Football Poets

The Night My Mum Killed Bobby Charlton

It was a late September
Not as far back as Sixty- Three
Much more near the year Seven-tee

All day at school I was in a dream
trying to figure out my team.
As the history teacher ranted
about ancient Greece and Rome
all I cared about that day
was getting to my home.

It was around seven that night
that my mate came ‘ round
and we placed the green velvet
down on the ground.

This was our Wembley
on my bedroom floor
and for lads of eleven
we could wish no more.

Subbuteo cup rounds
we’d played through the year
and now the conclusion
was coming so near.
Now the last two teams standing
played for the crown
It was Manchester united against Ipswich Town.

A quick cup of char before we did start
as we make preparations
to try look the part.
We have small lit up floodlights
to give off atmosphere
and a couple of terrace stands
where all the fans can cheer.
A referee and two linesmen
and various other props
And to ensure there’s law and order
we station two large cops.

The players lined for the anthem
Both teams in a row
Then we set the alarm clock
and off the match did go.

We sussed each other out at first
like two tactical masters.
But Alex Stepney in United’s goal
let in two disasters
Man United pulled one back
By whom I’m not so sure
And they equalized soon after
with a lob from Ian Ure.

We swapped ends at the half
and took a little break.
Then started up the game again
which had so much at stake.

The game got quite aggressive
I complained about Ipswich fouling
and I bravely brought on Sadler
for the slow moving Alan Gowling.
It proved a stroke of genius
as he put Man U ahead
and after fifty minutes
it was three-two that they led.

But Ipswich tied it up
right bang on the hour
when Viljoen fired past Stepney
with a ferocious shot of power.
Now Ipswich pressed on forward
They were going for the kill
And they nearly scored another
Stepney saving from Mick Hill.

They camped out in United’s half
as for the winner they did hunt
And in the opposition half
I just had Charlton
alone up front.

Suddenly the bedroom door pushed open
with the score line still three-three
There was my mum with sarnies
and a couple of cups tea.

“Take a quick tea break boys
before you ruin your eyes,
I’ve cups of tea, some sandwiches
and a couple of apple pies.
I’ll leave it on the bed
now stop and have a munch,”
and as she walked across the pitch
We heard a mighty CRUNCH.

If our final had been televised
Ken Wolstenholme would have had to say,
“Would viewers at home of nervous disposition
kindly turn away.”

“You’ve just broke Bbobby Charlton,” I said
before being stunned into total silence
Wondering how my dear old mum
could have committed
that act of violence.

“Not to worry,” said my mum
“I know just what to do.
When I’m at the shop tomorrow
I’ll buy that super glue.
They say it sticks for ever
It never comes unstuck
Now come on you boys, sup your tea
and into your sarnies tuck.”

“But mum, that was Bobby Charlton
He cost me Five and Three.” *
But all that mum was worried about
was us drinking our tea.
“Ooh you’re right,” she said smiling,
“ Look at him, he’s even got a little shiny head.
Isn’t it great what they can do these days.”
as she placed poor Bobby Charlton
down upon the bed.

There was no stretcher for Bobby
Just the inside of mum’s purse
when he was whisked off to the glue shop
without even a nurse.

When the game did resume
My friend’s laughter turned to howling
But sportingly he agreed to let me
bring back Alan Gowling.
But the spirit had gone from the United team
Their hearts weren’t in the game
Without their leader Bobby
they would never be the same.
My mate scored three unanswered goals
to put United six- three down
And that years Subbuteo final
was won by Ipswich Town.

My mum she did get Charlton fixed
but the adverts were untrue
and four minutes into his first game back, he parted from his glue.

I put him in the bin that night
and I felt a little numb
But it was really back late September
That he was murdered by my Mum.

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We Weren’t Interested in Girls

We just wanted to play football. While the rest of the boys in our year were out with girls (or at least claiming to be), we were on the hunt for makeshift goal posts. The bins round the back of the school. Two saplings planted up in the park. The garage doors at the top of Tirpenry Street. Jumpers didn’t cut it. Sometimes we’d break into the Astroturf, though security guards soon put a stop to that. Every night without fail, the five of us would be outside with a ball, scoring goals and making saves. Then, one summer, I went off with her. Soon after, they all got girlfriends too. We’d still meet up and play football sometimes, but it wasn’t the same. We’d let our defences down, and adulthood had crept in at the back post.

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Progeny FC

I jog because….
I just about can
even though my muscles mutter obscenities at me
and extremities tingle
as the pain of sciatica and arthritis mingle
and internal organs spout the bleedin’ obvious –
cease and desist, old man

but I jog on….
I can’t pick up the pace or twist or turn
so really, I need to find walking football in my locale
but this is a different land
thus kicking is confined, to coaching in a different code (Gaelic)

I’m chomping at the bit to share my old abilities
(if not agilities) –
I’m ready to romp with grandkids
to whom I’ll kick to both feet
to encourage ambipedal dexterity
that will hopefully bring time and space and opportunity
in the art gallery of a match

but natch
there are none as yet (generation alpha)
even though my own progeny could propagate
however, they have yet to maturate

and now….
given the moving landscape of modern life –
soon they’ll be voting for a choice
that could deaden the voice, of the unborn

I might have longer to wait
for my longed for kickabouts

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The Old Man And His Grandson

In a little Yorkshire village that Maggie helped destroy
A Grandfather meets his Grandson who’s no more a little boy
The Grand-son’s a millennial, born the year of ninety five
And his grand-dad’s nearly ninety and just barely alive.
The Grandson he loves football, his heroes are Scholes and Shearer
Grand-dad loves his football too, but from a very different era.
The Grandson’s from London and for a few days is staying
With Grand-dad oop North, in a house now decaying.
The old man rolls a ciggie, then sticks on the tea
And tells his young grandson to turn on the TV.

“Here put this old tape on – you kids have the knack
It will show you real footballers and what nowadays they lack.”
The lad eyed the cover when he pressed video to play
It was all about football from way back in the day.
As they made themselves comfy and turned up the sound
The Grandfather smiled and the young fellow frowned.

They watch Man U – Benfica — Eintract Frankfurt – Madrid
Celtic ‘gainst Inter and Giles – Banksy and Kidd.
They view Finney and Blanchflower and many more from the past
But the Grandson just said, “They don’t look very fast.
Do you know Zaha runs a hundred in nine point nine secs?
And no one hits a football like Shearer or Becks.”
As the lad kept on talking he watched Charlton with the ball
Who cracked one from fifty past the keeper McFaul.
“Now that’s how you hit em lad – that was some mighty thud
And look at that football all covered in mud.”

“Look at that pitch and those two footed tackles”
said the Grandson, before saying, “Stiles should be tied up in shackles”
The grandfather smiled, his eyes glistening with glee.
As he watched Norman Hunter chop down Franny Lee.
They watched Greaves playing for Tottenham
Of whom the lad didn’t think much
“He strolled through that game, hardly getting a touch.
Do you know Kane runs for Spurs
Seven- point three – miles a game?
It doesn’t look like Greaves does anywhere the same.”
“You weren’t focusing thy lad, you were lookin at thy phone
Jimmy Greaves scored four goals there, all made on his own.”

They watched Lee, Bell and Summerbee and clips of George Best
As the young lad checked Facebook he wasn’t impressed.
“He was drunk on the pitch, but just look at his pace.”
But his Grandson just shrugged, and said, “he’s an absolute disgrace.
Do you know that sports scientists
To a man they insist
It takes a week to recover
if you go out and get pissed?”
“Aye lad, I do hear you, but he was the best player alive
And I don’t know if you noticed in that match he scored five.”

They watched Osgood and Matthews, Peters and Hurst
And a scorcher from Lorimer when the goal net near burst.
They watched Moore and Jeff Astle – Jim Baxter and Law
But the grandfather’s, grandson was not one bit in awe.
“They all look so slender, so dainty, and so thin
And they all have their socks rolled down on their shin.
Their bodies are lacking a muscled, ripped definition
Not enough pasta, Creatine or nutrition.”

“Believe you me young lad them there were tough times
I worked with the hardest men down in the mines.
Those players they got kicked and nowt did complain
None of them dived, or an injury feign.”
The grandson he argued – his generation is more strong
And his grandfather offed the telly, and told him he’s wrong.
He took a pull on his ciggie and his lungs started to pant
His face reddened up and he started to rant.

“You can stick your metatarsals and your Health and Safety looneys
All your foreign coaches and your Beckhams and your Rooneys
Keep your snooker table pitches and the blow footballs that you use
Bring back the old characters that liked to gamble and to booze.”

Then out of the blue there was a mysterious sound
As a plaque with a medal fell onto the ground.
The grandson retrieved it from the carpeted floor
And when he had read it, he’d slag Grand-dad no more.
The engraved medal read — Arthur Suggett June 6 – 44
For your Gallantry on Junu Beach upon the Norman shore
And for the bullets that you took and for all the lives you helped to save
This medal goes to heroes and the toughest of the Brave.

“How awesome,” said the Grandson, “I had no idea you were such a hero.”
As he straightaway forgot about Paul Scholes and Alan Shearer.
“It’s nowt thy lad,” said Grand-dad shyly, “it’s only a piece of metal.
Now put that stupid phone away and stick on thy bloody kettle.”

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Vetch Field Elegy

Swansea City vs. Wrexham, FAW Premier Cup Final,
11th May 2005

On your deathbed
we stripped you –
ripped out red plastic seats
and advertisement boards
like thieves
stealing gold from fresh bodies.

The Vetch clock,
not yet stopped
but definitely slowing,
tick-tocked our
final minutes away
as Roger Evans,
muffled by soot,
whispered down chimneys
into Sandfields living-rooms
for the last time.

Then, with makeshift spades
we dug shallow graves
across your boot-worn pitch –
taking turf home
to place on the mantle,
to plant in back-gardens,

to say we were there
when that man in black
sounded the final final-whistle
at our beloved tin-shed.
And as the smell of
warm pies and fried onions
drifted above the floodlights,
getting lost on its way to the bay,
we poured out into the streets
like black and white tears.

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