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The last time I seent this man was a year ago when he was clenching on to a blood-dripping whip whilst standing o’er the shredded-open back of Mr. Tom Foster, the poor farmer that works the plots next to ourn.

And with them words Syl was ourn.

Me and Syl couldn’t help laughing at the conductor man; he come walking through like he was a machine, saying, “Next stop London, next stop London, next stop London,” then he disappeared into the car behind ourn.

The man reached his hand out and shook ourn.

The in-state players on ourn rosters quickly convey that message to the players from out of state of what this game means.