Poetry Archives

Oi Ref…Swap Goalie?

“Oi Ginger! Go in goal?
Jimmy, you’re no good so ‘n so
You’re as useful as a fork for sipping soup”,

“Ginger, I know you wanna play full- back
But six-two down, us getting thrashed
You in goal, there’s a chance we might improve”.

Sporting a raging bleating hump
I gave leather spherical a thump
Spat on me gloves, crossed myself in prayer
Dancing back to guard the battered goal
Cursing Jimmy, the so ‘n so
Firing daggers at him via a flaming glare.

Punching a corner unopposed
I’m dancing on tip toes
Twelve years old the saviour of the side
Wallowing in wondrous self esteem
I’m every London-Irish captain’s dream…
That young fella, Enda called to stem the tide.

In the eighteen yard box on me Tod
Rising rueful from the dewy sod
Smell of dubbined leather neath me chin
A gorgeous face beside the goal
Smiles, applauds, and stops mid-stroll,
“Hello Ginger bhoy, I’m Enda’s cousin, Erin”.

Making saves, struggling to talk
Fazed by simmering brown eyes, here, from Cork
A welcome distraction to keep the deficit at six
Braggadocio insists I scream, n shout
Inspiration of a sculptured marble pout
Leaning on my post, a blade a grass between moist lips.

The final whistle blows…six-four
Enda roars, “Three Cheers”, (Can’t recall who for?)
I’ve other stuff in mind than to shake a muddy hand
Striding across a sodden field of green
All of a sudden, my recently discovered dream
Sped off in the front of a Transit van, with Enda’s mam.

Christening Hooley, a table full of mates
Enda mentioned, Erin emigrated to The States
Wed a good for nothing lazy get, gave up the ghost
I prefer to recall the day, fate deemed I go in goal
Simmering brown eyes caressed my soul
Blade a grass twixt moist lips, pouting ‘gainst a post.

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Epic Scotland

Potentially the champions
they became the lost generation
forgotten by history

Everywhere the people were
singing Unite Unite Europe

Italy welcomed The Scottish knights
and what potential
Ally McCoist
Alan McInally
Gary McAllister
Alex McLeish
Gary Gillespie
Stuart McCall

Their decisive match with Brazil
such bitter disapointment
Brazil already qualified scored that goal …paradoxical
and Scotland’s great team had to leave the tournament
Everywhere the song               which celebrated  Europe was heard
Unite Unite Europe
At home in Scotland watching
the Italy 1990 World Cup
people wanted the Scotland Team
to stay as long as it was possible at the tournament
What the lost generation
Ally McCoist
Alan McInally
Gary McAllister
Gary Gillespie
Paul McStay
Alex McLeish
Stuart McCall

Italy was sunny
and Ireland did well with
Jackie Charlton’s Army

England had the epic and heartbreaking
But I think of  that 1990 Scotland team
forgotten by history
Three decades have gone by
What do we have now…
In which world are we living ?But the early 90’s
that promising time and the start
of the decade of crisis

The first shock of that World Cup
was Costa Rica’s victory
The most beautiful moment was   created by Roger Milla

The star who attracted attention
was Carlos Valderrama
Maradona as well
But  Scotland and Brazil
were drawing
But suddenly the goal came
The goal Brazil didn’t need to score
And The Scotland team became
the lost generation
The tragic Italian story for the
Sotland team composed of heroes

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Elvis in Football Boots

A word for Frank Worthington, memorable goals
Elvis in footie boots pure Rock & Roll
A maverick magician with the swag of the street
Got the terrace all thumping and up off its feet
Match of the Day Bolton check out youtube
Never been bettered proper old school.

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Lothar Matthäus

A most dynamic midfielder
Was Der Kaiser’s match leader
When the legs began to lack pace
Had the vision to switch to sweeper

Lothar Herbert Matthäus
From Erlangen he hailed
Mönchengladbach aged eighteen
National team his boat soon sailed

Euro champ in nineteen eighty
Eighty two a punch from Altobelli
Didn’t play in the final
Awed at Rossi and Tardelli

Bayern general and all time legend
In Mexico now a regular pick
Shackled Maradona in the final
But Diego had one last trick

Spun by his marker at the death
Matthäus lost sight of Maradona
Slinky run, split pass to Burruchaga
It was the World Cup winner

Inter lynchpin by Italia ninety
Missile against Yugoslavia
Mazy power sprint, breathless strike
Calcio winner, world’s best player

Four goals and in prime peak form
In the final Armando wasn’t far
Gifting the winning kick to Brehme
Lifting the World Cup as skipper

94, a twenty first world cup game
To join Diego, Seeler and Zmuda
Fuel in the tank for France ninety eight
Broke the record when replacing Sammer

Matthäus, the complete baller
Champions league proved too hot
Mesmerising runs, vision to boot
King of the heat seeking shot

© emdad rahman

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Heaven Struck By Thunderbolt (R.I.P Peter Lorimer)

The strike of a thunderbolt blasts past Heaven’s Gates
and God says to Jack Charlton
“‘ere’s one of your mates,
I know Trevor and Norman
will be both happy too,”
as he nods to Saint Peter
to let Lorimer through.

“There’s a place for you Peter
out there on that wing.
Now be easy with your shooting
cos your shots don’t ‘arf sting.”

So he met with his Leeds team- mates
and they reminisced of the past
as Revie watched proudly
at Peter having a blast.

So Rest in Peace to the Scotsman
with the right foot of power
that terrified free kick walls
and made goalkeepers cower.

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1966 and All That

It’s not easy being an assistant referee,
scurrying up and down, up and down the touch line,
when there are so many shenanigans to see.

Was an attacker standing offside is the key
judgement you must make, but the margins are so fine.
It’s not easy being an assistant referee,

you need to be eagle-eyed, as fit as a flea,
able to draw parallels without log or cosine,
while there are so many shenanigans to see.

When the left winger went down like a chainsawn tree
was the right back’s elbow an accident or malign?
It’s not easy being an assistant referee,

signalling a throw while the home crowd disagree
loudly behind you, call you every kind of swine.
When there are so many shenanigans to see

you don’t want to be like that Azerbaijani,
famous just for flagging the ball had crossed the line.
It’s not easy being an assistant referee,
when there are so many shenanigans to see.

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Little Aeroplane

If I can’t find words
or if they are halted by a synaptic lock keeper,
tyrannical yet wise, holding up a hand
to delay the latest craft, whatever its design,
I return to a trusted question,
my favourite formula:
Have you ever heard of Vincenzo Montella?

If I can’t find truth
or it’s out there in muddied layers of time
resounding through Sheldrake’s field
as memory traces in the collective mind,
I return to a trusted question,
my favourite formula:
Have you ever heard of Vincenzo Montella?

If I can’t dance
a question forms and lands
to looks as if from continent to continent,
with bafflement in subtle lines above the eyes.
My friends, do you know of the Aeroplanino,
our absent choreographer?
Have you ever heard of Vincenzo Montella?

If I can’t find beauty
or its sun in England only shines obliquely
forming shadows on our game
of a mild September evening,
I return to a trusted question,
my favourite formula:
Have you ever heard of Vincenzo Montella?

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Wounded Pride.

Would history repeat itself, on a cold Parisienne night?
A deft fleet footed tiny elf, vacate his throne, take flight?
The answers to such questions, quickly disappeared
In a blitz of ball possession, to be dreamed about, revered.

PSG turned up at home to play, win, entertain, and enthral
But, to play as wizened pundits say, a team needs have a ball
Relentless in subtle approach play, little give and go’s sublime
Another sphere, another day? Barca victors come half-time.

Sipping Fentimans Ginger Beer n ice, I urge Dembele…score
Not once, not twice, not thrice times, an exasperated four
Reminded of Meadowlark and co, I envy PSG their thankless task
Eclipsing Barcelona’s ebb n flow? Seemed an unattainable ask.

Despite a double dodgy penalty, a blinding Messi thunderbolt
Seemed to me at least that PSG, struggled hard through-out to cope
Messi sees his spot-kick saved, followed by a frantic free for all
PSG trudge off the field of play, seeking out the BFC exclusive ball.

Would the second half surpass the first? Dembele caress the elusive net?
Might PSG quench Barcelona’s thirst, lack nous, sit back, en garde, regret?
What happened during the second-half, is of little consequence at all?
PSG stutter through midst a nervous gasp, trying to find and keep the ball.

During the initial forty-five plus minutes, watching the Barcelona way to play
The intricate deft give and goes within it, retrieving the odd ball gone astray
I’m reminded football’s a simple game, to control, receive or make a pass*
Played by a team, not one lauded selfish pseudo-God, ply’s his trade on grass.

The Champions League dream done n dusted, this decimated term at least
Barcelona bid, au revoir to Paris encrusted in plaudits post a veritable T.V. feast
Sometimes it isn’t the at all cost winning, attracts fans hankering after fame
It’s the pleasure your teams delivering, in the guise of playing a simple game.

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Mind Games.

Twenty minutes in
Sweet F.A happening
Their goal seemed unattainable at best?
Passing sideways, if not back
We couldn’t muster an attack
Till a mustard stroke put all a that to rest…

Diminutive figure leaves the bench,
“Ay, ay what’s all this then?”,
Purr’s I between sweet sips of Yorkshire Tea?
The simple act of warming-up a sub
Caused startled cherubs on the mud
To quickly get their derrieres’, in gear a.s.a.p.

A deflection, then a pen
Our mojo back again
I could hear our Thomy, pleading on the night,
“Oi Timo, you know that white rectangle is a goal?
Oh, und just confirm when you’ve a mo,
You’ve sussed out which is left und what is right?”

Absolutely flying at the finish
We might have won by five or six
If fortune deemed the cards should fall our way?
Hakim Ziyech didn’t grace the field that day
Yet from the touch-line tis fair to say…
He played his part, although he didn’t actually play!


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Cup Tie Karma?

Ron leads a frenzied monochrome charge
Waving imaginary red cards
To later…turn his back, enacting I surrender
The Old Lady sighs, scant chance of victory gone
Watching a valiant Porto soldier on
Inspired by…an outstanding veteran defender.



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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/2/