Football Poets

Paolo |Rossi RIP. 09/12/2020.

Injecting the days first shot a caffeine digesting the football news. I take a moment to saunter back to that crazy balmy summer of 1982. Our family owned a small thriving print shop in the East End of London. Due to intense heat emanating off of printing presses, factory doors leading out to a secluded courtyard need be opened during summer months in an effort to keep the work-space naturally cool and bearable enough for continued production.

Inquisitive Bangladeshi children playing, gaily screaming and shouting in the court-yard, often stood gob-smacked on a ramp leading in to the factory, fascinated by the colourful sheets of glossy paper gliding off of a pounding press in to a receding delivery trolley. On this particular day, a normally pulsating machine room sat silent, reason being? Our employees and myself, stood eagerly watching a tiny portable colour T.V precariously perched on a pile of freshly printed paper, drooling at the prospect of Italy and Brazil contesting a World Cup Quarter Final match.

A door-bell rings at the street entrance, our receptionist answers and lets in a five-foot ten Goth-guy, adorned in black leather, tattoos’ metal piercings, runs an interesting and more than popular SM club-night our company produces flyers and posters for. One eye on T.V as the teams take to the field. I hand him his bill, and thank him for his cheque, taking my time counting posters he needs to fly-post later that evening, I note he too eyes the T.V. “You’re welcome to stay and watch the match David”, “Okay thanks Kev, maybe I will, till half-time anyway”.
Eight of us surround the T.V. David, a Portugeezer, a Greek-Cypriot, two Bangladeshi’s’, an Australian, an Anglo Indian and a London Irish geezer…me. After Italy score within 5 minutes of the start, patrons enjoying a late lunch must have been able to hear us screaming n shouting, in the lurid restaurants, up a narrow street off London’s Brick Lane?
On 12 minutes Brazil equalize, and further noise attracts puzzled Bangladeshi children to the factory ramp eager to find out what all the commotions about? “Come in, sit down and watch the game if you like?”, I suggest, they cautiously creep in to initially observe us going practically ape, a ghostly looking Goth, and eventually the game.
Italy take the lead on 27 minutes the factory erupts again, and half-time comes later at 2-1 in favour of the Italian team. Soft drinks passed around, some of the children dash out to play, now the noise has died down, the Goth appears normal, only our game inspired histrionics, deemed worthy of their undivided attention t’would seem?
Second half begins with Colonel Gaddafi lookalike Claudio Gentile, (genteel he was not, Italian, born in Tripoli) tentatively treading on eggshells, having been booked in the first half, causing him to consequently miss the next match should Italy progress? The un-fancied Italians led by pipe-smoking Enzo Bearzot having been ridiculed in the Italian sporting press, are notoriously slow starters in tournaments, this one being no different and centre forward Paolo Rossi’s selection after a two-year suspension for allegations of match-fixing back-home, provides hacks with a ready-made barely fit fall-guy should Italy’s no-hopers flounder publicly on the World stage?
Brazil equalize on 68 minutes; children rush back in to sit down again and watch us grown-ups on the verge of totally losing the plot? At two all a draw suits Brazil, allowing them to stand firm, and defend the remaining twenty-two plus minutes of the match should they choose?
But…defence is not in their nature, they attack and attack until the diminutive figure of Paolo Rossi fires in his third goal on 74 minutes during a classic Italian counter-attack, allowing Italy to reach the semis of The World Cup Finals. Rossi to restore his tarnished reputation, Enzo Bearzot to be acknowledged as an astute judge of character, and canny tactician.
Game over, us fans disperse, in separate ways, children to play in the court-yard, David to fly-pitch posters, press’s print, and…one of the great football-matches I’ve been fortunate to witness, slips in to the annals of my memory, till news today Paolo Rossi passed…away.

One of The Games, of the last century, to drool over and over. Catch if you can, dear reader, Gole! Commentary by the late Sean Connery, music by Rick Wakeman, and
one of the better football docu/films, in my humble opinion. All one hundred pulsating minutes. Enjoy.