Football Poets

The close season.

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Oh the commotion and rumpus
It’s the end of the season
And now the close season
Football in summer holiday mode
The empty void between high summer
And early autumn sooner this year
Since World Cup carnivals loom
Amid the tinsel and glitter of festive
Christmas revelries
How absurd, almost unseemly
But now the domestic season
Ends with City as champs again
And Liverpool on the verge of yet
Another landmark Champions League
Trophy, how many will be that?
Almost a trophy cabinet among more
Trophy cabinets of silver with only
The Mighty Real of Madrid in their way
Oh, trembling lips, hearts suspended
In readiness for another open topped
Procession through the chatty
Murmurings of garrulous Anfield streets
The neutrals are willing Liverpool onto
Victorious podiums, it could be theirs
And yet now there is silence across
Football’s playing fields broken only by
Barking dogs on far distant roads, cross
Country trains now heading for the seaside
Proms rather than Old Trafford, Anfield, the
Etihad, the Emirates and Spurs new domain
A break, a hollow hiatus before the first day
Of August when the Premier League’s big boys
Stoke up the competitive fires, normal service
Resumed,
Referees whistles hidden in discreet
Corners of FA chests of drawers
Where none can argue their case
For a while
Recreational goal posts and bars in once
Atmospheric parks now reduced to empty
Green spaces of now white flannelled cricket
Summer splendour
Displaying their sedate finery
Next to white marquees and dusty
Wickets among deep mid wicket
Leisure and pleasure, soaring
Sixes to different continents and fours
Hooked over good natured drunken taverns
And third man boundary patrol
Football though takes a back seat
Nobody to mock or insult, vilify
Or even humiliate since essentially
The fans love their targets of abuse
The opposition are hopeless
And always will be
The boo boys will always have
The last word
But now it’s summer and football
Is just a memory from way back
When, now a Rothmans Year Book
Page recording another season’s
Highs and lows, trials
And tribulations,
The kids will probably still play on
The pavements, the spacious grassy
Parks, rush goalie, coats for goalposts
Scenery of timeless five a side exchanges
But football may not be the dominant force
Until August blows another round of whistles
And jocular banter
But now football will turn into its familiar
Shop window of transfer gossip
Towards the rumour factory where
Thousands of South Americans, Africans and
Obscure corners of Europe and America
Will hold out for at least 30 billion in the bank
And that’s just for a week’s work or maybe by
The hour, the millions are non negotiable
Yes it’s The Greed is Good League
The great Brian Glanville was absolutely right
Anyway let the bucket and spade brigade
Descend on their exotic islands in the sun
Top up their leathery faces with tans and
Massage weary egos and privileged accounts
The close season always seemed that peculiar
Moment when the pre-season fixtures coincided
Neatly with Wimbledon tennis, strawberries and
Cream, the resounding
Clatter, thump and crack of the smaller ball
Variety.
Football on its summer holiday again

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