Death of an old pro

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Time measured in soft-falling drips.
Come, let me mop your brow.
The whistle’s poised beneath His lips,
It’s nearly over now.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 The tough-fought game is near its end.
You’re asking me who’s won.
“You did,” I whisper to my friend,
“Go on, go on, my son.”

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 The dressing room is bathed in haze,
The bath is like a shroud.
The manager has words of praise
And voices them aloud.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 No more to lunge at half-seen balls,
All painful knocks are past.
You’re safe now in those tiled walls,
The game is won at last.


Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/death-of-an-old-pro/