It’s worth the sting of losing,
and how you bruise and bleed,
worth the wind, and rain and hail,
worth sometimes having to concede.
It’s worth the nerves, it’s worth the pressure,
worth training in the freezing cold,
it’s even worth the penalty shootouts,
I hope I never grow too old.
For making the perfect save,
taking the ball and smashing it long,
whenever I take to the field,
that’s when I feel I belong.
Confusion over whose left and whose right,
giving the defenders stick,
messing about during shooting practice,
where wit is the only thing quick!
I hope I can play forever,
disregarding injuries I pick up,
for the sheer joy I feel between the sticks,
it beats winning every cup.