It is Winter. Early afternoon the gentle breeze loitered, marshy pitch still dampened from last weeks gloomy drizzle. The field is silent and peaceful. 

Saturday afternoon. You begin the long haul plodding, passing beside the deserted hockey pitch. The corroded container awaits the arrival of the home team in black and yellow. Back in the carpark, the opposition stretch out of a freshly painted minibus. The smell of deep heat tickles your nostrils. The home team suiting up in their clean black and yellow kit. Chairs effortlessly perch deserted pitch side. Construction of New World can be sighted sky rocketing in the background. The drum and bass music drowns out the silence as the ear piercing fizz rattles from inside the undeviating shipping container. Wafts of white clouds withdraw from the men urgently darting around the field prior to the whistle. The battered goal posts display battle scars from footballs constantly cracking against the white paint. 

Look. Cars halt in between the eroded lines, filling up the car park like a bottle of icy water. The army of supporters flooding around the pitch. Sun searching, peaking through the dull clouds. You can spot the South American fans sipping on the bombilla of their caffeinated beverage. The black plastic chairs are now engaged with human bodies. Coating the pitch, small droplets of rabbit excretion cover the smooth field like a blanket. Rock solid footballs skate around the field skipping of the moist surface. Rolls of slick black electrical tape neatly stacked like firewood, resting within the imaginary technical area. 

Listen. Once again immaculate boots clattering against the sturdy wooden floor. Clapping arrives from the crowd as the home team march out of the shadows in their jet black uniform. Without a trace. The bass line vanishes. Ear to ear. Whispers creep. The whistle screams. WHSSSSSST.