Friendly Matches Read online

  And tie his laces up!

  Creating Space

  What is he doing that boy in midfield

  With the innocent-looking face?

  He’s losing himself in the midst of a crowd

  Creating space.

  How does he do it that ordinary boy

  With no obvious surge of pace,

  Find for himself on the crowded pitch

  A private place?

  The rest of the team and the other team too

  Are happy to tackle and chase.

  He strolls by himself in the midst of the crowd

  Creating space.

  Where has he gone to that ghost of a boy

  With the unastonishing face?

  How could he shift from the well-marked pitch

  Without a trace?

  The rest of the team and the other team too

  Continue to tackle and chase.

  He’s off on his own in a bubble of time

  Creating space.

  Soccer’s Strangest Match

  It was the strangest match I ever saw.

  Take the final score for instance,

  Five-all – and one player got all ten of them,

  With his head.

  How often do you see that?

  And the weather – unbelievable.

  At the kick-off it was so cold

  Half the players had overcoats on

  Gloves and scarves – balaclavas.

  Pretty soon one of the goalkeepers had a small fire going

  In the back of his goal.

  (Nothing in the rules apparently to prevent that.)

  Then there was the inflatable goalie.

  Under his overcoat, it turned out

  He had some kind of rubber suit.

  His manager was pumping him up from the touchline

  Slowly, imperceptibly he hoped, to avoid suspicion.

  After a while though this goalie was just lying there Sideways

  His head propped up on his hand

  Filling the goal.

  Whereupon of course the opposition protested.

  Meanwhile at regular intervals

  And both ends

  The amazing sequence of headers was going in.

  The pitch had its peculiarities too.

  A public footpath ran diagonally across it.

  Stubborn old men with newspapers and dogs

  Wandered casually in and out of the game.

  A young mother in a hurry

  With her baby in a pushchair

  And concerned for her offspring’s safety

  Kicked savagely at the ball.

  Luckily she failed to score.

  (There’s not much in the rules about that.)

  The weather was beginning to fluctuate wildly.

  There was a tremendous, freakish storm of hailstones.

  The temperature rose thirty degrees.

  The pitch, the players, the ball, the referee,

  Linesmen, spectators

  All were steaming, like hot pans on a stove.

  Briefly the fog was so bad

  Substitutes were coming onto the field unnoticed.

  The goals continued to mount up.

  The weather continued to amaze:

  Phenomenal rainbows now

  So brightly arrayed around one goal

  As to create an almost religious effect.

  It was into this blaze of light

  That the goal-scorer headed his finest (own) goal

  A thunderous effort that came back off the bar

  And caught him again on the side of the head

  As he was turning away,

  Rebounding instantly

  Beyond the irate and rainbow-hued keeper.

  Meanwhile at the other end

  The manager of the previously inflated goalie

  Was still up to his tricks

  This time – stilts.

  The goalie

  When his manager had done with him

  Towered absurdly above his own crossbar.

  Another remarkable feature of this game

  Was its duration.

  It lasted, half-time included

  For four and a half hours.

  The referee’s watch

  Indeed all watches within a mile radius

  Had been affected it seems

  By the outlandish weather conditions.

  So the players as you can imagine

  Were dropping with exhaustion

  When the final whistle blew.

  Even so each team raised a cheer

  For their sporting opponents

  And both teams

  Every last man and nun –

  I forgot to mention her –

  Summoned up the energy and grace

  To carry the ten-goal hero from the field.

  How often do you see that?

  By the way, another thing I forgot

  It was a cup match

  Yes…

  A week later

  They had it all to do again.

  The Footballer’s Love of the Ball

  Grab the ball and boot it high

  See it going up the sky

  See it falling down and then

  Boot it straight back up again.

  Boot it high and boot it higher

  Boot it almost out of sight

  Send it shooting up at teatime

  See it tumbling back at night.

  See it rise and see it fall

  Earth to sky and ball to ball.

  Who Kicked Cock Robin?

  Not I said the owl

  Gazing down sleepy-eyed

  I’m not that kind of fowl

  And we’re on the same side.

  Not I said the bee

  Buzzing back to his hive

  Cock Robin kicked me

  And then took a dive.

  Not I said the grub

  My excuse is complete

  I was only a sub

  And – I ain’t got no feet.

  The Song of the Referee

  When the teams are yelling

  And you can’t think what to do

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  When the crowd goes crazy

  And the one they hate is you

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  Keep your spirits high

  Look your troubles in the eye

  And when times are hard

  Show your woes the yellow card.

  When the teams are snarling

  Like a pack of carnivores

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  When the crowd is baying

  And the blood they want is yours

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  Smile away that frown

  Never let it get you down

  Raise your glass and raise a laugh

  Give those griefs an early bath.

  When you’re homeward bound and find

  Some blighter’s pinched your coat

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  When upon your windscreen

  There’s a traffic warden’s note

  Blow a little whistle

  Blow a little whistle.

  There’s more to life than this

  Give your wife a kiss

  Grab the baby, feed the cat

  Phone your old mum for a chat

  You’re a part of all their plans

  Yes! Even referees have fans

  And blow a little whistle.

  My Favourite Goal

  Not Beckham’s astonishing long-range chip

  From the halfway line v. Wimbledon.

  Nor Carlisle’s goalie’s winner

  (His name was Jimmy Glass)

  Last match of the season

  In added time, ninety-fifth minute

  All twenty-two players
in Plymouth’s half

  Saving his side from relegation.

  His own comment: It fell to me,

  Wallop, goal, thank you very much.

  Not Bergkamp’s perfect strike

  High ball dropping over his shoulder

  For Holland in ’98 v. Argentina,

  Nor even one of my own rare efforts.

  No, no, my favourite goal

  Was scored at the City Ground

  29th November 1989

  By a little Nottingham Forest winger

  Named Gary Crosby.

  And me a West Bromwich Albion man.

  An attack had broken down.

  Man. City’s keeper had the ball

  Preparing to launch it upfield.

  Crosby came nipping in behind him

  Unobtrusively, on tip toe it seemed (Sh!)

  And headed it, neatly

  Clean as a whistle (no whistle)

  Off the flat of that flabbergasted goalie’s hand

  Held out like an attentive waiter’s tray

  And tapped it in the net.

  A lovely goal, the charm of it, yes

  The wit of it. Thank you very much.

  Dream Football

  Dream football is the harder game

  The grass is devilishly long

  And growing

  Fish appear in the trainer’s bucket

  Your mother has set up a small shop

  On the halfway line

  You are obliged to play in your underpants.

  The Famous Five-a-Side

  The early morning sun beams bright

  Into our uncle’s cottage kitchen.

  Uncle himself researches in his study

  Our parents are conveniently absent.

  We breakfast well on eggs and toast

  Get changed into our freshly-laundered kit

  Pick apples in the sunny orchard

  Pack boots and buns and lemonade.

  The village street is oddly quiet

  Anxious faces at the bread-shop window.

  There is a rumour of strange goings-on

  Burglaries… a missing necklace.

  The pitch upon the village green

  Still sparkles with its morning dew

  Except that is for one mysterious patch.

  We fasten Timmy’s dog-lead to a bench.

  Descending from a battered van

  The opposing team are not what we expect.

  Older and scowlin oddly kitted out

  Their goalie has an eye-patch and a beard.

  The ref too has a sinister air

  Arriving out of breath and with a limp.

  He keeps the ball clutched closely to his chest

  And seems unwilling to relax his grip.

  ‘This lot aren’t Barford Rovers, that’s for sure,’

  We whisper as we line up on the pitch.

  Julian pretends to tie a bootlace up

  And tells the rest of us he’s got a plan.

  The game begins. Their strategy is odd.

  They crowd around the ball and hardly move.

  The referee limps slowly up and down.

  The bearded goalie smokes a cigarette.

  Then suddenly we hear a sound

  A hollow croaking voice beneath the grass.

  A trap-door in the turf begins to rise

  And reaching up around it comes… a hand!

  George boots the ball now high into the air

  It ends up in the smoking goalie’s net.

  His team mates oddly chase it in,

  The hobbling referee not far behind.

  ‘This is our chance, chaps!’ Julian cries.

  We charge then at the crowded goal,

  Unhook the net and drop it on them all:

  The spurious players and the bogus ref.

  Meanwhile up from his dungeon cell

  One plain-clothes CID man stumbles forth.

  ‘Well done you fellows – excellent!’ he gasps.

  (This was more ‘undercover’ than he’d planned.)

  ‘This is the Melford Mob,’ he says.

  ‘Been on their trail all year.

  I shouldn’t doubt there’ll be a big reward.’

  ‘We knew they were suspicious,’ George declares.

  Another van appears: the Black Maria.

  The losing side are bundled in.

  ‘You blasted kids!’ the captured goalie growls.

  Brave Timmy barks as they are driven off.

  That little dog now trots towards the ball,

  He sniffs and scrabbles at it with his paws.

  ‘He wants to tell us something,’ Anne explains.

  Yes – have you guessed? – the necklace was inside.

  Back home to Uncle’s cottage, time for lunch.

  There’s sausages and chocolate cake and squash.

  ‘Good game?’ says Uncle, peering round the door.

  ‘Oh absolutely yes!’ cries George. ‘We won!’

  May Pitches

  In the long-shadowed evenings

  Final games are played

  On rutted dusty pitches

  Worn down in places to baked mud

  With daisies and dandelions

  And new grass greening the wings.

  Flaked paint on the goalposts

  Fossilized stud marks in the ground

  Rapidly fading touchlines.

  Close by, secure within a frame of ropes

  A fresh flat cosseted square

  Awaits its turn.

  The last offside hangs in the air

  A cuckoo from a long way off cuckoos

  And farther still and fainter

  The first howzat.

  1966, or Were You There, Daddy?

  In the fabulous year of ’66

  The year beyond compare

  When England carried off the cup

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, I was there.

  When Bobby Charlton ran midfield

  And Hurst leapt in the air

  And Peters drifted down the wing

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, absolutely.

  When Nobby Stiles snapped at their heels

  And Wilson played it square

  And Gordon Banks was flying

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, no question.

  When Bobby Moore was in control

  And Ball was everywhere

  And Beckenbauer was trouble

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, I really was.

  When England carried off the cup

  And anthems filled the air

  And Wembley was the place to be

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Oh yes, my son, oh yes, oh yes

  Oh yes I was really there.

  When Bobby Charlton ran midfield

  And Peters played it square

  And big Jack Charlton headed out

  And Hunt was everywhere

  And Cohen tackled like a tank

  And Beckenbauer showed flair

  And Gordon Banks was flying…

  flying

  Your dad, Oh-he-was-there!

  The Lovely Ball of Leather

  About a mile North of Preston

  On a cool November day

  A team of boys plus substitutes

  Was setting off to play.

  They sat there in the minibus

  Just gazing straight ahead

  Listening to their manager

  And this is what he said.

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I couldn’t ask for more

  You run your little socks off

  Though you never seem to score.

  But I know you’ll keep on trying

  You’ll strive and strain and sweat

  Till that lovely ball of leather

  Goes flying in the net.

  Just a little West of Bromwich

  In
the January rain

  That selfsame team of players

  Was on the road again.

  They crowded in the minibus

  As it carried them away

  While their manager-cum-driver

  Had these quiet words to say.

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I’ve got this rotten cold

  My knee’s a bit arthritic

  And I’m really rather old.

  But I know I will recover

  My life’s not over yet

  Till that lovely ball of leather

  Goes flying in the net.

  In a lay-by South of Hampton

  On a balmy April night

  When the road was dark and empty

  And the sky was starry bright,

  A team of boys plus substitutes

  Was sitting in the bus

  Eating chips and burgers

  While their manager spoke thus.

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I knew that you could play

  I knew the gods were with us

  And we’d get a goal some day.