ONE PRICELESS MOMENT

One Pricless Moment....

Larmour score, six minuites left. Glentoran hearts sink, player look at each other in disbelief - but, unnoticed by the wailing hoards engulfed in a blue mist, one by one, slowly but surely the fallen heroes rise.

 

First McGibbon and Leeman, Nixon, Melaugh, Parkhouse, the word spreads, steely eyes meet steely eyes, and the spirit becomes infectious Morgan, Halliday, Holmes, Keegan - Even Keegan and Ward stand tall. Word gets back to Morris - one last gasp - one last effort - one more mountain.

 

Deep in the psyche, buried beneath the hallowed turf of a thousand games, played in those colours - those glorious colours of Red - the right vien which pumps the blood and the sweat and the tears, Green - the evergreen optimism of'le jeu avan tout' and Black - Terraces stacked black with our people and with our dreams - we remember. We remember, all who have gone before, in stud or in stand we remember - it can be done.

 

'Come on ye Glens' starts from somewhere deep inside, slowly. even hesitantly at first but rises to a mighty crescendo meeting blue wail with stout hearts, and strong voice.

 

The gladiators clash, again and again, the game ebbs and flows. A pass here a tackle there, danger, there's danger - get it away! Relief and hope. Our eyes turn towards the hill, Halliday rises, the connection is good, the ball, arrow like flies towards the goal. Winkie, yes wee William Winkie makes a mockery of Murphy's Law. A goal line clearance save the moment. It can be done - remember - it can be done.

 

Banks of supporters, as one, wave the players on, willing the ball up the field, up the field. Up to the place where swans once swan proudly and elegantly making graceful what demonic forces had wished to lay asunder. Echoes sound, 'in 41 when the bombers come...... no time for nostalgia.

 

Up when the Glens, phoenix like, Mannus saves, it drops to Morgan. Morgan the pirate, plunderer of sea green oceans in azure blue, seizes the opportunity.

 

In another time, Morgan the pirate becomes Morgan the finely tuned Roadster. Created for moments like this racing green, pristine, purring, firing on all cylinders, designed for grace and beauty with a rugged underbelly to get to the finishing post - first. He has the stomach, He's ready to go - a shirt of gears and he's there!

 

Racing, racing. hearts pumping, eyes burning, tears blinding, arms open, seeking, searching.

 

David, the irrepressible David, a Goliath in his own mind, is passed by, dismissed, forgotten by Christopher in joyous celebration. No cheer here I fear- O, what can it mean?

Eyes turn to the dug out, hugs are dug out of the dug out.

 

The ink is about to dry on another fascinating script. Shakespearean tragedy becomes Roy of the Rovers.

 

Estatic disbelief in the east - the sun goes down in the west.

 

In the stand, the Wee stand, the intimate stand, strangers become friends, the quiet find their voice. We seek first those that we love and find them instinctively; embraces choreographed, but not choreographed, order is somehow made out of natural disorder.

 

I turn, I need to look away, burning eyes stream. Where is that warm embrace that takes the ache of joy and lets me know it will be all right?

 

I reach out; a new face, stunned, beaming, framed with a Glentoran scarf joins me in my search for that place - that filled solace. 'Isn't it, isn't it, just wonderful' I manage to say in faltering voice.

 

'Yes' she replies, half smiling half weeping, her grip tightens we both need to know it is real, and in one priceless moment she says - ' that's my son out there''