By Shem Onderi
He cheers the team he loves,
And jeers the foe with equal force.
He dresses for the game, not the office—
His attire carries the mood.
He checks his voice beforehand,
For he will need it in the field.
He gathers strength to walk to the stadium,
Strength to jostle for entry at the gate.
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And strength to endure ninety minutes,
In rain or in scorching sun.
He books a seat, but never uses it—
For cheering demands no seated fan.
The stands are priceless.
From the heights, he sees the ball magnified;
From the trenches, he feels its weight.
The 12th player is the match’s lifeblood.
Tribe-less, party-less,
Fueled only by passion to spur the players.
A missed kick is met with his jeer,
A missed penalty with a doubled boo.
But a goal scored—ah, that is jubilation!
The 12th need not master the rules;
He asks only for a win and fine passing,
And rejoices in the stumble of the rival.
He does not need a wage to applaud—
But he gladly pays to celebrate.
Long live the 12th.
