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Cup Final

Jon Tait

Wednesday, April 15th, 2009

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 People in T-shirts with red forearms standing with pints
on the small terrace steps by the reflected glass
of the clubhouse bar, emptied for the presentation,
low summer evening sun casting long shadows
over the pitch while a grey haired auld fella
from the FA stands at a table on the touchline
talking in monotone for what seems ages
then a cheer and sudden applause
like the clatter of a startled pigeon’s wings
from the tight three-deep semi-circle
of fans, young kids & wives
& you’re holding your boots between two fingers,
socks rolled down to the ankles,
joking with a gang of lads in baseball caps
taking a swig from a can of Tartan Bitter
to get a laugh & they’re patting your back
as you shuffle to the end of a line of team-mates
walking forward slowly to cheers
& shaking hands with the FA man,
opponents slouched on the turf clapping
some on honkers with shirts hung over bare shoulders
when a sudden rush of horror sweeps over you
as you glance at the pile of velvet boxes on the table
& quickly calculate that there aren’t enough medals to go round
so when you’re finally there at the table for your moment
you don’t get a handshake or nowt else
& subs are opening their boxes for a look
then quickly hiding them in tracksuit pockets
& there’s no chance they’ll give one up for you
so you shake your head slowly & walk away
embarrassed & bitter, isolated & angry,
hiding your emotions with a gag,
asking a peroxide blonde with fake tan for a bottle of lager
& pretending you’re not bothered,
thinking ‘Keep your bloody Champagne.
I hope it chokes you.’

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/cup-final/