Paradise
It had been ten long years, but he was back. Back where he belonged.
It was a bitterly cold December night. The beams from the silver moon seemed to be pointed
directly at the stadium – a cosmic floodlight focused on the east end of Glasgow. It pointed the way
to the thousands of spectators who slipped and slid along a shimmering London Road.
The smell from burger vans nearby transported him back in time. To when his dad used to take him
to the games. To when his dad was still there. He wondered where he was now. He might have
passed him on the way to the ground, smoking outside a Gallowgate pub, not that he’d recognise
him. If it wasn’t for football, he probably wouldn’t remember him either.
As he approached the turnstiles, he could sense the excitement in the air. His heart beat in time to
the drumming inside, drowning out the noise of the crowd queuing behind him.
This was it, time to go in. He scanned his ticket and began his ascent – up the scissoring staircase
which was every bit as long as he remembered. When he got to the top, his heart was beating even
faster than before – partly from the climb, and partly because he knew what was coming next. The
Terrace. He walked out and was greeted with a sea of green. 60,000 scarves aloft, defiantly singing
their anthem. He raised his own scarf above his head and joined them. But he didn’t sing. He
listened. He smiled.
It had been ten long years, but he was back. Back where he belonged. Back in Paradise.