Reflect me some glory, reflect me some fame,
reflect me the taste of the Beautiful Game.
Reflect me some honour, reflect me some style,
reflect me the talent, the vision, the guile,
that intangible something, the gift beyond price,
instinctive, elusive, the throw of the dice
that produces the winner whose every touch
is Brazilian, or German, Italian or Dutch.
Reflect me a Pele, a suave Beckenbauer,
a Charlton, a Shearer, the man of the hour.
Reflect me a taste of their talent, their will,
reflect me their stardom, their footballing skill.
Reflect me Cup Finals and Premier League wins,
the lifestyle of monarchs, forgiveness of sins.
Reflect me the dazzle, reflect me the wealth,
prolonged adulation, the fitness, the health –
you heroes, you superstars, talents sublime,
reflect me, reflect me, reflect me your time!
Then reflect me reflection, reflect me a look
at myself in the mirror, my page in the book.
Reflect me the moment to study my face
and accept that I haven’t the skill or the pace
of a Rooney, Robinho, Ronaldo, Gerrard,
but there just may be something of equal regard:
a talent less public, unsullied by glare,
of the countryside, writing, of teaching and care.
Yours are skills of the finest, real footballing bliss,
and I wish I possessed them – but let me say this:
Mine’s a gift no less worthy, a gift no less true,
so allow me the chance to reflect it … to you.