If you closed your eyes you could almost imagine you can hear it on the wind, the excitable chatter and chanting of an assembling football crowd.
If you tried hard enough you could perhaps conjure up the smell of frying onions and errant cigarette smoke. If you squinted through your mind's eye you could even see the seas of green and blue separated by a solid block of luminous yellow.
Open your eyes though and the scene fades like celluloid in the sun. On what should have been derby day, the only sound rippling around Ibrox is the wind, the only sight two men standing in front of the gates as though waiting.
Waiting for the game that never was. These are the sights and sounds of a ghost football match. When the announcement was made that
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