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Poems tagged ‘Champions League’

Paris- Champions League Final

Ah yes
Amid the boulevards
And cafe au lait,
Where the Champs Elysses
Greets Champions League giants
Or European Cup leviathans
In the old money
Welcome to Paris
Be sure to savour croissants
At the Gare Du Nord
Liverpool are forthcoming
Imminent as the dawn
That cracks gently on European
Lawns, manicured as your mind
And soul, Liverpool a wounded
Animal after being pipped to the
Premier League title
But FA Cup holders carved
In perpetuity
But Liverpool and Real Madrid
Footballing royalty
Embracing French romance
With almost 20 Champions League
Medals between them
A remarkable phenomenon
This is meeting of kings
Liverpool still reminding you
Of that first dance when Tommy
Smith became the Roman emperor
And Munchenglabach fell, then
Toppled to the ground by KK
Kevin Keegan, fire and ferocity
Liverpool’s first European Cup
It should always be that way
Rather than Champions League
Prizes to one and all
Since that’s a misnomer
Just incomprehensible
The top four
Regarded as champions of their
League. Oh what piffle and nonsense
The Champions League Final
But City
Are the Premier League’s
Champions, and market
Forces, Sky, BT sport.
Call the tune
Today’s currency
The new money
What a palaver
Or maybe some of us are
Embittered by the absence
Of the BBC and Barry Davies
When the game was played
On terrestrial screens
And you knew where you stood
But now no longer
Among European aristocracy
Where football only listens to
Its own voice of grasping avarice
The cash cow, millions of Euros
Tills ringing in astronomical six
or seven figures
But tonight the Champions League
Final will be beamed by satellite
Another parallel universe, some far
Away planet, where the galaxy of stars
Will play in the white of the Bernabeu
Madrid, so gloriously Real nothing fake
At all and Liverpool red and ready
To acknowledge their history
With record breaking achievements
It could be another night of nights
And of course it will undoubtedly be
Perhaps the spirit of Napoleon
Will touch the shoulders of Madrid
And Liverpool
Footballing monarchs
Undoubtedly so

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Real Madrid again in Champions League final

Oh that stirring rendition of
Spanish melodies from
Dulcet tones and voices
Real Madrid,
The genuine article
For the umpteenth time
Grandees of European Cup
History and now back
Where they feel they belong
At the pinnacle shaking hands
With the past, back this time
In the Champions League Final
How many times now
10,11,12, even 13
Yes definitely 13
Incredible , just incredible
But quite extraordinary
Defying mathematics and
Calculus, logarithms and
Algorithms, geometry
And symmetry,
A force of nature
Real Madrid,
Exemplary ambassadors
On football’s highest councils
Sitting on the lofty plinth,
Elder statesmen of the game
Veterans of its inherent beauty
Frequent visitors to its
Banqueting suite, the gilded
Mirrors, the chaise longue
Next to the corner kick
Of the mighty Bernabeu
Free kicks taken next to
The opulent ottoman next
To the free kick where the
Referee’s familiar spray
But not hair spray
Will dictate fates
And awaits breathlessly
It has to be emphasised
And yet
We remember the nobility
Of Di Stefano, Gento and Puskas
When Eintracht Frankfurt
Were crushed underfoot by Real
Madrid, a picture of devastation,
Wreckage and carnage, the debris
of 1960 in Glasgow when 7-3 almost
Felt like business as usual for these
Spanish toreadors, cape flashing
The bull in desperate retreat
Barbaric by nature were they not
What a night that must have been
When you were but an apple in your
Parents eye
But Real Madrid were the pioneers
Before the rest became like trailblazers
Their football had mercilessness, cruelty
Indifference to convention
Because they did things that were unexpected,
Unusual, Masters of art and forward thinking
Innovation, formations that were neither diamond
Nor platinum but certainly gold
Positions reeking of glorious improvisation
Switching and linking, hopping and skipping
To yet more mesmeric bossa novas
Passing with rich spices of Oregano
Parsley and Thyme
Flavoursome, scented with yet
More cinnamon
Passing that breathes sweet
Craftsmanship and measured
Consideration
They must have thought
Real Madrid were just
Figments of our imagination
None could play in their ilk
But then the ball moved like
A white tidal wave washing
Gently over our vision
And we’d just witnessed
The greatest and finest
Unsurpassable, a dream
Come true,
Football full of wit, joy
Remarkable surrealism
At times, classical
Instrumentation
And experimentation
Now Real Madrid
Will meet Liverpool
In the Champions League
Final. All of our birthdays
And anniversaries have come
At once
Fitting dignitaries on this
Star spangled climax
To the European season
May will welcome
Liverpool and Madrid
With the warmth and
Tenderness so richly deserving
Of their rightful status and stature
Liverpool now many
Multiple winners
Of the European Cup
Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley
And Joe Fagan will be
Watching from a
Comfortable seat in heaven
Waving arms, pointing, whistling
Living every moment, coaxing
And cajoling, on their feet
Inspiring and exhorting,
Pleading for that European
Cup.
Remembering Kenny Dalglish
Leaping over Wembley advertising
Hoardings after Bruges had been
Beaten, fair and square
And finally Terry Mac, Ray Kennedy,
Tommy Smith rising like a salmon to head
High into the net. Perfection again
Munchengladbach in Rome.
It was almost too easy.
Steve Heighway danced the last waltz
With the Merseyside Kop
As opposed to the Spion
Real Madrid and Liverpool
In the Champions League final
It will seem like the ultimate
Outdoor concert under the stars
An exhibition of courtly grace under
Pressure, a rose garden
Of footballing mastery,
Two stately galleons
Dropping anchor into the late
Spring, dipping sun where
Paris sighs admiringly again

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On A Magic Porto Night

on a stage where dreams come true
City sure they’d see it though
ev’rything within in their hands
very few could understand
how despite their buoyant fans
Chelsea could destroy their plans
pundits pointing clearly to
this one turning lightest blue
on a magic Porto night
all predictions soon took flight

in a daunting Covid year
fans all scrambling to be there
bumped up tickets few to spare
costly flights and tests to share
underdogs before the start
driven on by guts and heart
few would tip them Pep would trip them
Blues would slip and City clip them

early probing quicky sorted
James dictating Sterling thwarted
fans ecstatic pace is hectic
open play at times electric
like a mower through the grass
Mount delivers such a pass
Havertz sets off on his own
rounds the keeper slots it home
now it’s backs against the wall
who will rise and who will fall?
Tuchel’s begging to the crowd
roar us on and make it loud
City throw on ev’ryone
has Aguero’s moment come?
counting seconds tick away
can the Blues hold on today?

meanwhile Kante’s dominating
like some busy bee creating
in the middle tracking back
striding forward in attack
sliding-tackling pocket-picking
ever present ball-nicking
just like Joey Cole I swear
Kante’s flipping ev’rywhere
sometimes it’s hard to explain how he just controls the game
oozing class with ev’ry pass
Kante sees them home again
barely time to think or pause
at the end they’re on all fours
City still to reach their dream
what a final we have seen
one thing’s certain here for sure ..
Chelsea lift the cup once more

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Pep’s Recipe for Winning

The football played by Manchester City
is all about slick passing, possession and press.
They show the opposition no pity,
that’s the simple secret of their success.

It’s all about slick passing, possession and press
when de Bruyne, Foden and Sterling come to town.
That’s the simple secret of their success,
on their day they can knock anyone down.

When de Bruyne, Foden and Sterling come to town
they show the opposition no pity.
On their day it can knock anyone down,
the football played by Manchester City.

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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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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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Champions League Final 2019: Liverpool and the power of six

Estadio Metropolitano for the cup
The Reds were hardly sublime
Klopp was happy to soak it up
And lift Big Ears for the sixth time

Salah’s penalty wasn’t that sound
Twelve months, how time flies
Origi bangs, we’re Anfield bound
With the continents biggest prize

Spurs tried but lacked the kill
Total shutdown Alisson Becker
The City of Liverpool is at a standstill
As the Reds get the Double Decker

Rome Seventy Seven, London Seventy Eight
Henderson fulfills a dream
Paris Eighty One, a Rome Eighty Four date
Istanbul and Madrid Nineteen

number7

© emdad rahman

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CFC, AFC, LFC, THFC

Teresa May, she knew
that Brexit would prove problematic
in the EU

but Brexit
is absolutely NOT happening
in UEFA

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Mission Impossible – “with hope in your hearts!”

“Your Mission – should you choose to accept it
Is to beat Barcelona 4-0
Without Mo Salah
Without Bobby Firminho
And with Andy Robertson going off at half-time
And, with old-boys Coutinho and Chewy Luis grinning and gurning
Somehow you have to introduce, pace, passion and rhyme.

Good luck with that!
This tape, just like your chances
Will self-destruct in 3 seconds”
At kick-off
There just aren’t enough Tom Cruise stunt doubles
To alleviate Liverpool’s troubles

But, as it turns out
There were 54,000 script-writers there last night
Who hoped and believed
And left Anfield, both stunned and relieved
Elated and sated
Canonising Klopp and his team
And living, the impossible dream!

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Gigi loves olives but not Oliver! (Bedlam at the Bernabau)

Real Madrid v Juventus, CL Q-F. Real win 4-3 on agg, with last minute winning pen from Cristiano Ronaldo. Referee = Michael Oliver. 11/04/2018

Let’s start at the end
And just pretend
There was no emotion
That drove the commotion

Cristiano revs up
Strikes with full throttle
After such a long wait
What a lotta bottle!

Szczesny strolled on
Acting all cocky and cool
Last minute sub facing a pen
Oliver debatably brave or fool!!

The referee
Was surrounded, hounded and shoved
Many saying it shouldn’t be red
Simply because it’s retiring Gigi (beloved)

To emphasize, the referee
Was surrounded, hounded and shoved
Where it could have been one of many
The red was flashed to Gigi (be-gloved)

In all the furore
VAR gets a mention
But for such a 50/50 call
It wouldn’t have solved the tension

Benatia shoves in the back
Vasquez hits the ground
Depending on your allegiance
The ref’s whistle is unsound!

Real with last throw of the dice
Desperately, Toni Kroos he chips
Ronaldo peels and bounds
His header preceding tooted pips

The tie started out looking comfy
Real at home and ahead by three
But Juve bag a triple
To every neutral’s glee!

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/champions-league/