Yesterday, I savoured the final play-off game in the Championship division of the Football League as I watched Swansea play Reading at Wembley. For the nineteen-fifties boy (who, albeit beneath the grey hair, still lives within me) to watch his "Swans" play again and for the wonderful prize of playing in the Premiership next season (not to mention the $90M that go with it) was a nostalgic thrill, dwy oriau gwych dros ben, as someone from south Wales might say.
I know it wasn't the Vetch Field, the original home of Swansea Town, which isn't even a town any more, but a city, and I wasn't standing in front of one of the barriers on the "Big Bank" where I always had stood. Nor was I watching the heroes of my youth--the Allchurch brothers, Ivor and Len; Medwin; Jones; Charles; Mel Nurse; Harry Griffiths; Johnny King, the overweight goalkeeper--but it was the Swans nevertheless, so this boy had to support them. And what a match it was at Wembley . . .