As the ball was swept delightfully out wide to the opposite side of the field, I recognised that exhaustion had defeated Beardsmore; he'd never catch me now. With the sun shining brightly on our backs, I became empowered, running almost the full length of the pitch. Intuition told me that he would whip it in first time, all I had to do was be in the right place. The inevitible perfect cross, half vollied, darted through the air, leaving me on collision course with the ball. I bearly felt the contact on my sweaty brow.
Euphoria errupted.
The ball smashed past the helpless 'keeper before rippling into the top corner of the net in front of the quickly deserting Platt Lane.
As I made my way back, in front of the vast Kippax, the opportunity of reminding the crowd of the tally of our goals was simply too tempting to pass on.
Any ideas.......