I am writing this post on Friday afternoon. Deliberately so before the big event, My mood tomorrow evening could be ecstatic, or perhaps suicidally depressed. Thirty seven thousand people are travelling from Derby to attend. Now that's a lot of people. And the big event? A religious gathering, in a way, yes. Derby County play Queens Park Rangers at Wembley in the Play Off final. The prize, a place in the Premier League of British Football. Said to be worth around £160 million pounds to the winners over five years.
Now I don't expect everyone to love football. The same as I am not so keen on golf and golfers but I don't 'go on' about it. Not too often, anyway! But what gets 'right up my nose' are those people who rant and rave about football being 'oh so bad for us all' yet never go themselves. Armchair experts, they drive me quite mad. We true supporters KNOW that too often we're watching overpaid prima donna's; and the clubs are often owned by filthy rich foreigners who know little about footballers but that's the world we live in. We, Derby County supporters have had an exciting season and witnessed some magical football. Nothing can that away from us. It won't be the end of the world tomorrow if we lose, but it might as well be!
All this excitement in Derby, often dreary old Derby made me think. How many events in our little lives are truly exceptional. Perhaps when we were children life was full of wondrous experiences. Experiences LIVED, real, not viewed second hand via a fifty-five inch screen.
I have lived over seventy years, so what are the events happenings that I remember most. VE Day,
people happy and relaxed, many swigging from tankards as they walked the village streets. The Coronation, in 1953, trestle tables laid out with food, glorious food. School trips, including one where we saw, Little Johns grave. Plus a week at Mundesly where we slept on straw filled sacks in ex-army tents. Carefree days, all real, all experienced in childhood.
Adult experiences seem less carefree, inevitable I suppose. Marriage is not to be taken lightly; the day remembered, the feelings experienced I cannot recall. The birth of children induces anxiety, and ecstatic joy. Death appears mores in the adult world; I remember death from childhood, though infrequently; or is this the mind playing tricks. Undoubtedly adulthood is a more serious business.
So, when thirty thousand plus descend on London, all thought of adulthood flies out the window, be it train, coach or car.
I won't be at Wembley. So I shall miss that incredible heart stopping experience. (Neither of us, sadly, are fit enough to take part in the ultimate footballing experience.) But we know will enjoy the day with friends. For once hurrah for a fifty five inch screen! I view the next twenty six hours with trepidation, but also hope. I don't expect everyone to understand.