1.
I am not sure why, last winter, sat beside my dad in the Ninian Stand, I was thinking about the way the pitches I played on as a child used to flood.
Of course, they still do. Like clockwork. Worse each year. I vividly remember seeing them drown each Sunday morning, to my disappointment if it had meant my game had been called off, and to my fear if it had not.
A second later, as the seasons felt back then, I remembered the fields suddenly bone dry in summer. More recently, when I or anyone played football during the pandemic’s lockdowns, I would walk past my local pitch in the evenings when they were like this: dusty and still and warm and empty. I took my feet to the edge, so the ends of my trainers just nestled in the grass, and I leaned my torso over the rusted railings. I thought that the last time I had been there I may have been small enough not to notice the pole at all; I could have just walked under as if it were never there.
I am not convinced whether, at that particular moment, I could tell you that I was happy to be back seeing Cardiff sulk out another 0-0 live and in the unfortunately cold flesh.