Football Poets

John Motson- the legend and sheepskin coat

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 In bygone days when flares
Had flair and denims had dash
With fashionable finesse
One man and one man alone
Encapsulated it all,
The Beautiful Game in
Purple prose, perfectly
Excitable at times
But beautifully honest
Dripping with sincerity
John Motson
There, you’ve said it
The name that conjured
up whole stages
Of our teenage years
The footballing font
Of all wisdom, sage
And sagacity in every
Breathless sentence
Motty, a vast festival
Of the right words
In absolutely perfect
Harmony, pitch, tone
Motty alongside Barry
Davies, the holy duo
Two walking and talking
Encyclopaedias
Groaning with meticulous
Research, painstaking
Detail. What more could
Football have wanted
Whether it be every Scunthorpe
Back four and inside forward line
Since 1964 or Portsmouth’s centre
Halves who illuminated their Pompey
Years. Even a comprehensive breakdown
Of every Liverpool goal scorer since
The Second World War
There was David Coleman. 1-0 with emphasis
Of course.
Ken Wolstenholme with sharp, clipped
Public school tones and lilting cadences
After every word uttered
Of course there were people on the pitch
We could see them from the corner
Of our eyes. Peripheral vision
Unnecessary.
But then came Motty
John Motson and 1972
The iconic year when
From a country field
In deepest Herefordshire
The voice of Motty
Oozed profusely
Like the cream
On morning coffee
Richly fragrant
As a summer’s dawn
When the rose and
Begonia stretched out
And embraced Motty
With the warm and tender
Embrace of nature’s easy glow
And then Hereford turned
Up BBC’s newest recruit
Fresh from the commentator’s cradle
It was the match of all matches
For John Motson
A rapturous introduction
But this was vital
Get it wrong Motty
And the exit is that way
But we knew Hereford would oblige
In their non League attire
Giant killers in their most
Sartorially correct suit
Motty gazed across that rustic
Vista of bleating sheep and
Contemplative cows chewing the cud
Look at that Malcolm Macdonald
In those Geordie black and white
Stripes of Newcastle
What an upstart, what a charlatan
A pretender to the throne
Where Hereford proudly occupy
Their FA Cup victory on muddy lands
Of glory and yet more
Triumphant grammar
Then Motty became the household name
Idolised for facts and stats
Never short of scientific
Calculations and maths of
Style and class
None could ever match him
For verbs and adverbs
Where precision mattered
In the heat of battle
The man who once reminded
Us in black and white days
That Spurs were in the yellow
And when Platini once scored
In lands of French Euro bliss
1984, Michel Platini had scored
Of course he had
But Motty was the confirmation
The affirmation, the voice
Of acclaim and ecstasy
Oh John Motson
You’re no longer with us
But the voice upon which
Football once took its cue
And baton
Will always be alive
Thankyou Motty.

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