Football Poets

Football Questions without an Answer

Was Banks as good as Jennings?
Was Ball as good as Bell?
Was Ray Clemence as good as Shilton?
Was Matt or Channon the King of the Dell?
Was Greavsie better than Denis Law?
Was Osgood better than Hurst?
Would Lorimer kick harder than Charlton?
Would Jim Baxter match Georgie Best’s thirst?

Was Norman much harder than Nobby?
Was Chopper much harder than Vinny?
Was Willie Henderson more gifted than Johnstone?
Was Matthews more gifted than Finney?
Was Ronaldo as brilliant as Messi?
Was Eusebio as brilliant as Cruyff?
Was Maradona as brilliant as Pele?
Or as Davie Duncan who played for East Fife?

Was Lampard as good as Steve Gerrard?
Was Rodney as good as Stan Bowles?
Was Owen as good as Rob Fowler
When it came to scoring the goals?
Was Lineker better than Rushie
When it came to finding the net?
Was Merson better than Gillespie
When it came to placing a bet?
Was Rooney better than Gazza?
Was Hoddle better than Waddle?
Was Worthington better than Beckham
When it came to pulling a model?

Are Celtic better than Rangers?
Are Barca ahead of Madrid?
Are City ahead of United?
And was Summerbee better than Kidd?

Was Sir Matt on par with Sir Alex?
Was Shankly on par with Jock Stein?
Was Cloughie on par with Don Revie?
Was Bryan Robson better than Keane?

So we’ll all disagree down the local
And put our own views on the Net
Check our friend Mister Google for an answer
And challenge our friends to a bet.
But unfortunately, there’s no correct answer
You might as well – just pick a name
Cos we all have our own strong opinions
Of the greats who played this old game.

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Wembley 99

For the first time in history in the third tier
Some misguided souls thought there’d be nothing to fear
As we sang to ourselves that we weren’t really here
Away trips to some truly grisly dives
Against opponents who came out to scrap for their lives
And after every defeat out came the knives
Losses at Lincoln, York and Wycombe
Teams with a mantra of “If they move, kick ‘em!”
Delusions of grandeur? We got told where to stick ‘em

A leader was needed and for that we can thank
A West-Country bruiser, built like a tank
Whose dressing room speeches were brutally frank
“Roll your sleeves up and scrap, or get out of my sight
If you lot wanna play, you gotta fight for the right
Only then will we get ourselves out of this plight”
Mid-table at Christmas, still way off the pace
But we edged slowly upwards, finished up in third place
With a spot in the playoffs, and a chance to save face

For typical City this was hardly a given
But the Goat’s last of the season was truly a big ‘un
As we nervously scraped past mighty Wigan
For a trip to Wembley, football home of the nation
Blues arrived part in hope, and part trepidation
Cos defeat there would mean absolute desolation

The Gills were roared on by thirty thousand from Kent
The first ever live game for fifty percent
Most with no real idea of how much this game meant
A game low on class but sky-high on tension
Buckets of sweat but so little invention
With barely a moment of quality to mention
Ten minutes from time, Asaba put them ahead
And when Big Fat Bob hit a second, we all thought we were dead
Blues flocked in droves to the exits, tearful eyes turning red
Then Super Kev slotted home, to keep slim hopes alive
The added time board showed a big bright five
Up went the roar from those who stayed behind

Long ball lumped forward, flicked on to The Goat
In came the tackle, roars stuck in our throat
Ran loose in the box, to our fiery wee Scot
With just enough space to fire one last shot
The ball glanced off a shin as it sped through the rain
Flashed into the net, his best man clawed in vain
As the Gills in the posh seats choked on their champagne
Dickov fell to his knees and slid on the turf
Who could imagine how much that goal would be worth?

Now the momentum was all on our side
As early leavers galore made their way back inside
But the extra half-hour was incident-free
We’d need spot-kicks to escape from Division Three
This was the time for our keeper to shine
Looking like a colossus as he stood on his line
Blocked their first kick to put us in the box seat
Their second flew wide, couldn’t cope with the heat
Edgy buried his shot, hit the roof of the net
Ran off kissing the badge, as Blue as you’ll get
(Something the boo-boys would quickly forget)
Their next man stepped forward, if he missed say goodnight
Struck the ball firm and true but Weaver guessed right
With a big gormless grin, lost his mind and took flight
Careered round the pitch like a man demented
His place in our history forever cemented

These last years had been too bad to be true
Without doubt the worst of times to be Blue
We’d just had to suffer them winning the treble
Every week they’d enjoyed the luck of the devil
But four days after the travesty of their European glory
We’d created our own miraculous story
They mocked us for toasting our triumph so small
To those arrogant bastards it hardly mattered at all
But what we’d seen on this on this magical May afternoon
Was the first waxing crescent of a brand new Blue Moon

At long last our fortunes had changed direction
Now we don’t look back in anger, more with affection
From this all-time low to Pep Guardiola
From Not Really Here to Glad All Over
For ten years now our great city’s been blue
With six Premier league titles and lots of cups too
SO WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?

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Football at Christmas always seemed too much.

It always seemed too much
Of a good thing,
Unappetising, too heavy
After the mountainous
Helpings of turkey and sprouts
Just unpalatable
Particularly when your
Stomach felt like
The washing machine
You’d bought the day
Before
And yet there used
To be football on
Christmas Day and
The trains ran for
Free and then
In the winter of 1963
The old First Division
Developed indigestion
So grandma suggested
Rennies so we gathered
Around only to discover
That there were 66 of the
Best goals in the land
On Boxing Day, presents galore
Pampered we were
Honoured to be in the land
Of watefalls and cascades of
Goals, washing over our
Living rooms, a drunken
Stupor that left us delirious
With joy
Fulham score 10
Against Ipswich
Blackburn indulge
In East End feasts
Of cockles and whelks
At West Ham with
Eight of the best
Liverpool demolish
The Potteries of Stoke
6-1,
And for all the world
It all seems as if the
Beers and ales
Of that festive day
Had blended with
Mince pies, and
Goals were raining
Down from Biblical
Heavens and strikers
With boots that weighed
A ton were just involved
In a goal scoring infatuation
With nets fit to burst
And they did as if for fun
When Coronation Street
Was simply in childhood
And the streets echoed
To our game of football
Dribbling nonchalantly
Around lampposts
And then laughing at
The shots that landed
In distant shires
And counties of England’s
Green land
With an emphatic statement
Of youth and regardless
Of age and class
We kept playing on
Christmas Day
For everybody played
Football in festive moods
Tinsel on our Man Utd
Shirts, turkey leftovers
Hiding in the red of
Liverpool and Arsenal
Who cared about the
Supposed excesses of football
Over Christmas
When moderation
Seemed the last of
Our thoughts
So we rushed out
To the pavements
Where once again
Amid the thickening snow
We could be the Beckenbauer
Liberos of the future
Or Bobby in his imperious suit
But nobody worried about
Christmas over football
For it was our game
Forever more.

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From rec to cheque

“By which a strip of land became a hole in time” – Dúrs Grunbein

The rec still holds the voices:
I pick Petie
I pick Paulie
I pick Danno
I pick Scanner…..
Or is it just compartments of my beleaguered mind, echoing memories?
As I stand where the goalpost used to be… rusted, but not busted
Upstanding, but stooped, like Gramps
But now the lamps
Light only painted bays
Filled during the days
By shoppers, loading their multi-various MPVs
Where once, we had MVPs, buzzing around a blistered ball
Each participant, to their own mind, the most important person on the pitch
For we were Best, Osgood, Law
Charlton, Bremner, Clarke
Marinello, George, Greaves
Greatness replicated in stick insects
That ran around like ants
Each following the sugar trail of a tattered bag of wind
With its mystical, magical, alluring quality
That had us screaming with pleasure

Now the only treasure
Is what is loaded into big voluminous boots – not studded ones
But spaces filled with dogs, hunting gear, hampers and tools
And all things anathema
To the spirits, of golden days of yore

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