Look at the pitch,
Look how it shivered for you,
Cold drizzle falling through the fading light,
At the 4.45 graveyard slot we all knew too well.
And it was dark… and we were all yellow.

Triple pressure hung in the air like breath in winter—
The 3s still unbeaten,
Carrying the weight of a season played in the all familiar purple.
Facing the 4s, who came confident and fearless,
Nothing to lose,
Ready to run through the rain just to write their own chorus.

Jan had written the warning signs,
Lines that said the 4s might not be able to beat the L3s—
But derbies don’t read analysis.
Derbies have their own pulse,
Their own sudden-bright glow.

And so they played their game—
The L3s moving in familiar rhythms,
Trying to let the ball sing across the pitch.
But the 4s, oh, the 4s had shadows stitched to every forward,
Marking Steph, Bex, and Marisa so tightly
It was like the drizzle itself had closed in around them.
Every touch felt chased,
Every pass felt caught in the breath of someone right behind.

And sometimes the nerves hummed louder than the crowd.
The L4s broke through in bright streaks,
Sudden flashes cutting through yellow shirts —
And then came Kendra’s strike,
A stonking bolt that tore across the D,
An arrow that made hearts stop.
It curled just the wrong side of the left post,
A warning sung sharp and clear.
A wake-up call.
A reminder:
This wasn’t going to be easy—
Far from it.

The 4s rose on their own momentum,
Spirits high,
Matching the 3s stride for stride,
And when halftime arrived with the score still 0–0,
It felt like the whole pitch was holding its breath.

But in the circle of yellow shirts,
Steph’s words landed like sparks,
Wine gums passed like tiny pieces of courage—
And when the 3s stepped back out,
They glowed a little brighter.
Determined.
Certain.
Ready.

The moment finally came—
A perfectly drawn short corner,
Like it had been waiting in the wings all match.
The injection clean, the trap sure,
And out to POM Rachel—
Who struck it sweetly, fiercely, beautifully
Into the back of the goal.

And the release…
Oh, you could see it rise from their shoulders,
Like breath finally exhaled,
Like colour flooding back into the world.
A burst of yellow against the grey.

And after the goal,
The 3s held their nerve as though the rhythm of the game
Was pulsing beneath their feet.
The back three—Luisa, Annabel, and Louisa—
Stood bright and unshakeable,
A line of yellow fire against every 4s surge.
Tight defending, clean tackles,
Calmness wrapped in cold November air.

Through the midfield, the passes grew quicker—
Fast, sure, almost glowing—
The kind of movement that makes the whole pitch
Feel like it’s tilting in your favour.
And Marisa, sharp as ever,
Drew a run of corners by playing the ball
Onto a 4s foot with that quiet, clever instinct
That doesn’t shout,
But changes the game all the same.

For the spectators,
It became the kind of derby you don’t forget—
The kind where excitement rises like steam,
Where you barely even feel the rain
Because your eyes are fixed on the play,
Because something is always about to happen.

And later on,
LOM Jess finally solved the puzzle—
Realising, at last,
That this week the 3s were glowing in yellow,
Not swirling in purple.
An easy mix-up, really—
For in the drizzle and the floodlights,
They shone either way.