the frame and look back at the scarf on the floor. Is it worth picking up? Is it worth holding onto my dreams for one last moment? One last chance? I openly defy my deepest fears, walk other, pick it up and drape it back around my neck. A little pride can be restored at least.

I walk downstairs, open the fridge and grab a bottle of Stella. If the football isn’t going to make this night good, then this beer will numb my feelings and make me forgot about it. An escape from the reality I’ll have to face tomorrow afternoon as I hear the jeers of everyone. Fuck them. I take a big gulp and go back to sit at the sofa. My uncle is pacing around not smiling. MY sister is reading the newspaper glumly. My dad is sat at the computer uninterested.

I stare at the TV, where the pundits are busily discussing how shit Liverpool are and how magnificent AC fucking Milan are doing to be 3-0 up at half time in a Champions League Final. I don’t even listen properly, picking out random words – breathtaking, world class, dominant, rampant. Liverpool are a shambles, Liverpool are crap, Liverpool are this, Liverpool are that. I feel like hurling something at the TV presenters, wishing they’d shut up and have a little English pride for once, instead of shoving their faces as far up Italian arses as they could. Why don’t you just go and wear a fucking Milan shirt, you bollocks-talking dickheads? I look at the remote control and envisage myself switching the whole game off. At least I wouldn’t have to hear their smart-arsed witticism about Liverpool’s defending. They think they’re clever, but I just have to push one button and they can’t talk to me anymore.

But something stops me. It’s that pride again, that hope – that one little tiny voice that sounds in my head and refuses to give in. As I learn over the back of the sofa, I move my hand from the remote control to the bowl of kettle chips and take a handful of the salty snacks and stuff them casually in my mouth. Then I sit down moodily, without a word to anyone.

My uncle says he almost may as well go home now, the match is practically over. I think he’s joking though, and my judgement is assured as he sits down to get ready for the onslaught of the second half.

For all my anger towards the pundits on the television, for all my pride and all my hope, my mind is telling me they are right. Liverpool are playing terrible, Milan are walking over them and it was embarrassing. From the 52nd second we were behind. The 52nd fucking second. I could see it coming. I even said, “They’re gonna score,” to no one in particular. It was because as soon as Traore had given the ball away on his first pass and then fouled Cafu just outside the penalty area I knew he’d made two terrible mistakes. Milan are unbelievable in the air and I knew that cross would spell disaster. And it did – a floating cross, the veteran Paolo Maldini drifted in from the edge and connected with a sublime colley. The ball bounced unfortunately on the ground and past the floundering hands of our keeper Dudek. I was shocked. A crisp almost get stuck in my throat. One minute hadn’t even passed and we were already losing. The screen flashed the score mockingly at me – AC Milan 1-0 Liverpool. Not the first disappointment of the night.

We couldn’t keep the ball, we couldn’t pass, we couldn’t even fucking play football for those next few minutes. So the next two goals weren’t even a surprise, although they were still painful. Gerrard was anonymous, as was Carragher, and the whole team didn’t even seem to be on the pitch. It was as if Milan were playing football just with themselves. The first goal was just quality play by European fucking Football of the Year Shevchenko put a low pull back across the penalty area and Hernan Crespo at the back post tapped the ball in past a stretching Jamie Carragher for a two goal deficit. I just stared even more at the screen, failing to take in what was happening. What happened to the passion and belief of the last few rounds? What happened to the stunning performances and rearguard actions of Juventus and Chelsea? All was going down the drain quickly. We were almost out of the game before it had properly begun.

The third goal was just sheer class, although half the defence was out of position and played Crespo onside. He took the beautiful pass by Kaka without effort and left Dudek looking helpless. Just a world-class touch and the defence was pierced again. Three fucking goals down in an European cup final. A European fucking Cup fucking final. Have some heart lads! Have some determination! We looked like an unfit local Sunday Pub team. We were out of our league and the whole world knew it. Milan were a different class.

Thank God it was half-time. It could have easily been 6-0. But it was over either way. The Milan players were almost celebrating. Who could fucking blame them.

I felt like I was reading two completely different pieces in this because the first half didn't seem to flow into the second half very smoothly. Both were well written, though the shift in attention to the speaker's feelings to the football game did throw my attention off because I was expecting this to be centred around something very different. The lead could be better, but it did make me curious and hold my attention enough to want to read on, and your thoughts were well organized and I could definitely understand his point of view.

It made sense to me...

eh, I'll leave the tense stuff alone for now. just so you know what I'm looking at.. you have "I'm stood", and "tore" instead of torn, just those type of things. Nothing huge. Sounds good to me, and post the next part! lol (and your blog was ever so subtle, I must say )

I agree with Reichieru in the sense that it seemed like two seperate peices. The introduction seemed a little generic: the speaker, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, watches tears fall down his face and reflects on the mysteries of life. Nothing highly original, but it was well written, so I read on. It was surprising to find that the dramatic beginning built to revolve around the author's feelings on a football game. I don't know of anyone who feels that strongly about sports, so I guess that's why I was a little confused at first.


You did a nice job of creating a kind of tense, anxious household with lines like this: "My uncle is pacing around not smiling. MY sister is reading the newspaper glumly. My dad is sat at the computer uninterested. " (That bolded part should be "is sitting", by the way.) I felt almost as if I was there watching the game too.

Nice job with this. It'd be interesting to read your thoughts on the second half, as well as a peice like this from the eyes of a fan of Milan.