Ernest by Paal

The weather was really nasty. All of us were soaking wet, not to mention dirty. Mud was all over the place, but still the match went on. I saw the players’ faces. They were struggling. More rain poured down on their wet and tired bodies. The schedule had been really tough the last few weeks, but still, we expected our lads to win. We’d won it three years in a row.

There we were, a very cold November night at the Galpharm Stadium in Huddersfield, my friends and I. The tension among the players was high and all the fans at the stadium were standing, cheering and shouting. Except for one.
Just beside us, a man was just sitting in his seat. Without cheering or shouting. He seemed to pay attention to the game, but he surely lacked enthusiasm. He was wearing a dirty old raincoat which looked very well-used. His hair was grey and very thin. It looked as if it would fall off any second. He looked very old, but if you took a closer look you could see that he hadn’t passed middle age.
In his grey, shaky hand he held a disposable cup, probably with tea in it. He drank tiny sips, slurping his Earl Grey down his cold throat and into his belly.
No one else noticed the old man. People around treated him as if he were a ghost. It also seemed that the old man didn’t want to be noticed. I think he was living in his own world, not caring for anyone, including himself, and not cheering for the game or nothing. These kinds of people are a disgrace to football. The lads could use our support, fighting for points in this god forsaken weather. But the old man watched the game as if he were sitting on his couch at home.

The ref blew his whistle. The game was over. The fans were of course disappointed. We just didn’t make it this year. I looked beside me...the old man was gone, again. We lost the match, but more importantly, we lost our uncle.

(In response to Alan Sillitoe's "Uncle Ernest".)