Football Poets

We’ll be back…

It’s annoying… but Keiron from Rochdale was right;
a 2-1 loss to the boys from the Fylde
and our hopes of survival
were put out of sight.
They say it’s the size of the fight in the dog,
Not the size of the dog in the fight…
but I think we all knew – us white and blue –
that we’d got to the end of the night.
But there’s something that Keiron
did never quite get,
When he tweeted: ‘enjoy relegation’..
We always did know we were ‘punching’;
That these thoughts were ‘above our station’.
But we come up National to have some fun,
Be glad of a run,
a chance for a dance
on our day in the sun,
and we might well have dreamed
when the season begun,
but what harm in such contemplation?
This ‘phoenix from ashes’ club that we are?
Who wouldn’t succumb to temptation?
To dream?
And maybe believe?
But that is the lot of the football fan.
As you are, Keiron – you beautiful man.
And good luck for your own elevation.
But for now, let us see out these final games,
Our last little taste, of our highest yet place
In this glorious chase
for… salvation?
No, that’s going too far….
Ah…. ‘Realisation’.
As in; attainment; achievement; success;
Because, if nothing less,
At least we have shown those park playing teams
in those Sunday leagues
What can be achieved
With a little belief
And no real money (to say the least).
That… that is our real donation
To this game.
But only for now,
Cos we’re just parking the bus,
And although we’re off down to the National South
(or the North, we don’t know, but we’ll figure it out)
We’ve had a wee taste of what it’s about,
And we’ve enjoyed its sweet sensation.
Football – like life – has its ups and downs,
It’s choppy waters, it’s shocks;
But just like Oxford’s Rowing Crew
We’ll always have our Cox.
So it’s going to be a ‘goodbye for now’.
An ‘au revoir’, if you like,
An ‘hasta luego’,
A ‘til next time’….
All of which means, Keiron,
‘Hold my beer’;
Cos that’s the thing about dreams.
They persist.
They persevere.
They endure.
And what, my good friend,
could be any more pure?
So all you Hoops,
Take heart…
Cos in a way, this is only the start.
The start of our fight to return,
To what has been earned
Through blood, sweat and tears,
In over a hundred and forty one years.
So in fact, not just mine, Keiron…
Hold all of our beers.
We’ll all meet again soon.
And we’ll cheers.

#rowanthepoem

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Goin’ Down, Goin’ Down

Too good to go down,
too bad to stay up, and
mid table mediocrity,
isn’t for the likes of us.

Lost the dressing room,
thrown away the plot,
our misfiring forwards,
cock up (almost) every shot.

Catalogue of errors,
litany of defeats,
run out of road,
we’re dead on our feet.

A vow to return,
beat our retreat,
playoffs or automatic,
to climb up the tree.

Get back to the elite,
loose our best,
fail to compete,
rinse and repeat.

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Three Teams Worse Than We Are

At least we’ll be here a year from now because
there’s three teams worse than we are
who deserve to go down.

You can park your bus in our midfield,
drive a tractor through our defence.
Slalom freely our wide-open flanks,
test our goalkeeper’s positional sense.

We’ve failed to replace our ageing stars,
and our recruitment policy is a farce.
Our tactics have lost the plot,
and our corridor of uncertainty runs box to box.

We’re rubbish and we know it,
but there’s three teams worse than we are
who deserve to go down.

Trouble is, every time we say those words,
they come with a creeping sense of doubt.

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