By Mark JardineI miss the immediacy and intensity of being at the football.I miss the loss of control, brief or not-so-brief, after the net ripples.
The creeping awareness that you’re three seats over from where you started and have been shouting wordlessly for an undetermined number of seconds.I miss parking up an hour or more before kick-off, listening to Sportsound to hear which of their roster has drawn the Paisley straw.I miss hurling my home-knitted black and white scarf around my neck, regardless of the weather, and optimistically striding down Drums Crescent.I miss that faint hum from the tannoy that you pick up as you approach the Main Stand, straining over hundreds of indistinct conversations.I miss seeing all the familiar but.
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