It was terrifying and exciting and disorganised and, in its own way, beautiful. The addictive, beer-stained antidote to the sterility and shaven legs of the modern game.
Sunday League is bare bones football, stripped down to its grubby Y-fronts and mismatched socks. In an era of goal-line technology and unobstructed views of the pitch, it's a welcome reminder that, despite everything, the game still appeals to our most basic, tribal desires and that no, actually, heated seats and big screen replays don’t count for anything.
Disorganisation is as much a part of the Sunday game as a late tackle - but the chaos and confusion only adds to the charm.