‘Tis strange what the gods in their heaven dictate
When the penalty shoot-out decides cruel fate.
When the opposition player we all love to hate
Walks from the halfway line with swaggering gait,
Ignoring the sudden and deafening spate
Of jeering and catcalls we try to create,
Which never show signs that it might soon abate.
But he places the ball quite controlled and sedate,
As our keeper’s possessed by a jumping-jack state,
Attempting to break the persistent stalemate.
But the striker knows well that he must concentrate
And keep his mind focussed, so he’ll replicate
The strike of his rather less-hated teammate.
A very short run-up, yes I’d estimate
No more than two yards, as we still generate
As much heckling and booing we can propagate.
The old Aldridge shuffle, much favoured of late!
The keeper goes diving and ends up prostrate!
But the goal, gaping wide, set up there on a plate
Remains joyously, wonderfully inviolate,
As the ball, with a beauty ‘tis hard to relate
To those that weren’t there, is chipped perfectly straight
To the arms of the ball boy who’s lying in wait.