Truly dreadful match
Football, or headball? I ask
Truly dreadful match
.
n.b. St Mirren 0 – 0 Aberdeen
CLP 26/01/2020
January Road Trip (XXI)
Category: Poems about football
Lyon (III)
The bottle cap must be removed
So you cannot throw the plastic bottle
Of water
I pour my drink
At the feet of the security staff
Toss the bottle in a bin
Meanwhile, standing under trees
On the walkway to the ground
Young men imbibe
Cases of cheap beer before the game
Inside they spew smoke from flares
That fills the cavernous stadium
Halt the game
Light fireworks
Spectators high in the stands
Make paper darts
From publicity handouts
That drift toward the seats below
A car firm distributes wands
For participation in the pre-match light show
There is goal celebration music
Large cardboard buckets
Of popcorn on spectators’ knees
It is football, Jules
But not as we know it.
.
n.b. Jules Rimet would be turning in his grave, as would Henri Delauney. These French football administrators worked together to set up the FIFA world cup and European competitions.
Delauney was a player and then referee before turning to administration full-time. His stint at refereeing ended when a ball hit him in the face, smashing his whistle down his throat and knocking out two teeth.
At the end of last night’s match Olympic Lyonnaise had scored two goals to the one of OCG Nice.
The trams back to the city centre were very efficient.
CLP 24/11/2019
On The Terraces
Now replaced by seats
Vast expanses of concrete
Filled with hopeful faces
.
p.s. I wrote this before travelling to London to stand in the away end to see Pompey lose 2-1 to Charlton Athletic at The Valley, (another club and ground with some great stories to tell).
CLP 08/03/2019
Season’s End
At last wind from the sea is welcome.
Dust not leaf litter blows along gutters
Pollarded beech trees add leafy tints
to Frensham Road.
The movement of people is looser
in summer shorts, blue shirt tops,
although blue and white of Pompey scarves
is still worn despite cricket weather heat.
Excitable sons gambol alongside
long-striding men looking ahead
to August,
ignoring twelve mid-year weeks,
while grandads show gentle interest,
kindly coaxing little lads back
onto root-lifted pavements,
answering high-pitched questions about who might play
and why another favourite won’t
and this and that and, and, and…Grandpa?
A block-shaped car
is parked particularly precisely,
a wheeled chair is removed,
unfolded, locked into shape
and careful, strong-gripped manoevres
position a determined animated,
colourfully dressed fan,
safe into place, ready to roll
to sit in concreted shade,
where eyes sharpened,
alight to athletic movement
on mown patterns, across white lines
pitched between flag-marked corners,
watch keenly every detail of pre-match
preparation and ritual.
Contrast from the shadowing South Stand,
marks near black on brilliant green,
cuts so sharp that momentary
sight loss flickers in eyes squinting
to adjust as they chase
colours, given stronger tone
by Sun set high with a perfect seat,
but who has to drag herself reluctantly away out west
before the final whistle,
but only after pouring one last gulped pint
of welcome warmth
into sun-glassed faces.
Impenetrable bright sky, sets off the scene in blue hue not seen inland,
so blue that stars behind become anxious
they will not get on to play tonight.
Wide-winged gulls’ cries of the sea are drowned at birth,
over-whelmed, engulfed in waves of voices,
by microphoned, amplified announcements,
strong rhythms, clapping, chants and songs.
For some this is the last match.
No substitute will step in when they get pulled from the pitch.
Some will know their part near played up,
others will depart the game in shock,
their removal a surprise to all.
Unfair, unwarned and fiercely questioned,
why did they get The Manager’s call?
Yet another sign of unfathomable tactics.
Next season, last game in fresh May
their names will be on the lips
of the man who reads The List
of those who once so happily
trooped along to Fratton Park.
CLP 05/05/2018
Dedicated to Albert Perry “Grampy”
