The echo of the referees whistle fades away leaving a hole in my heart. I am a grown man; why should I cry?

The goals, this time, swung in their favour. They were the better team but it is a bitter pill that I do not want to swallow just yet.

Around me heads are bowed and hands clasp them tightly; trying to end the noise of victors penetrating the funk they all feel. Scarves, once held high in support now sit limp round necks.

Eventually, we realise the result is set in stone and all rise with stooped shoulders to trudge our wretched way back to individual lives.

It's only a game, my wife will comment. Her remarks will fall on deaf ears.

There is always next season.