Football Poets

Pilgrims progress

We always knew John Bunyan
Had something
Pilgrims progress
Astonishingly in the FA Cup
And to think
Sir Francis Drake
Only popped over for
A game of bowls
Plymouth Argyle
In the fifth round of the FA Cup
The Cup’s romantic rendezvous
Arrives at Home Park
Today mighty Liverpool bowled over
It must have seemed a brief infatuation
Before the third round
But the struggling labourers
In the Championship
Hit the jackpot
And David topples Goliath
Plymouth beat Liverpool
It almost sounds an
Ungrammatical sentence
Surely Hans Christian Andersen
Deliberately inventing fairy tales
Giants have fallen in the Cup
But this one has surely been
Made up, complete fantasy
Liverpool controlling the pace
At the top of the Premier League
But Plymouth simply Hoe Hoe?
Nobody ever took them seriously
Never in contention for anything
Always down
In the land of nowhere
Ryan Hardie tucks away the penalty
That sends the Pilgrims heading
Towards the sacred shrine of the fifth round
Of the FA Cup,
Now that Chelsea, Spurs, Arsenal have all
Taken their exit out of the Cup’s
Hallowed back doors
City and United are through
But beware of sweet Cherries
And buoyant Bournemouth
The icing on the cake perhaps
Unlikely but possible
Villa, gleaming in the wintry mists
Roof, tiles and windows
Awaiting yet more
Dignified guests
In the overflowing Cup
This could be their year
Spurs losing theirs
Blown out of both Cups
Within days
Aston Villa victorious
At Wembley for the first time
Since 1957?
You never know
But today the Pilgrims
Certainly made progress
The FA Cup keeps waving
That magic wand
We knew it would

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A Saturday Afternoon In Winter

Stride a littered path
Meld with pouring blue-clad crowd
Tense hope unites us.

Clanking turnstile squeeze
Concrete steps to bird’s eye view
Pie? Chips? Kit-kat? Tea?

Tinny music plays
Hi-vis cluster at tunnel
At last! Legs burst forth!

Expectant roaring
Ref’s hand high. Breathless hush. Shrill!
The precious first kick….

Pass, cross, pass again
Possession lost – tackle back
Foul, free kick, ball sails….

Their goalie hugs it
Strong kick lofts the ball forward
Boot connects. One down.

Despair engulfs – but
Fresh hope blossoms in sad souls –
Cutting pass to wing.

Man hacked down. Crowd growls!
Players rage. Ref waves yellow.
Free kick short. Wasted.

Their cross lands sweet. Shot –
Taut muscle blocks. Phew! I love
That solid player!

Tip-tap, lose ball. Sigh.
Tip-tap, back pass, tip-tap. Sigh.
Nose, bum, toes – all cold.

Corner. Shirts bob up.
Strong neck fires ball. Net bulges!
I burst with rapture!

But it’s the Cup! We
Need another. Nerves jangle.
Ball scrambled over…

It is theirs. Hearts bleed.
Their fans, then whistle, taunt us.
I drift home, grieving.

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FA Cup replays no more

Oh how we’ll miss
The continuous sequence
Of FA Cup replay after replay
More and more carbon footprints
The same old song
Played over and over again
No resolution, no clarity
Indecision until the
Calendar year just
Can’t take anymore
The wearisome themes
Of draw after draw
Oh spare us the necessity
Repeat after me over and over
Again, no more replays
But how we’ll miss them
That failure to accommodate
Those who just can’t seem
To make up their mind
Remember Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday
In years gone by
That seemed to take several Christmases
To finally sort the men from the boys
Some of us were snoring over our
Horlicks hot toddy
Just to keep the matches
That held up our eyelids
How many times did the Owls
Look out for the Gunners
And just despaired of football?
Full stop, but hark
A decisive result did restore
Our faith in the FA
But why on earth have we
Abolished that second game
In the FA Cup?
Scrapped its charm offensive
That made our hearts swoon
When the non Leaguers
Couldn’t quite manage to
Upset the odds
First time around
To shake up
Those condescending souls
Who believe the
FA Cup minnows
Have no right to be
In the last eight
Of the FA Cup
Since the wealthy industrialists
Of the Premier League
Have ploughed lorry loads of money
Into vanity projects
Where the Manchesters of United
And City assess their value
In stock markets and the Financial Times
Pity now the non League fantasists
Who will never know
The sweet smell of TV millions
In their modest bank accounts
No second sequels, no opportunities
To finish off the job
On their lovely
Postage stamp ground
Next to back to back
Terraced houses
Or flats and floodlights
No larger than a burger van
It’s one match only
In the FA Cup next year
And that’s that
The air of finality
Line under the sand
Win it first time around
Or the alternative may be
Eternally grim
Like Sinatra coming out
Of retirement
Seemingly inevitably
Not once, but twice
Even three, four or five times
And yet Ol’ Blue Eyes
What did he know about
The FA Cup third round?
Dulcet, velvety and
Honeyed voice
Of course
But Sinatra did things his way
Indisputably
Non League idealists though
Can no longer rely
On just one more
Roll of the dice
It’ll no longer be
The case
To prove to the world
That they can do
It one more time
So infuriating but true

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FA Cup Replays

There was a lack of football on TV.
So you invented the Champions League.
But now your players are so tired you say.
Wheeze is to scrap FA Cup match replays.

Chop, change, tinker and tweak.
When will you leave us supporters in peace?

If for more fiddling you feel there’s a need,
Why not do that in the Champions League?
When the score’s level after playing ninety mins,
Dump Extra Time, go directly to pens.

Tweak, tamper, flip and flop.
Harebrained Cup Replay Scrap Plan must be stopped!
.

21/4/24
Denys E. W. Jones

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Not another repeat FA Cup Final

Oh no not another
Repeat FA Cup Final
It seems only a year ago
Since the spring equinox
Brought us the cherry blossom
Of the all Manchester Cup Final
And here we stand again
The real possibility of
An identical menu
With the same hors d’oeuvres
Canapes, vol au vents
Cocktail sausages
Football just replicating itself
Gazing at the mirror
And seeing an uncanny resemblance
To football’s fabled past
Manchester United, still suffering
From the indigestion of a gluttonous
Seven goal feast against Liverpool
Face those who would rather be
Sent to Coventry
United realistically back at
Wembley twice for both semi final
And surely the Final
But of course it’s a funny game
If Coventry are looking for a
Glimmer of hope
Look no further than Plymouth Argyle
And Chesterfield
Last four Cup semi finalists
From decades gone by
Football never obeys the script
It just keeps you on the edge
Of your seat, feverish
Thoughts of the unexpected
And then City, the other
Half of the equation
Against Chelsea
The impartial neutrals
Would lick their lips
In anticipation
Of a Chelsea- Coventry
Wembley showpiece
But football never
Makes any room for sentiment
And the cream normally
Rises to the surface
So a pot of pasteurised
For family tea
Although we could witness
A familiar re-run of 30 years
Ago when Manchester United
With that great philosopher
Eric Cantona
Took Chelsea to the cleaners
And hung them out to dry
Four of the best that day
For Fergie’s most profound thinkers
Unstoppable, far too streetwise
And shrewd for the Chelsea whippersnappers
But the FA Cup must have elements of surprise
So please no more Manchester
Cup Final derbies
Unless Manchester demands
This to be the case
There has to be an alternative
Scenario
To yet more photocopies
Of a recent age
Tedium may set in
Something different
To appeal to our eyes
And ears

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Down to the last four

And then there were four
Well, not quite
The FA Cup reaches
Boiling point
Yesterday we remembered
The heroic exploits of
Jimmy Hill
When Coventry City
Drove his first
Fleet of cars
Into Europe
But who could have
Known what would
Happen almost 60 years
Later?
Coventry now a match
Away from another
FA Cup Final
It’s the truth
And this is no dream
Since the hungry Wolves
Were hunted down by
Their Sky Blue neighbours
In a dazzling rainbow
Of local derby difference
Of opinion
The football world
Held its astonished breath
It was only 37 years ago
Since the land of
The noble cathedral
And cars by the conveyor belt
Lady Godiva et al
Ruled with matriarchal heart
A woman of substance
But never really much bothered
By the likes of Willie Carr,
Ernie Hunt, Tommy Hutchison
Tony Hateley, Micky Quinn,
Bill Glazier, a one man fortress
Between the sticks
From many years before
And yet in the brightness
Of Wembley FA Cup Final
Late 1980s yesteryear
Dave Bennett, Keith Houchen
Stopped the globe
On its axis
After over a century since
Their first cries of inception
Coventry win their first trophy
A historic achievement
Overcoming the London cockerels
Of mighty Spurs
Houchen heading for the heights
A magnificent nod to glory
Swooping header, a goal
To treasure
And when the final whistle
Blew, George Curtis and John Sillett
Lifted the Cup for high flying
Highfield Road high society
Coventry FA Cup winners
Once but perhaps twice
Although highly unlikely again
But now Coventry are back
At Wembley
For semi final displays
Of swordsmanship
And then there was the
Remarkable Manchester City
Swotting Newcastle aside
As if they simply weren’t there
The FA Cup does love to flirt and
Tease repeatedly
Romantic charmers
But City have the Cup
On their minds
Again
It could become
A yearly pilgrimage
Or maybe the FA Cup
Has other ideas
The Cup has other plans
Treble winners City
In a class of their own
Head prefects
Academic swots
European champions
FA Cup, Premier League,
It’s a litany of honours
At the highest level
While Coventry can only dwell
On what might have been
If only the 1970s had avoided
The following decades
Time for no fond reminiscences
But Coventry are in a semi final
Of the FA Cup
It would only have been a pipedream
In recent seasons
But City beware of giant killers
Since once you found yourself
Lost on Wigan pier in 2013
Before falling into
The FA Cup Final abyss
City beaten by Wigan
Oh nonsense it’ll never happen
Again but you never know
Stranger things have been
Known to happen
Manchester City
It could only be one team
Although the FA Cup
May have a trick up its sleeve

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FA Cup third round day

You must have heard the rumour
It’s out there in the public domain
Everybody’s talking about it
It’ll dominate the back pages
For one sumptuous weekend
In football’s golden carriage
It’s FA Cup third round day
Of days
Last night, tonight
Quite possibly
But it has to be
Since football has no time line
No recognisable reference point
The FA Cup spread out like
A multi coloured blanket
A tableau of silks and satins
Organza and taffeta
It’s a weekend of stunning
Rosettes but sadly few
Rattles since that seems
Like some historic anthem
From an antediluvian age
Where rationing and austerity
Met face to face
In 1940s and 50’s
Imposing grandeur
The FA Cup
Has ancestral class
Across the wide expanses
Of market towns, heaving
Shopping centres,
Snoring villages who just
Live their lives
To the full
Loving that one specific
Day when the big boys are
In town again
Then wake up on Saturday mornings
And discover Wembley could be
Their Lottery ticket or a
Hundred birthdays rolled into one
There goes the local blacksmith
Forging his or her path to glory
The whistling postman or
Postwoman, among
Wonderful wisteria
It has to be the year of the underdog
They may cry
The Non League giant killers
Are waiting their cue
The carpenter and
Supermarket shelf stacker
Are convinced that this
Could be their year of years
And from the shady nooks of
The past and yesteryear
We remember Sutton, Yeovil,
Leatherhead, Blyth Spartans
Who could forget them?
They represented the fragments
Of our memories that will always
Be in our hearts and minds
They were the ones who defied
All conventions, omens
And superstitions
Since the FA Cup does like
To leave us breathless
And never goes according to
The script
Particularly the ties
That go completely off
On a tangent
Of course it’s a day
For dreamers and fantasists
Mud splattered unknowns
Once trapped in obscurity
But now renowned
For toppling Goliaths
Glass of milk in hand
The perfect calcium reward
For gutsy and brave hearted
Endeavours
Rolling up their sleeves
And taking on Manchester City,
Arsenal, Spurs and Chelsea
At their own game
Feisty and fiery
Never say die moments
Of gargantuan gallantry
Helluva heroism
Let the good times roll
For Kidderminster Harriers
Courage and daring
For breakfast, please
And don’t forget the toast
To lesser mortals
But enormous pluck
Determination oozing
From every sweat stained
Shirt sponsored striker
Or full back
By local timber merchants
The FA Cup third round
Grounded, no airs and graces
Just the one day in the
Football year
Where form and flights of fancy
Take a brief weekend break
To some exotic island
And just shock and surprise us
It could be the year of the
Non League giant
Upsetting the apple cart
Or just the way it should be
A romantic rendezvous
Simply enchanting
To you and all football
Folk with hope

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Minnow Mania

The early rounds of the FA Cup
look so frenetic,
but the scale and the range
make it dramatic,
turn it poetic.

Hallam or Irlam
will play
Thackley or Goole, while
City of Liverpool
or Penistone Church
will play
Prestwich Heys or Bootle.

Padiham or Silsden
will travel to
Clitheroe, while
the towns of
Belper and Leek
will meet toe to toe.

I could go on…

Some cracking names
I’ve never heard before.
I do hope Hereford Lads Club
get to meet Wolverhampton Casuals.

And Coventry Sphinx
draw Leicester Nirvana.
A better tale of two cities
with less Midlands melodrama.

I’m still waiting for Charlton v Histon
like Forfar 4 East Fife 5 and
Lillee c Willey b Dilley
one day, they’re all going to happen.

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The FA Cup in September

The FA Cup in September
The FA Cup third qualifying round
Surely a typo
A seasonal anomaly
This has to be our
Imagination working
Overtime
We’ll wake from
Our early morning
Sleepy, soporific torpor
It has to be a mistake
Bleary eyed bewilderment
But it’s Saturday
So it has to be the FA Cup
To those of us who
May be ritualistic
Traditionalists
And yet you were right
The first time
It’s the FA Cup
Third round qualifying stage
Where local parklands
With silvery streams
And timeless commanding
Trees, beeches, pines,
Larch and redwood
Stand like disciplined
Squaddies and regiments
Platoons of soldiers
Those wonderful trees
Spilling out cascades
Of autumnal yellowing
And brown leaves
Football among boating lakes
Bowling greens,
Pitch and putt golf courses
Suspend your belief
Since the FA Cup
Has arrived on your doorstep
Next to your glowing red roses
Pruned to your satisfaction
Adjacent to the park keeper’s hut
It’s the FA Cup third qualifying round
Nestling in the nasturtiums
Buoyant by the begonias
Corners and free kicks next
To the happiest of hedgerows
Verging on the right and left wing
Of bright eyed and bushy tailed bushes
The FA Cup competing against
Saturday morning children
Screaming, yelling and giggling
At full volume
Loud and stentorian as
The factories we used to hear
As children
There’s the Essex derby
Between Aveley and Hornchurch
Blyth Spartans, once giant killers
Goliath themselves
From another age
Against robust and redoutable
Worksop Town
It just has the FA Cup
Written all over it.
There’s Bracknell Town
From snug and cosy suburbia
Warmly folded between
The comforting blankets
Of the FA Cup’s magic
Bracknell against Poole Town
It sounds like a firecracker
Smoking in the autumnal peat
Of the FA Cup’s misty
Mellowness
Football singularly lacking
In the airs and graces
Of those who believe that
Wembley in May
Has to be their destiny
Biggleswade Town
Now that’s almost a classical
FA Cup reference point
Typical of its legendary
Heritage, a name longing
To be chanted in years to come
Today St Albans visit Biggleswade
In the FA Cup
Possibly never uttered again
In any sentence or circumstance
Least of all the FA Cup
Among the lofty company
Of third round day
When the big boys
Muscle in on their rightful
Territory, terrifying thought
But Bromsgrove will face
Chelmsford City
And Carshalton Athletic
Will meet Cray Valley
Paper Mills
It almost rolls off the tongue
With the sweetest piquancy
Like profiteroles for tea
The FA Cup in September
It has to be the wrong track
On the wrong album
Braintree against Brookley Town
No, this is alliteration
Overload, too much to take in
Deliberately eye catching
But down by the Weeping Willow
Alfreton meet Emley AFC next
To the gurgling brook
Next to the post office
Take a sharp turn
By the park gates
And stick to the leafy lane
Where the FA Cup awaits
With those first signposts
We can hear the resounding whistling
Of the park keeper on his cycling round
The FA Cup third qualifying round followed
By yet more rounds
In all its primness
And pertness
Fresh, tasty and palatable
As the apples of Kentish orchards
Sweet tasting tales of FA Cup glory
Harvest Festival time now
Here to stay for a while
Let’s treasure
The first whispers of winter
This is FA Cup day
Everybody
Believe it or not

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