Wemmmmmberrrrrleee,

It was the shout of the senior yard,

a dinner time kick-about

for those not entrenched in the arms

of the kissable lips

of the girl they had fancied

since she started wearing tight

T-shirts with movie slogans

imprinted upon it, all designed to catch the eye.

 

One goal and you were through

to the next round, tactics

playing the part, hand close by

to the keeper, ready to stab home

a winner and much to the despair

of the boy who had half the length of the field

to retrieve the ball

after a mighty whack from the daily

keeper’s over developed right foot.

 

Tactics be blown

as the game progressed, the

lacking in passion dropped out

one by one, if you weren’t

prepared to play rough then

cheat perhaps, put the lad

who thought he was Dalglish,

Fairclough or Maradona off

by having a girl blow a kiss

just as he was about to score.

 

In the end there was only two,

a match-up of exhaustion

and boredom agitating

from behind the goal, cat-calls, derision

from the fans of neither side,

yet wanting one to put the ball

in the net, so perhaps another game

could quickly be played,

the end of time signalled by the dinner bell

and the angry referee shout

as the Headmaster confiscates

yet another Wembley bound hero’s

chance to shine.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018