Unofficial world champions

They were world champions.

They were unbeaten in nineteen.

They sent out ten of the men who had lifted it.

The specials emptied onto Euston that morning with lager for breakfast and a man from Stirling who only needed three from Law. Radio took the second half. Television did not take the night at all. You heard McCalliog at the near post, you heard the ground, and you waited for STV while Baxter walked it about in their living room — instep, forehead, knees — and Stiles bobbed a yard away, unsure whether to tackle the head or the foot. After the whistle our lot were on the grass. Hugs for Baxter. Hugs for Law. Turf in the pocket. No posts down. No one hurt. Just the holders beaten in their own house, three-two, and a country that had to wait for the pictures to believe what the wireless had already told them.

Unofficial world champions. Someone had to be.