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A loyal Wolverhampton Wanderers supporter spends Saturday evening visiting his elderly father in New Cross Hospital.

His father, a lifelong Wolves fan from the days when Billy Wright passed to Ron Flowers, has been poorly for some months, his frail boney body slipping into a coma.

His son walks into the room, gold and black scarf draped around his neck. The whiff of a pint of Thwaites Bitter on his breath.

“Hiya dad. Been to Leeds today,” he says. “Elland Road... to see Kenny’s boys. Lovely old ground eh? But there’s no Bremner, Giles, Hunter and Charlton kicking lumps out of folk nowadays. They’re all foreign for one. Sacked their manager at the end of it, they did. Slovenian. Lasted 12 days shorter than Brian Clough.”

Not a flicker of movement from within the bed.

His son takes off his coat and scarf and pops it over the chair. “Neil Diamond’s got a new album out. Looks younger now than he did in the seventies.”

He flicks on the TV.

“David Cameron is threatening to pull us out of Europe. Bit late now,” he says to his father who looks peaceful enough. He flicks the channel.

“Doctor Who wasn’t like this in your day,” he says. “Planet Earth invaded by it own trees. William Hartnell only had Daleks to confront and all he had to do to evade them was walk up a stair.”

Nothing from within the sheets but he perseveres.

“Cheryl Cole’s looking nice tonight... dressed in black.. her hair in a bun. Blimey... live boxing on Channel 5.”

He turns the TV off and sits. “2,000 of us there today there were... singing loud and proud. I have to say I feared the worst when Bakary Sako didn’t make it. Michael Jacobs was a good ‘un last year, but he’s no Sako, is he?”

A kindly nurse pops her head around the door. “Everything okay Jack?”. He nods a reply.

“I’m sure your dad’s listening to your every word... keep it up.”

She leaves with a smile and the son is once again alone with his father and his thoughts.

“Terrible first half. Really slow out of the blocks. Steve Morison’s a big ‘un and he was doing all sorts of damage to poor young Ethan and Tommy Rowe. Just like the burly centre forward at Huddersfield Grant Holt and that chap from Wigan who used to play for the Albion, Fortune.”

Nothing from the father. A constant bleep from the life support machine. Wired for sound.

“Went 1-0 down. Should have been 2-0 down. Got away with murder going in just the one goal down, Carl Ikeme saving the day... Again. Pies were OK but there’s not the same thirst for a Chicken Balti when you’re out of the Black Country. Made do with Steak and Onion.

“Second half we was transformed. New system. More direct. More passion. Balls into the box, closed Leeds down, got at ‘em.”

Nothing from his father, but it’s been this way for weeks. The end seemingly nigh.

“James Henry got one back. Bit of a fluke how it arrived at his feet but he hammered it home. Then we started to really boss it. Like we did in League One.

“Bombing forward, Big Mac dictating, the back four strong, the full-backs making darts, Lee Evans getting stuck in.

“Nouha Dicko’s header saved by their keeper. We thought it was in.”

Back into the room walks the nurse. She fluffs a pillow or two and attentively wipes the patient’s brow.

“Won it with five minutes left... lovely move.. end to end.. sweeping you might say. van La Parra, Matt Doherty.. rolled across the six yard box and sidefooted home.”

Still no response from within those sheets.

“Leon Clarke got it.”

His father’s eyes open. Wide open. He gazes around the room. He senses warmth and pure love. “Clarke scored?”, he says. “Lord, are you there? Have I died? Am in heaven?”