a story of what being a fan means

[zouch]

written by my son

School competition, two tickets to watch Leicester City,
My dad laughs, “No son, we’re Millers, you’re coming with me.”
So here I am, a young kid, at my first ever game,
It was the roar of the crowd, as the players came,
That truly did, send shivers down my spine.
I wonder how I’ll feel, in ninety minutes time.
Sitting high in the stands, with a coke and a pie,
Just a little kid, joyously reaching for the sky.

Old enough to drink now, old enough to swear,
Obscenities at the ref, as every decisions unfair.
We score a screamer, and to our delight,
Hug a person I’ve never met, sat on my right.
1-0 up with a minute remaining, heartache of being a fan,
Calm the nerves with Carlsberg or two… and six diazepam.

The games are good, but the company is better,
A proud little Yorkshire town, united together.
And although a lot of us, are in relegation fear,
Rotherham United, let’s make one thing clear.
Whatever happens, we fans will continue to be loud,
That’s because you’ve made us all, so very very proud.

Unfortunately for us, next season will be sad,
As we say good-bye, to those fans that we had.
To my grandad, who’d join us to every game,
Regrettably for us, matches won’t be the same.
My mum and my grandma, and any fans you’ve lost too,
3 O’clock, Saturdays, is the time we’ll most miss you,

So as my dad and I, cheer on your starting eleven,
A pint to those Miller’s, that are clapping from heaven.

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