Football Poets

Day 31 : The Final

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Brazil 2 Germany 0

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 The way a World Cup Final should be :

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 feet up, beers in, kids out
all the pre-match preamble digested
then regurgitated into friendly banter
between tanked up tipsters,
upping the ante on a game of such high stakes
punters piously propounding, as to which players,
are most likely to perform
hearts and money, all a flutter, as we gamble and ramble
in equal measure
and pleasure, at the leisure

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 The reality on the day :

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 due to a filial promise, a jet-lagged baby, and a London traffic jam
not only did we miss the build-up, but also the start of the match
sacrilege!
not much brotherly love lost on that journey!
and because we were in a hire car,
unfamiliar as we were with the radio controls
we couldn’t find MW for five live
so we ended up on LW, listening to a German radio station!
Sprechen sie Deutsche? I asked mon frère
Nine!, he replied, with comical aside
but we knew somebody was in trouble : Achtung!
and Kahn and Ronaldinho featured a lot in der spiele
or else they were eloquently eulogising about der Kapitan
gushing in guttural glorification,
though we couldn’t grasp those germane gems
which made it all the funnier, when, after finally getting back to base –
(and only just winning the battle of
World Cup Final versus Winnie-the-Pooh video
when testily tussling for the remote control
with two strong willed four year olds) –
fresh off the autobahn
we witness Kahn
drop a goalkeeping clanger
pounced upon by Ronaldo, the goal-hanger
coming, in a neat twist of irony, in the 66th minute
most of England, cheering for Brazil to win it
which of course, they duly did
a record breaking bid
now 5 times winners of the prestigious title
Ronaldo, coming up with the goods, at a time so vital
but despite his best efforts, every sprint and each lung busting burst
he couldn’t secure his hat-trick, to equal, our own Sir Geoff Hurst
but amazingly, at the age of 25,
he matched the biggest legend in the game
securing his place, in football’s Hall of Fame
equalling Pelé’s tally of goals scored for Brazil, in World Cups
so, in celebration, as he sups
from the Jules Rimet Trophy
he can rest assured, not any Tom, Dick or Sophie
will be able to repeat that feat
not until another Brazilian, with dancing feet
happens along
in happy samba song
but hark! see the 20 year old on their bench, the young attacker
I like the look, and sound, of the new kid, Kaka!

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 meanwhile ….

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 A Sonnet for the nearly men and bruised ego’s

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Not selected, not starting, I’m still smarting, from the shame
This match should have been all about me, but I’m not even playing
My nose out of joint, I wanted to be the star, to become a legend in the game
“Not good enough”, they whisper, but I hear what they are saying
I want to be the centre of attention, not wallowing in dissatisfaction
I used to be twelfth man, but now, I’m only one of a dozen
I warm the bench, alongside the others, kitted out, ready for action
I want to be the main man, but really, I’m more a distant cousin
I look on in envy, wanting to swap places with anyone, anyone at all
No matter what position, up front, at the back, down the middle, or even out wide
I want to make my mark, to set the game alight, but I wait and wait,
for the coaches call
I long for a tactical change, an injury, whatever it takes, to get my place in the side
To be honest, it’s not so much being sub, as the snub, that I can’t abide
So win or lose, it won’t matter, it’s not about the medals,
it’s all about pride

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