The green of a soccer field is not a precise shade. It is too vivid to be olive, too dark to be mint, too full to be emerald, too verdant to be sea. Nor is it constant. It sparkles in sunlight, glistens in rain, grows somber under clouds. At night, illuminated by the megawatt glare of floodlights, the color is so rich that it almost glows.
Its effect, though, never changes, never wanes. I thought this not long ago when I found myself walking, chin buried against the wind, to St. James’ Park.
That walk is one of English soccer’s great pilgrimages. Unlike most stadiums, St. James’ is neither hidden away on some bleak retail park on the fringes of a town nor tucked into a neighborhood, fenced in by neat rows of red brick terraced houses.
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