Me grandad

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 I were six when me grandad introduced me to Burnden
one each with Blackpool, hard to be certain.
Boxing Day afternoon and we all had to troop
Down Viking Street and Manny road in fog like pea soup.
Just how the game went it’s impossible to say
from the Embankment we couldn’t see past half way.
Third division mud clogging with little finesse
Set me on the path to a lifetime of stress.
He took me dad to pass on the affliction
Before Betty Ford he was dealing in addiction
Both survived the disaster when walls gave way
Injured stacked by the pitchside as teams continued to play
Dad always rejoiced in his part in that day
How he cheated death and was carried away
Over heads in the crowd passed out like a sack
But it shook up me granddad and he hardly went back
He always remembered the Wanderers abroad
When the captain lead everyone to the war to end wars
He made it through that one and next’en and all
and thrilled us with stories of Lofthouse and Hall.
Some years after Blackpool he gave up the fight
Against capstan full strength and permanent nights.
Too young for a funeral or to share in their pain
I paid my respects at a frosty Bramall Lane
I wished he was with me sharing a pie and his tea
Convincing us both that, with work and in time out there, could be me.
A free kick from Whatmore beat Sheffield United
I smiled and I cried because he’d ‘ave been delighted.


With thanks to Zoe H and the poets of the message board @ bwfc.co.uk who helped me to find an outlet for the years of pain that Bolton fans everywhere and football fans in general live with each day, but particularly Saturdays.

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/me-grandad/