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They all share it, the great ones,
The cold clear eye and deadly accuracy,
But more, they seem to need a goal
Like sinners craving for salvation
Or sufferers for release from pain.
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What is the hunger in the soul
That gives them the split seconds they require
To steal a yard on defenders
And score, score, score?
And at those moments
They are like messiahs
As in the crowd, in front of television sets
All over the bustling breathless globe
The shout of ‘Goal’ goes up. I think the roar
That greets another heavenly finish
Is what they live for: does anything compare?