I do not know what is expected of me with this match report. The facts are straight forward.
Whites are dominant. For the first time they are ahead in the World Series, leading 5-4 in titles, in games they have won 82, to the Darks 80, across the 9 series.
They are strutting like peacocks in Spring, tail feathers full of pomp and perfume, Paddy’s socks are an assault to nature herself, that colour does not exist in the palate of God’s own making. Seemingly the Darks have no answer, even when ahead in the very final seconds we still play until the Whites win.
I can tie my scarf like Mouriniho, I can share his passion, rage as if I am his brother at the injustice, decimated with injuries and subterfuge, unsettled by the ever changing line-up whilst the consistency and the industry of the Whites steamrolls their strutting Bauhaus, part Jagger-esque part monolithic presence ever forward, and yet in all our victories we never once claimed having a series lead made us the Ultimate World Series Champions, words like daggers dagger daggers. I shall return this week, with a new shirt, a Holy shirt, a blessed shirt. As I have done so already, I do so again, humble in defeat, I raise my glass to the Whites for their World Series but in this hour choose wisely, whether to strut or tread gently…
“for the God’s will lay before them those who try to blind them with unnatural colours”
(Cicero, 62BC, Pro Archia Poeta, in defence of the poet Aulus Licinius Archias)