ABSTRACT
With no room left on the open terraces themselves I am left standing in the aisles, the ‘civilised’ desire for personal space abandoned as bodies crush against friends and strangers alike, with the stewards redundant in the face of the packed adrenaline-charged crowd. Transistor radios are pressed to ears relaying scores from Huddersfield, Grimsby and Portsmouth as the ball is hooked forward hopefully before finding Freedman who goes on another weaving run towards the goal which sits invitingly before us. Whilst the clock continues to tick away, time is slowing down as the ball moves across each blade of grass and the crowd moves forward in anticipation, every face a picture of suspense. Another dummy, a jink inside, and the ball rockets into the roof of the net…
The celebratory roar is too loud to hear, but fuels the emotions as bodies collide, falling into and over one another in an ecstatic explosion of joy, hugging, kissing and virtual loss of consciousness. Anyone will do, as countless fans now stand between me and the friends who have similarly been carried away in the crowd. Whilst we fall back into the vacuum created by the surge, the players are still celebrating as they are mobbed by fans moving onto the pitch, dancing, jumping, oblivious to the stoic behavioural conventions of contemporary football stadia. As the reality of the goal sinks in, a gradual return to the terraces is facilitated by obliging stewards before the final whistle precipitates another pitch invasion and twenty minutes of incessant singing before Palace’s First Division survival is confirmed and the players re-appear to receive the crowd’s adulation.
