Not like Corpsey, man of the people, worked his way up from paste anonymity to write for The Wire, which is the Guardian of music magazines.
The pitch was waterlogged. Great puddles lay across it, shimmering beneath the floodlights. The rain kept on falling, remorseless as if Hemingway himself had written it. Twenty-one footballers struggled to stay upright. The other one was Adam Boyd. He not only kept his footing, he waltzed across the sodden surface. He struck a hat-trick, each goal better than the last. For the third, Boyd collected a pass on the edge of the Owls’ penalty area, drifted to the right, stopped dead to send the pursuing Wednesday full-back splashing. He faked to shoot and watched another opponent slide past engulfed in spray. He looked up then, and seeing David Lucas marginally off his line, toe-ended a chip so delicate it ran down the back netting of the goal soundlessly, soft as a playboy’s fingers along a showgirl’s spine.