Though all activity has ceased on the now vacant pitch, the moonlight through the branches has wrought its own ghostly players upon these eerie grounds. The once resounding cheering from the crowds has long since ceased, and all that is deafening now is the silence. These seemingly Herculean bleachers that before supported not only the weight of the spectators, but also the weight of their spirits, now, after all have departed, only supports my lone, slim shadow. As I begin my journey home, I glide alongside the touchline that, before, helped finesse a steady stream of flawless goals. I realize the pitch wears its own badge of courage in its deep etchings having supported the weight of the mighty skirmish on this night. It breathes a sigh of relief in the wind that brushes my face that the next mighty skirmish it must endure is months away.
The Ghostly Pitch