Football Poets

What is Home?

I cannot speak of other hearts
The tears the joys the loss
I cannot name the unknown ones
Nor count the cost
What is gone the sights the smells
The sounds that taste forgot
The meek the mild the often wild
The need to be alone
Yes, tell me then, I simply ask
What is home?

Upon the hallowed football field
A terrace shook the sky
A gilded shirt and flying boots
What joys transpire
The giddy heart bewitched once more
The throat swells o’er with song
This is home, yes this is home
A king upon beleaguered throne
A prince who thrills the bannered throng
A place where we belong.

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The death of custard

I heard them curse the lack of silverware,
those diehard fans from lonely Ross-on- Wye,
still yearning hopelessly for football’s heir.

I gazed upon the concrete bridge to Skye,
that distant island ‘rescued’ from the brink,
no longer counted in with Man and Wight.

I dreamt of Agincourt again to drink
the stirring sight of some forgotten knight,
astride a snow-white stallion, pawing earth.

I smelled and smelled the grassy dales
where Wordsworth roamed and realised, with little mirth,
that custard is not solely made by Bird’s.

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“Before The Match”

Another day of destiny
Here comes deja vu
Is your glass half full or empty
Depends on your point of view.
Third consecutive play-off final
But the first at home
If you can really call it that
For to Tooting we’ve had to roam.
With our arch rivals relegated
We’ll be two divisions apart
Much as I’m grateful for their helping hand
Them dropping warmed my heart.
There’ll be two divisions between us
If we’re victors at ten to five
And against the obscene Tamplin wads at Billericay
We did well to keep out title hopes alive.
So much play-off heartache in the past
It can’t come soon enough
But Hendon won’t be pushovers
It’s going to genuinely tough.
Come the final whistle
I’ll have tears in my eye
That’s whether we win or lose
I know I’m going to cry.
Perhaps it’s Old Skool destiny
We went up when we shared at Sandy Lane
Now we’re stuck at their new ground
It could be time again.
Will it be farewell to the Isthmian
National League bound?
Or grown men breaking down
At the Tooting & Mitcham ground?
With all the off-field problems
I didn’t want to go a level higher
But to say I don’t want it in my heart
I’d have to admit to being as liar.
So will we finally do it
Only time will tell
It won’t be the end of the world
If we’re stuck in ‘Bostik League hell’.
Except I’m not a ‘big-time-charlie’
I’d never call it that
Anyone who uses that description
Is a disrespectful prat.
I’m desperate to leave the Isthmian
But proud enough to stay
Really don’t want to tempt fate
But think it might finally be our day.

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Tricky Reds Crazy Football!

I have lived out my life drenched in football
By the games that the Reds won or lost
And I have valued those days of my youth
But I have never measured the cost
I had long thought the butterflies flown
The excitements all given to past
But still those old roads lead to home
And the spells still have magic to cast

It’s just like the first kiss of summer
The riff of a Gibson guitar
The bike that I longed for at Christmas
The return of my old Liverpool scarf
It’s like finding a friend when you’re lonely
The warmth of a comforting hand
The smile on the face of a stranger
When you’re lost in an uncertain land
It’s like being lifted up onto strong shoulders
The best that I’ve known was that view
And learning the songs from my father
Before the teenager ripped up the nest and then flew

So whilst money is making its mark
And the cash tills are singing like choirs
There’s still enough romance for dreamers
Aye, there’s enough for the proud dreaming child.

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“Escapism”

Half a mile from the station
A delight of a ground
Half decent programme
Admission just five pound.
Out of my local area
Jumped on a train
Headed for Risborough Rangers
No I’m not insane!
A sun setting evening
Weather dry and fine
Such a gorgeous setting
For ground six eighty nine.
Basic but cared for
In their club they take pride
A much better set up
Than my local step six side.
Club house full of photos
Ground painted red and white
It’s got that total ‘cared for’ feel
That makes groundhopping a delight.
Resting on the railing
Football’s not the best
But what do you want at Step six
As long as they try their best?
It can’t exactly be easy
On a bumpy bone-dry pitch
I doubt if they can afford summer top soil
They don’t exactly look rich.
But who needs Billericay style money
When all you need is love and care
Clubs like this are football’s lifeblood
Despite trophy cabinets usually bare.
Inside I’m quietly content
As the sun sets tonight
Darkened trees for backdrop
Under the glow of artificial light.
A single goal in it
Certainly could have been more
But you won’t hear me complaining
About the one nil score.
This is genuine entertainment
The highlight of my week
Albeit that’s only because
Losing to Grays was so bleak.
This was simply football for enjoyment
No Pink & Blue tinted specs tonight
There was even a late ‘cabaret’ bonus
Of ‘handbags’ masquerading as a fight.
Leicester were playing in Europe
Tannoyman updates the score
Game on the telly in the bar
Not bothered to go in the door.
Why would I want artificial Champions League
That I’ll never be able to afford
Much better to see real live honest football
Where I doubt I’ll ever be bored.
In the second half it’s getting colder
The crisp air doesn’t make me chill
For ninety minutes I’m without a care
Non-league football’s my total thrill.
Tomorrow I’ll start to ‘worry Dulwich Hamlet’
As play-off nerves kick in
But for now it’s going to Risborough Rangers
That keeps me calm and content within.

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A Game of Two Halves

Give us back footballers of a different breed
High flying skills aye, but take back the greed
Wearing the shirt for the pride not the fame
Kids out on the parks not a PlayStation game
We reclaim our clubs from those corporate suits
We fought hard for justice to give us the truth
Give us back Shankly, Busby and Stein
Them tough talking boys from those old mining fields
Give us back standing, the terrace our world
And most of all tickets that don’t cost the earth
Give us back champions who are just one of us
Like Sir Tom Finney sat with fans on the bus
Give us back David Coleman and his no-nonsense “1-0”
And the boy Duncan Edwards, we’re missing him still
Give us back Johann Cruyff as he turns then to shoot
Matched by bold Billy Liddell in his heaven-made boots
The glorious touch of the grass ‘neath our feet
Replaying the swagger and brash of the street
We remember the matches we won drew and lost
And the values we hold that don’t measure the cost
And remember the walks with our Dads to the grounds
The way we were thrilled by the sound of the crowd
Give us back the Echo in its Saturday pink
And the blether and braw of a post-match drink
Wincing at tackles with blood on the studs
But lovin’ those pitches whose grass turned to mud
Aye, give us back fitbaw of yesteryear
But tell the racists and fascists they’re nae welcome here
Us fans are the lifeblood of our beautiful game
And we reclaim the spirit sold off down the drain
We’re grassroots we’re partisan, we’re young and we’re auld
We’re the heart of our clubs we’re community soul
We’re the mojo the tempo the raw Rock and Roll
So, give us back mavericks who won’t do what they’re told
Gift us elegant sweepers and sleek liberos
And those freewheelin’ wingers who fly from their toes
Give us back footballers carrying some beef
Who head off at halftime with a sigh of relief
And grant every player their chance to be stars
But at least win the league before buying fast cars
Earn your spurs, win your battles, and learn from the scars
It’s a game of one passion, and always two halves
But Football, our heartbeat, our heartbreak, aye, undeniably OURS.

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