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Poems tagged ‘Jimmy Greaves’

That Photo of Jimmy Greaves

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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Of All The Stars (Jimmy Greaves RIP)

of all the stars that I have seen
above the sky or on the green
when I was merely but a child
he was the one who made me smile
when we would be there win or lose
to idolise his ev’ry move
the spot that was my second home
at Stamford Bridge behind the goal
with my old scarf in sun and rain
to watch him score then score again
with jinking moves and cheeky look
all captured in my old scrapbook
and though he looked so young and small
the pictures on my bedroom wall
revealed an artist at his game
and oh to be back there again
to see him play and dance like leaves
the wonder that was Jimmy Greaves

and in the street out with a ball
I’d try to emulate it all
the impish swerve the snaky run
that left defences all undone
the baggy shorts that he would wear
so many memories to share
the hapless days when we were poor
when he’d grab three but they’d get four
it didnt seem to matter then
if you were only nine or ten
and though they called him lazy Jim
no man could ever equal him
when he would glide past men with ease
the legend that was Jimmy Greaves

I cried as loud as one boy can
the day he signed up for Milan
I ran on at the Bridge to say
“don’t leave us Jim and say you’ll stay”
and on his last game he scored four
and we ran on the pitch once more
to shake his hand and lift him high
to carry him and say goodbye
and now I cry again and grieve
to lose the legend Jimmy Greaves

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Close Encounter.

Asked to play out on the wing down The Den
Greavsie uttered, “Nah, sorry boss, never again
Been here before, couple a times in The Cup
Bleating dockers trying a kick me, tripping me up
I’ve played centre forward here, ever since…then”.

Peace.

 Stay sage. Bode well.

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First Home Game ~ Chelsea 6-2 Wolves .30 Aug ’58 (60 Years On)

I recall that Saturday like yesterday
a steaming summer
our first home game in ‘58
excitement
and childlike expectation in the air
August in London and sweltering
“stand clear of the doors!” “wear your colour!”
“official programme sixpence a go!”
“roasted peanuts ‘tanner’ a bag!”
welcome to the season welcome to Wolves
stopping to gaze at star badges
of Blunstone and Greaves in plastic and blue
as bearing down on Stamford Bridge
those teeming weaving crowds
all short-sleeved in the Fulham Road
and in the distance floodlight pylons
tower and loom on blue blue sky
while sun sparkles on concrete old and open
ninepence for kids one and six for adults
but wait what’s this ? sold out and heaving!!
you said “let’s try bunking in” and we did
between the legs in turnstile mayhem
nervous and torn clutching melting lollies
and passed down the front
we sat in awe upon that track
62,000 behind us baying swaying

and do you remember the score?
six-two
a blur of blue and gold
of goals and cheers
young Jimmy rampant as that crested lion
nabbing five and making the sixth
Billy Wright chasing shadows
you with two ribbons to a wooden rattle stapled
and me in my rough striped scarf
that mum had sat up half the night
embroidering strange names upon
but I wore it in the heat anyway
and later in the street
on neighours walls with chalk for goalposts
between the ice cream van and the pavement
we lived it through again and again and again
and never knew that to this day we always would

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