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Poems tagged ‘1966’

1966 and all that

joe morris

Thursday, January 20th, 2022

You must have
Been there
In 1966
When England
Saluted
Its finest men
Yeomen of the
Guard.
Red was the
Colour
Patriotic
To the bone
England, our
England in
Our homes,
World Cup
In their hands
But essentially
This momentous
Day, when Bobby
Was as blond,
Graceful and grateful
As we were in victory
Despite the dramas
And melodramas
But quite certainly
England had won
The World Cup,
When we were
Children of nature
Maybe once
In a lifetime
But it will
Happen,
Again
Quite emphatically
A reprise and repeat
Of circumstances and
Events, poised to
Break into our
World,
Those simple gestures
Of spontaneous
Laps of honour,
Dancing to the
Rhythmic beat
Of the Sixties
Wembley alive
And chic, with
Bobby of Barking
West Ham to
His head, shoulders,
Knees, toes and
Boots of hardy
Wear and tear
Genetically so
Smooth as
Butter,
Composure for
Breakfast, tea
And supper
Then Nobby, teeth
Of impudent charm,
Jigging for joy
Since the 3.20 at
Sandown had also
Won to make him
Fulfilled, satisfied
As well as Wembley
1966,
Then there was Sir Martin
Peters, suave as a City
Gent with pin-stripe
Suit in stockbroker
Mode,
Sir Geoff Hurst
Menacing as Denis
But gloriously aware
A genius in cloaks of
Claret and blue
Then, for country
His allegiance to
National duty
In extra- time
Of the afternoon’s
Importance, hat-trick
To underline his value
The significance of extra
Time stopping at tea time
Then, gasping, tension
Sucked out of the
North London air
Fingernails bitten
To the quick
Over the line
Fine margins
But 4-2 commandingly
Russian linesman
Became English citizen
For that day of days
But we were
Still babes in arms
In the garden of
Home toying with
The rich discoveries
Of life
Three, a deeply loved
Child nurtured
In the warmth
Of doting parents
Who knew very
Little about the
Afternoon of
History and
Heritage
Names reverberating
Like the chapel bells
Near the village green
Of cricket’s evocative
Crack of willow in
July’s dozing slumber
But football had given
Us this day,
You were still far too
Young to appreciate
Its smell, taste and
Heavy with poignancy
A day to pass on
Anecdotes of Sir
Alf’s emotionless
Stance, unsure
Of what to do
On the final whistle
So 1966 was never
On your radar
But inwardly you
Were thrilled in
Every nerve ending
And blood cell
But you were
A kid in the midst
Of it all
Pretending that
You too were
Imitations of Bobby,
Geoff, Martin, Nobby,
Roger, excitable Alan
Ball with every reason
Then the Charltons
Brothers in arms
Jack slumped to the
Ground, Bobby cried
Buckets of tears
Falling on hills,
Fields, marshes
Dales and mountains
Of England’s yesteryear
Today, but then George
Cohen, Ray Wilson
Emerged onto Kensington
Hotel balconies
With timeless smiles
Acknowledging
The cheers
On the spur
Of the moment
Before Roger
Hunt led the
Historic procession
England World Cup
Winners in 1966
Perhaps yet again
In appointments of
Destiny
But for now
We can only dwell
On that echoing
Delirium
Of penultimate July
Days when you
Were childish
Detached observers
And waiting for
Literary pronouncements
From Ken Wolstenholme
Who declared the
Ultimate cry, we’ve
Done it, 4-2, fans
And all.

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That Photo of Jimmy Greaves

Michael Simms

Wednesday, September 22nd, 2021

It captures him to a T. Look: eyes locked on the ball,
His face a mask of grim determination, he’s
Opening up like a cheetah chasing a springbok,
Showing the defender a clean pair of heels,
Who, lunging in, shows a studded sole in return.
It will gash his shin and need fourteen stitches.
It’s England v France at Wembley in July 1966.
They’re hosting the eighth World Cup competition.

Geoff Hurst will take his place and grab his chance.
Alf Ramsey will decide not to change a winning team.
He will score a hat-trick in the final versus West Germany,
Become an English hero and a knight of the realm in 1998.
Jimmy will finally collect an MBE in 2021.
What a player he was! We were watching Match of The Day
On the BBC. It must have been in the late 60s,
Because the picture was still fuzzy black-and-white.

Spurs had a free kick just outside the penalty area.
And twenty-one wild emotions were facing off
Over the defensive wall. “Come on, ref! Spurs players
Are muscling in!” “Their wall isn’t ten yards away!”
Only one man heard the referee’s whistle in the melee.
He stepped up with cerebral serenity from a short run
And placed the ball in the corner of the net,
While the goalkeeper was still shouting the odds.

It was his intellect that set Jimmy Greaves apart.
But in the seventies his decline began.
He started to drink. And the more he drank
The lower he sank. Was a snowball of regret,
Resentment and self-doubt rolling around and
Growing in his mind? Did he wonder why Fate
Stole his chance to be England’s World Cup hero?
Would they even have won with him in the team?

Were the snow clouds already louring as he sat out the final,
Suited in the July heat? Was his face ashen at the end amid
The ecstasy on the bench at the horror of his extinct dream
As the eleven men in red and white achieved immortality?
There was Nobby Stiles’s jig and Bobby Charlton’s tears.
Bobby Moore, chaired by the team, raising the Jules Rimet trophy
In his right hand. While the other squad members would only make
It into the footnotes of football history and the odd pub quiz.

Ten years later I would stand on the terrace at Fulham F.C. for a
Testimonial match. On the team sheet were many players well
Past their prime. One of them was Jimmy Greaves. His hair was
Thinner but longer. He had a droopy moustache and sunken eyes.
But neither time nor alcohol had ravaged that great football brain.
With one touch he scored the greatest goal I have ever seen.
As of old he turned and ran back up the field for the restart.
There may have been a brief smile and a wave. But that was it.

He beat the booze and found fame as the funny half of
Saint and Greavesie On TV. Always deadly serious on the pitch,
His on-screen barrow boy, cheeky chappie charm served him well.
Until football moved up-market. But as much as I enjoyed it,
It still grated on me. His erstwhile skill merited better tokens than
One-liners and a Spitting Image puppet Saying, “It’s a funny old game.”
It deserved to be preserved in joyous aspic in red and white on sweeping
Sward. With The Boys of 1966. At Wembley. But it wasn’t meant to be.

 

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Big Jack’s Gone – Jack Charlton RIP

Crispin Thomas

Saturday, July 11th, 2020

football through and through

‘Big Jack’ towered over all

hard man leader boss

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Gordon Banks R.I.P.

Clik The Mouse

Tuesday, February 12th, 2019

Of all the saves
In all the games
It had to be Pelé

Of all the discussions
In all the bars
GOAT, is normally the great divider

Greatest player, greatest manager
Greatest team, greatest final
Greatest ….
keeper (you’re up there)
defender
midfielder
No 10
striker
finisher
winger
dribbler
Ref
Tournament….

Every tagging will engender…
debate upon debate
but all the pondering and deliberation
is immediately set aside
when it comes to the Greatest Save…

for none can touch it

Except you did
not just touch it, reach it, block it
but divert it
alter it’s trajectory – as if the sun had exploded

Pelé, was discommoded
but even he
saw the beauty
of how your paw
managed to draw
the very breath away from our lungs
and yet utter in many varied tongues…
“How the……..!!!!!!”

Gordon, we now lay you to rest
in that great goalmouth in the sky
but with a shared saddened sigh
we’ll all acknowledge
that your memory will be as treasured, and….
as safe as the “Banks of England”

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/1966/