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As a recently elected committee member of NCISA it became a complete shock to find that part of one's duties was to write an article for the Pink Un.

By Chris Wright

As a recently elected committee member of NCISA it became a complete shock to find that part of one's duties was to write an article for the Pink Un.

Believe me this figures nowhere in the 'job description' and is well hidden on the first agenda!

Many, many articles are written about Norwich City Football Club by well informed and well connected journalists and, therefore, finding a new slant or some uncovered gem is extremely difficult or close to impossible.

So I dug out my old green eye shade and the half packet of Marlborough (I haven't smoked for three years, honest) and I positioned myself in front of the trusted Olivetti portable and waited for inspiration.

I tried not to be put off by my wife's unhelpful remarks about looking stupid, having no ribbon in the typewriter and why was I not using my PC word processor anyway. These women have no idea of true style. (So I could have not worn the string vest).

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What it did have was the effect of making me think back to early days of watching City and how it fitted into my life, or how my life fitted in round it.

The love affair started, for it can only be described as such, like many of my age, with the '59 cup run and the home tie on a snowy January afternoon with the then great Manchester United, our third division side wiping the floor with them. I still feel the pain of that particular cup run ending in glorious failure, but oh how close we got!

In those days I played Saturday mornings for my school team so it invariably meant a mad dash home to clean muddy knees before heading off to watch City and then try and emulate my hero the great Barry Butler.

The joy and surprise of the first, non laced, football I had seen close up (a practice ball given to me by the then manager Archie Macaulay) that made me very popular on our local recreation ground. Jackets for goal posts and even more muddy knees, but a ball that didn't leave an imprint on your forehead, that made you look like Frankenstein's monster.

Then the discovery of those strange things called girls and fitting playing football then watching football before yet another mad dash to change before heading for the city to buy my Pink Un - it didn't matter you had seen the game you still wanted to read about it over a cup of espresso coffee - then an evening dancing in the Sampson. I must have had a lot more stamina in those days.

Marriage, children (yes we did have to do it in that order!) and now grandchildren have all found space 'fitted in' with the abiding constant that is the support of my team.

I've watched them from standing in the Barclay, sitting in a box, from the carvery, in the director's box, and in most other parts of the ground. It has not mattered one bit. The tingle of anticipation is always the same, the euphoria when we win the excuses when we lose.

The post match analysis changes with the years from how we could have played better than a particular player, to how we could manage the team better to suddenly realising that now, that dream will never be fulfilled.

The special feel that is an evening match, somehow games always seem more exiting under floodlights, I don't know why.

The European journey as a whole, but standing in the Munich stadium after probably our greatest ever night and listening to “On the ball city” echoing round the Olympic stadium. That memory still has the effect of raising the hairs on the back of my neck.Random thoughts of matches, the abandoned fog bound game, Cardiff, the San Siro, like the mischievous lover that she is my club has led me a merry dance over the past 50 years.

So an hour or so passed of quiet meditation while I contemplated all that has been my life with my team.

Now what to write that article about…