A blood tarnished broadsword and battered shield lie in a lost tomb. The knight’s now wear their shields on their chests. A club emblem replaces their breast plate. A black band is worn like a Queen´s ribbon, laced round the arm. Shirts and shorts their battle dress. Shin pads their rusty spurs. A match their honour fight. The pitch their battlefield. The defence their armour. The strikers attack the back four like the siege on an enemie’s castle. A pass replaces a parry. A dribble and tackle is foot work like fray and clash of metal was sword play. A foul is a black knight’s deed. A red card is banishment, like Lancelot, to the tunnel. A free kick like a lance in a joust: Breaks through the wall, knocking the champions off their steed. A shot cuts into the net like a blade into a foe’s chest. The shout of female fans is the siren of modern damsels. Feet wound supporter’s pride. Knights no more. Teams fall through the divisions like Kingdoms through history. Blood is spilt but no men fill the open graves. by stew.t.

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