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Poems tagged ‘The Championship’

The Championship title race

joe morris

Thursday, February 8th, 2024

So here we are in
Deja vu territory
In the Championship
Title race
Slowly building up
A head of steam
Pulses racing
Bubbling up
Nicely
Temperatures soaring
By April
But now
Familiarity breeds
Guesswork
Conjecture for the
Time being but
Much more to come
At the moment
The Foxes and the Saints
Caught in the headlights
Joined in full combat mode
We have been before
With both since
Both Leicester and Southampton
Are poised to return
From where they came
Last season
Relegated and now possibly
Promoted yet again
Within moments of emotional
Flux,
Football can hit you in the
Stomach when least expected
But now Leicester in the driving
Seat with not a hint of traffic
On the roads
Apart from a row of cones
And sandbags
Tailbacks
Flashing police lights
And wailing sirens
Hard shoulders and
Motorway service stations
Ready for Leicester’s
80 mile sprint towards
The finishing line
It isn’t in the bag
But the King Power stadium
Is ready for hunting themes
Yet again
To call out in
Premier League
Prowling in the undergrowth
But bracing themselves
For Premier League predators
Then Southampton surely sainted
Souls prepared for top flight
Cut and thrust
Crunch, thud, snap and tackle
The way it was before demotion
Sent shock waves through St Mary’s
Now the South Coast
Ready to welcome old adversaries
Or old acquaintances from
Last season’s scars and wounds
Then Leeds United
Once purists and puritans
Under the Don
Revie when Lorimer, Bremner,
Giles, Clarke and Jones
Performed the tango and salsa
In that iconic match
Where their fellow Championship
Rivals are now living
Leeds 7 Southampton 0.
Elevated to the peerage
It was Leeds at their most
Regal and riveting
But recently reduced to
Trampoline artists
Down one moment
Up the next
Once in the hellish
Fiery pit of League One
Sharks circling Elland Road
First there was Bielsa
Who literally abandoned
Everything in the name of art
Before the easel cracked under
The strain, Leeds collapsing
From on high but still loved
For those ostentatious
Show stoppers who once
Flicked, flicked, back heeled
Just for the fun of it
Passing pleasure
Then notorious for
The wrong and unsavoury
Now on the verge of
Yet another return
To the upper classes
Of Premier League proms
Permanent this time
Since when Leeds are
In the right frame of mind
Are sweet jazz music
On our minds
Clear thinking clarinets,
Tumultuous trumpets
Pretty pianos
A force for good
Never dull
A symphony of like minds
Unstoppable, matchless
Behind Leeds are Ipswich
And West Brom
Who now look like those
Olympic gymnasts
Rolling, tumbling, slipping
And sliding
Both important ambassadors
At top flight conferences
Ipswich under Bobby Robson
Just charmers and charming
But in recent years
Stuck in a rut
Gates, Whymark, Woods
Mariner and Talbot
Touching the purple of
Majesty and magnificence
Now though finding their feet
Again when the time
Seems right
The Baggies of West Brom
Once again regrouping
And resurrecting
No longer the Bryan Robson,
John Wile, Len Cantello,
Cyril Regis from decades ago
But building blocks and stages
And champing at the bit
Be ready to Boing Boing again
On heaving, electric terraces
At the Hawthorns
The Championship title race
Approaching the final bends
We remember your journey
Since these were the pathways
We’ve trodden before
Keep going gentlemen

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Opening day in the Championship

joe morris

Sunday, August 6th, 2023

So football resumes in the lower sculleries
While the butlers and cooks downstairs
Work themselves into the ground
Porters and proletariat
Can only gaze with admiration
At the insanely wealthy elite
In the Premier League
But yesterday the Championship
Took centre stage
Formerly the old Second Division
In the days of tanners, sixpences,
Shillings when those lovely but
Now antiquated Red Routemaster buses
Are now but rusting remnants of yesteryear
And yet Saturday at 3 in the
Afternoon underwent
A brief resurrection
Blackburn in the heart of the Industrial
North of England brush aside the
Baggies of West Brom
Like dust under the carpet
Then the Robins
Were up at the crack of dawn
Tweeting sweetly
While Bristol City are
Held by Tom Finney’s
Once Preston Invincibles
Utterly melodious
At the height of summer
Then Middlesbrough
Come unstuck
In their own backyard
Against roaring, rampant
Lions of Millwall amid
Thorns and bushes
Of the Riverside
Boro now only a silhouette
Of their former self
Darkening shadows in
A forgotten world
Where once Manchester City,
United, Arsenal and Chelsea
Were as predominant as only
The best could be
And then Norwich
Content to live their lives
On trampolines bouncing
Precariously between the
Two top divisions
Beware of Delia’s rousing
Exhortations,
Get your act together
Canaries, defeat
Is morally unacceptable
Norwich promptly swot aside
Hull of the Humber
A bridge too far
3-1 to the Canaries
Norfolk birds in perfect tune
Oh Pilgrims gather together
On sacred Saturdays
Of course football is a religion
Plymouth Argyle
Where Michael Foot once
Gazed across Home Park
Wisely as only a parliamentarian
Could only possibly be
Pilgrims overcome yapping Terriers
Of Huddersfield who once
Reigned supreme in football’s
Upper classes
And Herbert Chapman
With League Championships
Repeatedly so
When football wore bowlers
And watch fobs
Football at its giddiest pinnacles
Arsenal too
Herbert you were heavenly
Now Stoke, also belonging to football’s
Dusty wardrobes
Top flight residents
For several decades
Sweeping aside the Merry Millers
Of Rotherham
Effortlessly so
Meanwhile, we notice
Stoke City desperately seeking
The greener pastures
Of the Premier League
Does anybody know a short cut
To the gold embossed lands
Of the Emirates, the Etihad,
Stamford Bridge and Old Trafford?
It’s the Bet365 stadium
It is you know
Stupefyingly sponsored
Incomprehensible but
Today’s generation
The Victoria Ground
Now resigned to a Victorian
Incarnation where horse
And cart once ruled the roads
Alan Durban who abhorred
The pretty fineries of the
Game may have just
Despaired
The Swans held to
Score draw
By Brum
Fear not Swansea
Nor Birmingham
It is but the opening day
Of footballing hostilities
No need to panic
Next May is in some far
Off country, county
And shire
Sheffield Wednesday
Re-capture something
Of their Premier League
Flights of fancy
But relegated Saints
Come calling on Friday
Evening
Southampton searching
For signposts to upper
Crust rooms of
Millions and aristos
Finally the Hornets
Of Watford
Full of sting and bite
Devour QPR
A tasty meal
For two
Football, yes
It’s back
Pangs of hunger
For victories too

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/the-championship/