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All the stars that he’d read and dreamed about
Right there, in front of his eyes
Doing what they do best –
And also, unwittingly, sowing the seeds
Of the hardiest cash crop known to man.
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Stamford Bridge, West Stand.
Chelsea v Bolton Wanderers.
And this time, I’m the proud father
My two sons, at their first match
Lapping it up, taking it all in.
The Chatterbox, dumbstruck
Not yet au-fait with the rules,
Non-plussed at the pace of it all,
Struggles to comprehend.
The Thinker, keeps up with play,
Bombarding his internal computer,
Analyses the substitutions,
Tries to second guess Mourinho :
Ferguson and Wenger would be impressed.
Dad certainly is.
How could Duff, fellow Irishman, scorer of
The first goal, 37 seconds into the game,
The one that will imprint on two young memories,
Be the one to make way?
And already they’re straight into the highs and lows of football.
History repeating itself.
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And you know the disease has struck, when,
Soon after the opposition’s late equaliser
A small lone voice, among the strangely muted,
Battle weary, fate resigned veterans,
Pipes up :
“If everybody cheered, they might score –
COME ON CHELSEA!”
History repeats itself.