A small child's tiny hand nestles in her father's giant grasp. Under the big puffy coat her mother made her put on, she proudly wears her red and white stripes. She is still only half aware of what this thing means. This support. These thronging crowds. The loud men shouting things out in the darkening gloom.
The streets are cut off from cars. They walk without fear, and she makes sure to step on the mysterious white lines she spies on the road. The taboo of the street is exciting. As is the hum of the people who bustle around her.
Yet this mess of people is strangely organised. Not what her mother pictures at all. Not the careless, angry gathering of testosterone-driven young men. Families chattering excitedly. Girlfriends and boyfriends holding hands. Groups of mates laughing, but careful not to jostle a stranger, not to step on a child.
Everywhere, she sees the red and white. The magical barbershop shirts. It isn't hard to spot Wally tonight - and that is a book she adores. He is her Wally. Her fellow saint. She imagines, when the book shuts, he gathers the people of each page and starts them singing.
Oh when the Saints. Go Marching in.
Oh when the Saints.
Go
Marching
In
Who cares what the score is when new stories are being written every time we play?
The streets are cut off from cars. They walk without fear, and she makes sure to step on the mysterious white lines she spies on the road. The taboo of the street is exciting. As is the hum of the people who bustle around her.
Yet this mess of people is strangely organised. Not what her mother pictures at all. Not the careless, angry gathering of testosterone-driven young men. Families chattering excitedly. Girlfriends and boyfriends holding hands. Groups of mates laughing, but careful not to jostle a stranger, not to step on a child.
Everywhere, she sees the red and white. The magical barbershop shirts. It isn't hard to spot Wally tonight - and that is a book she adores. He is her Wally. Her fellow saint. She imagines, when the book shuts, he gathers the people of each page and starts them singing.
Oh when the Saints. Go Marching in.
Oh when the Saints.
Go
Marching
In
Who cares what the score is when new stories are being written every time we play?
