Friendly Matches Read online

  Or anybody

  Just –

  Just –

  Just –

  Marcus… shut up.

  Kevin, a word.

  Their number seven

  You’re supposed to be marking him

  And he’s scored five already, right?

  Well that’s… enough

  Close him down.

  So come on lads

  The golden rules – remember?

  Hold your positions

  Run into space

  Call for the ball

  Play to the whistle

  Pass only to members of your own team.

  Last of all

  NEVER GIVE UP

  Thirteen – nil

  Sounds bad, but it’s not the end.

  We can turn it round

  We can get a result

  It’s a game of two halves.

  So let’s go out there –

  And show ’em!

  Billy… are you eating?

  Soccer Sonnet

  Now children, said the teacher with a smile

  Put down your books and let your pencils fall

  Come out into the playground for a while

  And run around with me and kick a ball.

  We’ll pick two teams and use our coats for goals

  (But leave our bags and worries at the door)

  And play the game with all our hearts and souls

  And never mind the weather or the score.

  I’ll promise not to test your soccer skills

  The ball’s the only thing you’ll need to pass

  There’ll be no Key Stage Three or spelling drills

  There’ll be no top or bottom of the class.

  So let’s forget the gold stars for a day

  And get outside – and run around – and play.

  Team Talk 2

  (the next match)

  Marcus, what did I say?

  I warned you

  You’re argumentative

  He was bound to send you off

  Your own mother would send you off.

  And besides –

  Besides –

  Besides –

  Marcus… shut up.

  Dominic, a word.

  Mud.

  Stop worrying about it, OK?

  There’s no prize for the cleanest pair of shorts

  Never mind what your auntie says

  Get stuck in.

  No, Jonathan, that old fella on the line

  Is not a scout for Man. United.

  No.

  No, he isn’t.

  Don’t ask me how I know

  I just do.

  Call it instinct.

  Come here, you two

  Michael – this is Charles

  Charles – this is Michael

  Say, Hallo.

  Say, Pleased to meet you.

  I mean it.

  Now pass to each other.

  Billy, empty your pockets

  All of ’em

  What’s this?

  Goalkeeping’s an art, Billy

  It’s vital

  The last line of defence

  You have to concentrate

  And how can you expect to do that

  With a pocketful of peanuts?

  Get rid of ’em.

  How many shirts are you wearing,

  Craig – hm?

  It’s not that cold

  You look like…

  No, not me, Marcus

  You look like – well, never mind.

  Brian, brilliant header.

  Unstoppable.

  Now let’s see if you can do it again

  At their end.

  Yes, and another thing

  I know your dad’s an expert

  I can hear him

  We can all hear him

  But take no notice – right?

  If I’d wanted you to play through the middle

  I would not have picked you

  At left back.

  So let’s get out there

  Keep plugging away

  They’re not eight goals better than us

  Anyway ten men are sometimes harder to beat

  Than a full team. Right?

  And remember Golden Rules

  NEVER-GIVE-UP.

  Billy… is that a biscuit?

  Mmm. Just what I need.

  The Match (c. 1950)

  The match was played in Albert Park

  From half-past four till after dark

  By two opposing tribes of boys

  Who specialized in mud and noise;

  Scratches got from climbing trees

  Runny noses, scabby knees

  Hair shaved halfway up the head

  And names like Horace, Archie, Ted.

  The match was played come rain or shine

  By boys who you could not confine

  Whose common goals all unconcealed

  Were played out on the football field.

  Off from school in all directions

  Sparks of boys with bright complexions

  Rushing home with one idea

  To grab their boots… and disappear.

  But mother in the doorway leaning

  Brings to this scene a different meaning

  The jobs and duties of a son

  Yes, there are errands to be run.

  Take this wool to Mrs Draper

  Stop at Pollock’s for a paper

  Mind this baby, beat this rug

  Give your poor old mum a hug.

  Eat this apple, eat this cake

  Eat these dumplings, carrots, steak!

  Bread ’n’ drippin’, bread ’n’ jam

  Mind the traffic, so long, scram.

  Picture this, you’re gazing down

  Upon that smoky factory town.

  Weaves of streets spread out, converge

  And from the houses boys emerge.

  Specks of boys, a broad selection

  Heading off in one direction

  Pulled by some magnetic itch

  Up to the park, onto the pitch.

  Boys in boots and boys in wellies

  Skinny boys and boys with bellies

  Tiny boys with untied laces

  Brainy boys with violin cases.

  The match was played to certain rules

  By boys from certain streets and schools

  Who since their babyhood had known

  Which patch of earth to call their own.

  The pitch, meanwhile, you’d have to say

  Was nothing, just a place to play.

  No nets, no posts, no lines, alas

  The only thing it had was grass.

  Each team would somehow pick itself

  No boys were left upon the shelf

  No substitutions, sulks or shame

  If you showed up, you got a game.

  Not 2.3.5 or 4.2.4

  But 2.8.12 or even more.

  Six centre forwards, five right wings

  Was just the normal run of things.

  Lined up then in such formations

  Careless of life’s complications

  Deaf to birdsong, blind to flowers

  Prepared to chase a ball for hours,

  A swarm of boys who heart and soul

  Must make a bee-line for the goal.

  A kind of ordered anarchy

  (There was, of course, no referee).

  They ran and shouted, ran and shot

  (At passing they were not so hot)

  Pulled a sock up, rolled a sleeve

  And scored more goals than you’d believe.

  Slid and tackled, leapt and fell

  Dodged and dribbled, dived as well

  Headed shouldered elbowed kneed

  And, half-time in the bushes, peed.

  With muddy shorts and muddy faces

  Bloody knees and busted laces

  Ruddy cheeks and plastered hair

  And voices buffeting the air.

  Voices f
lung above the trees

  Heard half a mile away with ease,

  For every throw in, every kick

  Required an inquest double quick.

  A shouting match, all fuss and fury

  (Prosecutors, judges, jury)

  A match of mouths set to repeat

  The main and muddier match of feet.

  Thus hot and bothered, loud and nifty

  That’s how we played in 1950

  A maze of moves, a fugue of noise

  From forty little boiling boys.

  Yet there was talent, don’t forget

  Grace and courage too, you bet

  Boys like Briggs or Tommy Gray

  Who were, quite simply, born to play.

  You could have stuck them on the moon

  They would have started scoring soon

  No swanky kit, uncoached, unheeded

  A pumped-up ball was all they needed.

  Around the fringes of the match

  Spectators to this hectic patch

  Younger sisters, older brothers

  Tied-up dogs and irate mothers.

  A mother come to claim her twins

  (Required to play those violins).

  A little sister, Annabelle,

  Bribed with a lolly not to tell.

  Dogs named Rover, Rex or Roy

  Each watching one particular boy.

  A pup mad keen to chase the ball

  The older dogs had seen it all.

  The match was played till after dark

  (Till gates were closed on Albert Park)

  By shadowy boys whose shapes dissolved

  Into the earth as it revolved.

  Ghostly boys who flitted by

  Like bats across the evening sky,

  A final fling, a final call

  Pursuing the invisible ball.

  The match was played, the match is over

  For Horace, Annabelle and Rover.

  A multitude of feet retrace

  The steps that brought them to this place.

  For gangs of neighbours, brothers, friends

  A slow walk home is how it ends,

  Into a kitchen’s steamy muddle

  To get a shouting at… or cuddle.

  See it now, you’re looking down

  Upon that lamp-lit factory town.

  It’s late (it’s night) for Rex or Ted

  And everybody’s gone to bed.

  Under the rooftops slicked with rain

  The match is being played again

  By two opposing well-scrubbed teams

  Who race and holler in their dreams.

  The Song of the Sub

  I’m standing on the touchline

  In my substitute’s kit

  As though it doesn’t matter

  And I don’t mind a bit.

  I’m trying to be patient

  Trying not to hope

  That my friends play badly

  And the team can’t cope.

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  When a boy has the measles

  When a boy goes lame

  The teacher turns to me

  And I get a game.

  When a boy gets kicked

  Or shows up late

  And they need another player

  I’m the candidate

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  I warm up on the touchline

  I stretch and bend

  And wonder what disasters

  My luck will send.

  If a boy got lost

  Or ran away to France

  If a boy got kidnapped

  Would I get my chance?

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  I feel a bit embarrassed

  That I’m not bothered more

  When decisions go against us

  And the other teams score.

  I try to keep my spirits up

  I juggle with the ball

  And hope to catch the teacher’s eye

  It does no good at all.

  Just a sub, just a sub till my dying day

  And I only get a kick when the others can’t play.

  *

  I’m standing on the touchline

  On the very same spot

  And it does really matter

  And I do mind – a lot.

  I think I’ll hang my boots up

  It’s not the game for me

  Then suddenly I hear those words:

  You’re on! I am? Yippee!

  The Grey Boys

  Oh Mother may I go to play

  With the grey boys in the street

  For I hear the thud of a booted ball

  And the clattering of feet.

  My window overlooks the street

  The street lamps light the game

  The boys are mad to kick the ball

  And I feel just the same.

  A yellow haze hangs round the lamps

  Under the smoky sky

  And up and down the clattery street

  The shadowy boys go by.

  Oh Mother may I join the game

  With the grey boys of the town

  For I feel much better than I did

  And my temperature is down.

  My fevered brow is cooler now

  My pulse is calm and slow

  My hands lie still upon the quilt

  Oh Mother… may I go?

  How to Score Goals

  (1)

  Approach with ball

  Point left

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a bunny rabbit!’

  Shoot right

  Goal.

  (2)

  Approach with ball

  Point right

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a fiver!’

  Shoot left

  Goal.

  (3)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘Sorry about all this trickery

  I never saw any rabbit’

  Offer to shake hands

  Shoot.

  (4)

  Approach with ball

  Sudden sound of bagpipes

  (For this you will need an accomplice)

  Goal.

  (5)

  Approach with ball

  Plus cake

  Sing Happy Birthday to you!

  Invite goalie

  To blow his candles out

  etc.

  (6)

  Approach with ball

  Point skywards

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a vulture!’

  (He will have forgotten the rabbit by this time)

  Goal.

  (7)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘I bet I can hit you with this next shot’

  Shoot.

  (8)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘I am being sponsored for charity

  A pound for every goal I score’

  Shoot

  Shoot

  Shoot.

  (9)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘Smart boots you’ve got there

  Very smart

  Not like these old things of mine

  Still, Dad’ll get a job soon

  Then

  When Mum comes out of hospital

  And the baby’s had his – ’

  Shoot.

  (10)

  Approach with ball

  Sudden eclipse of sun

  (For this you will need to consult astronomical charts)

  Goal.

  (11)

  Approach with ball

  Think of something…

  Goal.

  Elephants v. Insects

  The Elephants and the Insects

  Came out to play a match

  They trampled in the jungle

 
Till they’d cleared a little patch.

  They scuttled round and trumpeted

  Just glad to be alive

  Until the half-time whistle

  When the score was 15–5.

  The Insects in the second half

  Brought on a substitute

  A modest little centipede

  But brother could he shoot.

  He ran around on all his legs

  Beneath the tropic sun

  And by the time he’d finished

  Well, the Insects they had won.

  Oh tell us, said the Elephants

  We’re mystified indeed

  Why wait until the second half

  To play the centipede?

  That’s easy, cried the Insects

  As they carried off the cup

  He needs an hour to sort his boots