A Nice Little Ground

As I leant on the gates, one of them creaked and inched open. I went in and stood on the terrace. It was a nice little ground - it reflected the people who ran the club. Cliff Britland, the chairman, who never seemed to watch a single minute of a match. He disappeared for long periods and then re-appeared to ask the score.
Sam Fay, the Matlock Mercury reporter, who had been here almost as long as the stand and knew everyone and everything. He loved the team as though he had given birth to them and grumbled through every minute of the game.
Mick Tomlinson, the treasurer, who had nursed me, with a gentle mixture of wit and sarcasm, through those early days when I knew nothing and who still acted as a baby-sitter when I thought I knew it all.
The ladies who pretended not to notice when I pinched the odd pork pie and a scone. Northern Premier League clubs were rated on their pork pies and Matlock were always heading for promotion.