I didn't write this but it is a beatiful piece of writing, after we lost 9-0 to Rushden.

There are so many reasons why Saturday 21st February 2009 will stick around a long time in my memory.

A beautiful clear blue sky, a mild change of the weather where spring could be smelt in the nostrils and the sun on your back made you wonder just for a moment if that extra layer of clothes, worn most of the year to counter that Dorset wind, were really going to be needed.

The football ground on the edge of town looked the same. A relic of its time, unsympathetic and deteriorating but nonetheless an arena for triumphs and tears, of championship parades and many, many ruined weekends. Inside, familiar faces of the faithful, some not seen for some time, had all come to this place. They had come wearing their colours, with flags, balloons, voices and an inflatable dolphin. I bought a hot tea and it tasted like it always did.

But this was not a day for the ordinary. Slashed admission prices signified a turn for the worse at this, our beloved Weymouth Football Club. Mid-table in the Blue Square Premier, the best team of footballers most of us had seen pull on the shirt had not been paid for almost two months and had already given notice to find new employment. On Saturday, with their medical insurance expired due to the dire financial situation at the club, they didn’t take to the pitch. No-one blamed them. They were committed and proud players. The day after they put in their notice, they beat Torquay United 2-0 away from home.

And so it was that a few minutes shy of 3 o’clock on Saturday afternoon, that most traditional of football times before television changed everything, a team comprised almost completely of youth players stepped up to take their seniors’ places. There were surely nerves, but they battled not to show it. On the terraces, the 900-odd faithful knew a heavy defeat was certain, that it was a case of limiting the damage. Rushden & Diamonds FC, who by the luck of the draw happened to be the visitors that day, looked like monsters. It was they who had to deliver the slaughter. Some fans chose to exploit the ignorance of the bookies whose knowledge rarely ventured this far down football’s pyramid. They had placed substantial bets on their team to lose, pledging the winnings to their club’s fighting fund.

Within 10 minutes, Rushden had taken a two goal advantage and any faint hopes that maybe we could see a miracle had long been eclipsed. With every passing goal against, there were cries from the fans behind the goal: “Keep it going lads!” “Come on you Terras!” “I’m Weymouth till I die…” It was going to be a slow and very painful death.

The score ceased to matter. Something more important was happening: from our youngsters, the occasional passing move or brave run was applauded and tackles were cheered. And if an occasional tackle wasn’t as well timed as it was intentioned, the assailed would pick himself up and give a slap of encouragement to his assailant, while the referee didn’t take his cards out of his pocket for 90 minutes. Each scramble and save was hailed with delirium. While Petr Cech had four shots on target to contend with that afternoon in the Chelsea goal, debutant Weymouth keeper Joe Prodomo had sixteen. But no-one was asking how the big game at Villa Park was going. And no-one dissented when the announcement of Prodomo’s man of the match award came over the public address.

Rushden spared us a goal tally in double figures. The young combatants had only conceded nine when the final whistle came. But where thoughts usually turned to that night’s tea or trying to avoid the car park queue, the fans refused to go home. With applause ringing around the ground from opposition fans and players as well as the home support, the young players – with chins up and chests out – raised their hands aloft and applauded back. There were tears in eyes and pride in hear