Friendly Matches Read online

  And it’s Allan Ahlberg now And he’s racing away there with his pen. The page is filling up – and YES! a poem One-nil to literature!

  Also by Allan Ahlberg

  The Bear Nobody Wanted

  The Better Brown Stories

  The Clothes Horse

  The Giant Baby

  Heard it in the Playground

  It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

  Jeremiah in the Dark Woods

  The Mighty Slide

  My Brother’s Ghost

  Please Mrs Butler

  Son of a Gun

  Ten in a Bed

  The Vanishment of Thomas Tull Woof!

  ALLAN AHLBERG

  Friendly Matches

  Illustrated by Fritz Wegner

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London wc2R ORL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Viking 2001

  Published in Puffin Books 2002

  10

  Text copyright © Allan Ahlberg, 2001

  Illustrations copyright © Fritz Wegner, 2001

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-194244-5

  With special thanks to:

  St John’s Primary School,

  Essington, Wolverhampton

  also

  Rode Heath Primary

  Brian Evans and Trevor Darby

  James Yates

  Church Rovers

  Causeway Green Swifts

  W.B.A.

  Byron Thomas

  Jack Sanger

  and

  Tony Leatherland

  (it was his ball)

  CONTENTS

  Polite Children

  Talk Us Through it, Charlotte

  Surely This Boy Must Play for England

  Dad on the Line

  Friendly Matches

  Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby

  Mr Bloor

  Team Talk

  Soccer Sonnet

  Team Talk 2

  The Match (c. 1950)

  The Song of the Sub

  The Grey Boys

  How to Score Goals

  Elephants v. Insects

  Creating Space

  Soccer’s Strangest Match

  The Footballer’s Love of the Ball

  Who Kicked Cock Robin?

  The Song of the Referee

  My Favourite Goal

  Dream Football

  The Famous Five-a-Side

  May Pitches

  1966, or Were you There, Daddy?

  The Lovely Ball of Leather

  The Betsy Street Booters

  Team Talk 14

  The Goals of Bingo Boot

  Polite Children

  May we have our ball, please

  May we have it back?

  We never meant to lose it

  Or give it such a whack.

  It shot right past the goalie

  It shot right past the goal

  And really then what happened next

  Was out of our control.

  It truly was such rotten luck

  For all concerned that you

  Were halfway up a ladder

  When the ball came flying through.

  We also very much regret

  What happened to your cat

  It’s tragic when an animal

  Gets landed on like that.

  Your poor wife too we understand

  Was pretty much upset

  When phoning for the doctor

  And phoning for the vet,

  She quite forgot the oven.

  It simply is no joke

  When your husband’s half unconscious

  And your house is full of smoke.

  The fire-brigade, of course, meant well

  It wasn’t their mistake

  That there was no fire to speak of

  Just a bit of well-done steak.

  Still clouds have silver linings

  And pains are soon forgot

  While your lawn will surely flourish

  From the hosing that it got.

  The game of life is never lost

  The future’s not all black

  And the ball itself seems quite unmarked.

  So… may we have it back?

  Talk Us Through It, Charlotte

  Well I shouldn’t’ve been playin’ really

  Only there to watch me brother.

  My friend fancies his friend, y’know.

  Anyway they was a man short.

  Stay out on the wing, they said

  Give ’em something to think about.

  So I did that for about an hour;

  Never passed to me or anything.

  The ball kind of rebounded to me.

  I thought, I’ll have a little run with it.

  I mean, they wasn’t passin’ to me

  Was they? So off I went.

  I ran past this first boy

  He sort of fell over.

  It was a bit slippery on that grass

  I will say that for him.

  Two more of ’em come at me

  Only they sort of tackled each other

  Collided – arh.* I kept going.

  There was this great big fat boy.

  One way or another I kicked it

  Through his legs and run round him.

  That took a time. Me brother

  Was shouting, Pass it to me, like.

  Well like I said, I’d been there an hour.

  They never give me a pass

  Never even spoke to me

  Or anything. So I kept going.

  Beat this other boy somehow

  Then there was just the goalie.

  Out he came, spreadin’ himself

  As they say. I was really worried.

  I thought he was going to hug me.

  So I dipped me shoulder like they do

  And the goalie moved one way, y’know

  And I slammed it in the net.

  Turned out afterwards it was the winner.

  The manager said I was very good.

  He wants me down at trainin’ on Tuesday.

  My friend says she’s comin’ as
well.

  Surely This Boy Must Play for England

  In an ordinary house in an ordinary room

  In an ordinary single bed

  An ordinary boy in pyjamas

  Flicks a casual goal with his head.

  Surely this boy must play for England.

  Helps his dad after breakfast

  To wash and polish the car

  Beats his man in the garage

  And hammers one in off the bar.

  It’s madness – he’s only ten.

  Helps his mum in the afternoon

  With the supermarket trip

  While clearing a wall of shoppers

  With a David Beckham chip.

  If he’s good enough, he’s old enough.

  Plays with his little sister

  Takes the dog for a stroll

  And dumbfounds the local pigeons

  With an unbelievable goal.

  Ten-year-old makes the squad

  Eats his tea in the evening

  Talks to his gran on the phone

  Faces four giant defenders

  And takes them on on his own.

  Surely this boy must play for England.

  Cleans his teeth in the bathroom

  Draws in the steamy glass

  Shuffles his feet on the bathroom mat

  And flicks a casual pass.

  Youngest-ever sub takes the field.

  In an ordinary house in an ordinary room

  In an ordinary single bed

  An ordinary boy plays for England

  And stands the game on its head.

  A hat-trick, and he’s still only ten.

  Leaves the ground with the match ball

  While his mother tidies the pitch

  And his dad turns off the floodlights

  With a casual flick of the switch.

  They think it’s all over.

  Just an ordinary boy in pyjamas

  Fast asleep at the end of the day

  Though his feet still twitch in the darkness

  And he’s never too tired… to play.

  Dad on the Line

  (or a boy’s nightmare)

  I’m playing in this big game

  New kit, great pitch

  Proper goals with proper nets.

  All of a sudden

  With rattle and scarf

  And a flask of tea… there’s Dad.

  Come on, my son! says Dad

  Square ball! says Dad

  We are the champions! says Dad

  Que sera, sera.

  *

  I’m playing now in a bigger game

  Brand new ball, managers in dugouts

  Proper linesmen and a proper ref.

  All of a sudden

  With our dog on a lead

  And a meat pie… there’s Dad.

  Come on you reds! says Dad

  Up the Rovers! says Dad

  We’re going to Wem-b-ley! says Dad

  Que sera, sera.

  *

  And now the biggest game of all

  Changing rooms with sunken baths

  Proper turnstiles and a proper stand.

  All of a sudden

  With his mates from work

  And a giant photograph of me… there’s Dad.

  Offside! sasy Dad

  Foul! says Dad

  That’s my lad out there! says Dad

  Que sera, sera.

  Then, usually at this point

  He runs onto the pitch.

  The stewards chase him

  (He’s still got the giant photo)

  The crowd goes mad

  The ref stares accusingly at me…

  And I wake up.

  Friendly Matches

  In friendly matches

  Players exchange pleasantries

  Hallo, George!

  How’s the Missus?

  Admire opponents’ kit

  Smart shirt, Bert!

  Sympathize with linesmen

  Difficult decision, there.

  And share their half-time oranges.

  In friendly matches

  Players apologize for heavy tackles

  How clumsy of me.

  And offer assistance with throw-ins

  Allow us to help you with that heavy ball.

  In friendly matches

  Players and substitutes alike

  Speak well of referees

  First-rate official

  Sound knowledge of the game

  Excellent eyesight!

  In friendly matches

  Players celebrate opposing players’ birthdays

  With corner-flag candles

  On pitch-shaped cakes.

  In friendly matches

  Players take it in turns

  No, no, please, after you

  to score.

  Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby

  The pitch is cold and dark

  The night is dark and deep

  The players all have gone to bed

  So sleep, baby, sleep.

  The whistle’s on the shelf

  The boots are in a heap

  The kit is in the laundry bag

  So sleep, baby, sleep.

  The house is warm and dark

  The stairs are dark and steep

  And Daddy’s here beside your cot

  To send you off… to sleep.

  Mr Bloor

  There was a man named Mr Bloor

  Who liked to referee and score.

  He’d blow his whistle, swing his boot

  Beat half a dozen boys – and shoot.

  (He was a teacher in our school

  His favourite team was Liverpool.)

  He also loved to commentate

  ‘Bloor’s got the ball – Bloor’s going great!

  He’s beat his man, what rare control

  He’s round the full back now and – GOAL!

  His legs are strong, his brain is quick!’

  (Sometimes he’d let us have a kick.)

  But Mr Bloor the referee

  Was also fair, as you will see.

  He’d score a goal and strut with pride

  Then stop and rule himself offside.

  He’d cover back and tackle hard

  Yet give himself a yellow card,

  Bulldoze boys caught in his path

  And send himself for an early bath.

  On rare occasions I recall

  Our Mr Bloor would pass the ball.

  Leaving some kid, like Vinny Cole

  (Who never scored), with an open goal.

  ‘It’s Vinny now, all full of dinner

  Dazzling footwork and – the winner!’

  Mr Bloor was short and wide

  He played with trousers tucked inside

  His ordinary socks and on his head

  He wore a bobble hat, bright red.

  Sometimes his girlfriend, Miss Levine

  (She taught us too), would run the line.

  She’d stand there smiling, tall and slim

  And wave her little flag at him.

  Eventually his knees gave way

  And doctors said he shouldn’t play.

  Now Mr Bloor’s a mere spectator

  Oh yes of course and commentator.

  ‘He’s got the ball, what sweet control

  Deceives the goalie now and – GOAL!’

  Team Talk

  Marcus, don’t argue with the ref.

  Yes, he needs glasses

  Yes, he should keep up with the play

  Yes, yes, he’s a pawn

  In some international betting syndicate

  But don’t argue with him.

  He’ll send you off.

  And if he doesn’t, I will.

  Billy, you’re the goalie – right?

  Listen, you’re allowed to use your hands OK?

  It’s in the rules

  It’s legal.

  Another thing

  What’s that you’ve got in the back of the net?
<
br />   That carrier bag

  I’ve seen it – what is it?

  Hm.

  Well, leave-it-a-lone

  You can eat later.

  Now then, Michael

  You’ve got Charles outside you, OK?

  Unmarked, OK?

  I know he’s only your brother

  But pass to him.

  Marcus, another thing

  Don’t argue with the linesman either

  Or me, for that matter