Oi Mister. Give It A Rest.

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 He was down in the mire almost fooled by a flyer
That had slipped through his gloves and spun wide
When a wag behind goal scorned his bravado:
“Simple one handed catch, to my eyes”
Team-mates applauding he rose from the floor
Wiping erred gloves on his sweater
Then the sarcastic wit of the know it all quipped:
“You scared of that round thing, young fella?”

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 With punches and flicks he was doing “the business”
Of keeping that sacred clean sheet
Yet the cause of his ire wasn’t set to retire:
“You’re a goalie, I’m little bo peep”
Team-mates surged on, and eventually scored one
While the sting on his hands slowly cooled
Yet his personal jester wouldn’t give it a rest
“Oi goalie, you’re useless, yeah you”

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 When the interval came in the semi pro game
He thought “Ah some respite at long last”
Yet there behind goal stood the cause of his woe
As a beep started off second half
In a brave one on one where sheer guts had it won
He thought he might get scant applause
There was quiet, till it came shocking his team-mates
“Oi keeper, what yer lying face down in the mud for?”

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 With the rain tipping down he was loath to turn round
Fearing he’d miss an attack
Yet the terrace comedian showed no sign of leaving
“That’s a laugh, number one on your back”
Stood wet, cold and numb, muddy faced, a bruised thumb
He prowled eighteen-yard box braving rain
Two up, nearly time, almost over that line
Where a win overcomes thoughts of pain.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 Another foiled attack, found him flat on his back
Then as ensuing corner was cleared
His tormentor once more, had no room for applause
“Oi keeper you’re stupid, oh dear”
Conclusion was reached, with three points to his team
Keeper leant down and picked up his gloves
Strolled behind silken net, smiled toward his objector
“I’m stupid? You’ve just paid dough to insult me you mug”



I once went to see Borehamwood play Welling in a semi pro game, and was amazed to hear a middle aged bloke decked out in Welling colours lambast the young Welling centre forward through-out the entire game.

I mean this fan had presumably travelled all the way over from Kent to Hertfordshire seemingly to have a pop at a young semi -pro player, on a cold day in a half empty suburban stadium? Weird or what?

This poem is based on a story a young keeper I know, who also played semi pro, told me.

Carefree….we’re off to Battersea.

A Happy and Prosperous New Year to you all.

Stay well and be lucky.



Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/oi-mister-give-it-a-rest/