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Post by thesalmon on May 16, 2005 8:29:03 GMT 1
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Post by ratcliffesghost on May 16, 2005 10:10:07 GMT 1
I STILL appear to be banned from that website (even though the subject matter of my post they didn't like - Sergi Rebrov - now plays for West Ham and did indeed go for the fee I suggested he was worth (free transfer) ;D) Well it was their fault, they asked how much he was worth in the current market, and I told them
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Post by the salmon returns on May 16, 2005 12:46:08 GMT 1
as you cant read it here it is in full. if ypou like the Shawshank redemption then u may like it...
There’s always a danger in getting your hopes up in the final furlong when you’ve already declared yourself satisfied with a season. With two games to go Spurs were seventh but at 5pm today we found ourselves out in the cold in ninth place.
When the curtain fell on Spurs’ season last summer I would have gladly taken a five place improvement the following year and another seven points. In fact I’d have probably have bitten the hand, arm and shoulder off whoever offered that prospect, but you know what? I’d unwittingly become a player in Bill Nicholson and the Shawshank Redemption.
Let me introduce myself, most folks call me Never Red. I spent most of my days in Shawshank sitting in my cell, dreaming of Europe and the success which lay outside these dreary walls. It had been a warm and stormy summer, but at least I was safe in the knowledge that my parole was coming up in a year or two and my life would soon change for the better.
I was almost happy to wait out the remainder of my 25 years alongside all my fellow inmates, packed inside the looming stadium watching busloads of new souls coming in every window, betting between ourselves which one would crack first.
I think it was sometime in mid-November when the new guy was brought in. Little did I know then that this giant of a man had come to turn my world upside down. In fact, most folks didn’t think the tall newcomer in a suit would make it through that first match. Anyone who’s ever been in Shawshank will tell you that that first one is always the hardest. But he made it through and earned a lot of people’s respect that day.
As the days drew on, we soon realised that Martin Jol wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t content with sitting around waiting for things to happen. Everyone liked him, even some of the less aggressive stewards took to his charming manner.
Then one day he came to me and said that he’d heard I was the guy who could get anything for a price. The big man wanted me to get him Bill Nicholson. It was the strangest request I’d ever had but I managed to pull a few strings and within a month, a large poster of the managerial legend was adorning his wall.
Martin and I became good friends over the following months. I could tell he wasn’t content with the mediocrity of the place and his enthusiasm rubbed off on all of us. Then two weeks ago I found out what he’d been up to the whole time.
Behind his revered image of Bill Nicholson, he’d been digging a way out. An escape route away from the tedium and the predictability. I was torn. I’d been expecting to get out anyway in a year or so but now this new guy was offering me a way out immediately. Half of me patiently whispered that I’d been waiting for decades to be released, so what difference would another season or two make?
But I was seduced by Martin’s plans and his quick way out. I was tired of years of nothing but boredom, only lifted by observing the newcomers being brought in every summer. So that night, we hatched plans to escape the following Saturday.
At about 3pm on that hot May afternoon, we carefully crawled under the poster and began our daring journey. Only two hours in, disaster struck. A pile of red bricks had caved in halfway along the tunnel and blocked our path. There was, however, a chink of light at the top of the blockage but we knew the adventure would have to be postponed at least for today. After we had crawled back to his cell, feeling none too happy, Martin and I decided to meet up again the next Sunday to give it one last go.
A week passed and we met up to give it one last shot. I could see that some of the hope had drained from my partner’s face but there was always that slim chance. Once down the tunnel, we struggled to lift the heavy blocks. Each seemed to weigh more than the last. Just when it looked as if we were finally getting somewhere we heard the barking of dogs. My bald partner-in-crime stopped dead as did I.
Through the cracks in the pile we saw him. It was the flame-haired freckled warden flanked by his Dutch right-hand man with those wild haunting eyes. The prison dogs were going crazy and for a moment I turned and came eye to eye with my towering friend. We knew that this daring escape was over before we’d even made it out of Shawshank.
As I sit here in my cell this evening contemplating the future, I couldn’t be much more depressed. Hopefully in time my thoughts will clear and I’ll realise that it won’t be long until I reach the success that lies outside. I feel its mine and my friend’s destiny. I saw him today in the canteen. He was hunched over his food not talking to anyone. Just as I was about to pass him though, he caught my eye and from beneath that dour exterior, he smiled mischievously.
I get the feeling it won’t be long before our paths cross again, outside the confines of these walls. It’s been a long wait but as the days count down I find I’m growing more and more excited. I think it’s the excitement that only a hopeful man can feel, turning a corner towards the end of a long journey in which the conclusion is looking brighter.
I hope Martin is there at the end. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Premiership trophy is as gleaming as it has been in my dreams. I hope.
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