M is for MATCH

I admit it. I cried. Not a few tears. Bucket loads of the salty, wet things. A bit embarrassing for a fifteen year old but I thought I was completely justified in my outburst. You see, we (that is, the team I support from Merseyside who wear red and not blue) were winning the cup final. We were almost there but late in the game and in extra time the dreaded Gunners from the capital city, scored twice and snatched the magnificent trophy right out of our hands. It wasn't just losing the game nor the trophy, but the thought of facing my mates for the next week and having to put up with the abuse that was bound to come. Yes, football's a steep learning curve. Just as well I had chosen to watch the game on my own.

A good few years hence, they were at it again. This time I didn't cry for there was a whole room full of anti-Liverpool supporters, mostly from up the motorway in Fergieland but I was just as disappointed. Needing only a home draw against the Gunners to win the league in the last game of the season, we were almost there, when, before my eyes we imploded once again, conceded two late goals and lost the title to our opponents.

A few years on and we're in the cup final again, against Arsenal. They totally dominate the game, score a great goal, have at least two clear cut penalty claims waved away that a blind referee on a galloping horse would have seen ( I wouldn't admit that if it had been the Fergiemob we were playing) and then late in the game, Michael Owen scores twice and we steal the trophy. I don't cry this time either but I feel tears of happiness somewhere inside my head.

Four years ago and I'm cheering on the Aussies in the Rugby World Cup Final, not out of any hatred for England, despite their arrogance, expected divine right to always win and disregard for others. OK, I know you're not convinced. In truth, neither am I but I'm cheering more for the Wallabies out of support for my good mate George who lives in Melbourne. Anyway, despite their best efforts, you just know that the scene is set for a Mr. J Wilkinson to step up and win the game with a drop goal in the dying moments, which is of course, exactly what happens.

And so once again I'm sitting expectantly in front of the television, watching the scenes from Istanbul unfold before my eyes. But I never expected this. My heroes are played off the park in the first half by possibly the best team in world and the mighty Reds are three goals down by the interval. I've been a supporter for forty years and have never witnessed such a performance in all that time and we could finish five or six behind by the end. There is no way back, either for the team nor for me to the television. I retire to the kitchen and decide to compound my misery even further by marking some Science exams from my class. Eldest son, indoctrinated at an early age to shun all things Fergieworld and to bask in Shankleyland, does not leave. He is a better supporter than his dad but supporting as hopeless a cause. After a while he calls to say we have scored. I like consolations. When I hear his voice again, I am more interested - enough to abandon the marking. There is hope where there was none, there is light where there was darkness. I do not leave despite his taunts of my doubted allegiance for I see history on the horizon and when we equalise, I know it is the correct decision. Eventually we win the cup but only with the last kick of the game, in extra time and penalties. I do not cry, nor does he but I know thousands do - mostly in Fergieland!

You see it doesn't matter whether you score the winner in the first minute or the last for you still get the prize at the end. God in his unconditional love for us offers His salvation and some accept His gift early in their lives, others as they get older and a few in the last stages of their earthly existence. But He saves them all. Jesus told a wonderful parable about workers who were hired early in the day, being upset because they received the same wages as labourers who only had to work for the last hour. What they had forgotten was that our Lord does not compare one person's life with that of another and is only interested in each individual response to His call. You can read all about it in Matthew 20. Jesus says 'So the last will be first, and the first will be last.' He makes no difference just as long as we come and kneel at His feet. But a last word of warning. Only the referee knows how long the game will last and too often there is no extra time!