Football Poets

A Game of Two Halves

Oh! That groan and satisfying clunk of the turnstile;
milling crowds of folk wrapped up in scarves and beanie hats,
catching up on this and that as if it’s been a while,
although, of course, it’s only been a fortnight since; if that…
Breath like fog that drifts in puffs from out a thousand mouths,
cups of tea and Bovril steaming, stave the winter chill;
Jonny Radcliffe standing sentry, looming to the south,
and then the Ref blows hard the whistle, piercing and shrill.
The rowdiest of fans take up their chants in boisterous voice;
the boozers drain their pints and bundle rosy from the bar,
push to crowd behind the fences – get behind the boys!
Another chance to show the non-believers who we are…
We are Oxford City! A hundred and forty-one years of history.
We’ve been huge crowd pullers… and we’ve been Cutteslowe Park-playing wanderers.
We’ve had beatific benevolent owners as well as felonious fortune squanderers…
it’s a history arc that’s had everything from high heroics to heinous hypocrisy,
but now a golden era, perhaps, – a ‘Justin Merittocracy’.
A phoenix from ashes – risen again to soar on the hopes and dreams
of those who don’t or can’t aspire to Spires; and here we are: the National League.
Milling crowds of folk wrapped up in scarves and beanie hats;
breath like fog that drifts in puffs from out a thousand mouths;
cups of tea and Bovril steaming, catching up on this and that;
and Jonny Radcliffe standing sentry, looming over our doubts…
21 points from 24 played, some might think, as we watch half-freezing…
But it’s a funny old game; it’s a game of two halves…
and there are also two halves to a season.

#rowanthepoem

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Boxing Day fun and games

It was 60 years ago today
Sergeant Peppers was hardly
A child of nature
Let me introduce to you
The one and only
West Ham United
Boxing Day bonkers
The heaviest battering
Of modern times
Confidence shot to pieces
Demoralised and demolished
The Blackburn wrecking ball
Smashing the claret and blue
Collective beyond recognition
Wires of communication
Completely cut off
Hammers beaten 8-2
No you can hardly get
Your head around it
It’s like a bewildering
Alcoholic blur
Twisted, broken girders
Not so much a pantomime
That went horrifically wrong
More a case of Dick Whittington
Losing his way
Or far too many snowballs
Literally after the Lord Mayor’s
Show, there has to be
A rational explanation
But Upton Park reduced to
Whispers of incredulity
Shock, horror
No structure, game plan
Bryan Douglas, Andy Mcevoy,
Fred Pickering and company
Gorging hungrily on
The West Ham carcass
Torn to shreds
Oh what helpless humiliation
Thank goodness it was only
A morning trauma
Time for recovery
In East End
Drinking hostelries
It hardly seems like 60
Years since
This football poet
Demanded his first
Farley’s Rusk
And a dummy to soften
The blow to the midriff
Horrendous discovery
If only you had known
You’d have demanded
A repeat of
This grubby score line
David Coleman
Must have misread
That final score
On Grandstand
Apparently not
West Ham ship
Eight goals
By the team
Formerly known
As Blackburn Olympic
Thankfully no medals
On this occasion
The leaky sieve
Of the West Ham defence
Now flooding over
The mud bath of Upton Park
And yet a couple of days
Later.
Get your retaliation in
First, West Ham
3-1 victory at
Ewood Park
In the industrial
Heartlands of Lancashire
So good and satisfying
But it seemed only fair
West Ham
Always declining
Then lifting your hearts
Desire
Those Irons are iron clad

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