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Play Off Day, Remember?

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You know how they say to never put all your eggs in one basket? Well, in a sense, The Play-Off Final is the epitome of bad planning. Let me explain.

When you set off on a journey you try and make it as straight forward as possible don`t you? Avoiding heavy traffic, lengthy road works and, by the grace of God, the M25 at early evening. That`s not hard to fathom is it? – If anything that`s common sense.
The footballing equivalent to bad navigation and ill-informed pre-planning is competing in the Play-Offs. Afterall, you`ve had eight months to find your way out of the division; don`t go asking Sat-Nav now. Before you begin to wonder – No, this isn`t an article on travelling. I`m digressing miserably.

Since November 2000 Wembley Stadium, the iconic home of English sport, has been out of service. English League and Cup finals have become nomadic entities, finding refuge in the space age Welsh National Arena – The Millennium Stadium.
Though beautiful in almost everyway; it`s just not home. You know how it is when you go round to someone`s house. It`s obviously very nice (and undoubtedly expensive); but somehow it`s just not right. It`s not yours.

Every year Cardiff is invaded. Thousands of fanatical football fans haunt the historic streets; donned in numerous items of their teams clothing. Their allegiance is obvious. But that`s the way they intend it. The sounds of monotone horns continually echo around the town square – their novelty wearing thinner with each toot.
Outside the ground hundreds of excited fans flock to buy a commemorative flag from the cockney-tongued seller, desperate to make a quick pound. They smell of cheap synthetics – a memento that will last as long as the street urchin`s loyalty.

The ground looks like a stadium from a computer game, with little computer flags lining the stone walkways and little computer people queuing for computer burgers. The mass migration towards the turnstiles means one thing: its 2pm, an hour until kickoff. The horns subside temporarily as they try to decipher the cryptic codes on the ticket. Gate 7, Stair 5, Level6, Aisle 618? Time for that Sat-Nav?

Inside, chicken and mushroom pies have sold out; although there`s still plenty of beer left. From the upper tier, the tiny men on the pristine green canvas look like specs on a snooker table. Looking around, the density of the crowd is thin. Half full, at a push. This multimillion pound, 70,000 seater stadium wasn`t designed with the likes of Grimsby Town and Cheltenham in mind. Still, the atmosphere seems strangely muted for such a big occasion. Please, no sarcasm. A chant starts far away in the distance, it soon fades to nothing; a faint ripple in a vast pond. The game’s begun, apparently.

A player runs down the left, taking the ball with him. The crowd stands expectantly, ‘`shoot“ the rabble plead. Polite applause follow. How dull? The game passes by with little highlight. With minutes to go Grimsby concede, sending the synthetic Cheltenham supporters into raptures.
A child to my left covers his tears with his commemorative scarf. To him, this means so much. Me, I wish I`d watched it on TV.

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