Pheep. Pheep. Pheeeep.
The whistle went and my bench came off the seats like a dam breaking.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!"
"WE'VE DONE IT! WE'VE ACTUALLY DONE IT!"
Marcus was first past me, tablet gone somewhere, both arms in the air, screaming something the noise ate whole.
Then Rebecca, then Steeley, then the lads off the bench, then the kitman with his bibs still bundled in his arms. Every one of them flat out for the pile in the middle of the pitch, tk tk tk across the grass.
And then I was going with them. I don't remember deciding to. One second I was on the white line and the next I was into the pile and down under it, whump, arms and studs and soaked shirts, the smell of it hitting me all at once, sweat and cut grass and the sulphur off the flares.
Somewhere down in it my suit jacket went, wrenched half off my shoulder and gone. I never saw it again.
"GAFFER! GET IN HERE!"
