I used to like going to the football.
The faint smell of onions as chants wafted up from the rear carriages
Of the train carrying us to our weekend.
There was something about the atmosphere of the street –
Whether it was the excitement, the camaraderie, or the dull undercurrent of menace
I’ll never be quite sure.
A wise man once told me on one of those days
To stand on the shoulders of giants.
And they were my giants back then:
Parker, Diamanti, Tevez, Benayoun-
And back in the corridor outside the flat it was the FA Cup Final,
Diamanti had just cut it back to the edge of the eighteen-yard box.
The commentator screamed my name as I thwacked the inflatable ball into the front door
For the 247th time that evening.
Though I never did like football training all that much.
Something about Sunday mornings –
Expectations, impressions.
–
Once, so desperate to impress,
I kicked the ball as hard as I could at the goal from five yards out
And damaged the ten-year-old female stand-in goalkeeper’s wrist.
Mortified as I was,
I’d subsequently be banned for five games
And slink off to the sidelines to cry from shame.
And when telling this story before,
I always seemed to omit that those five games
Would be over in half an hour.
–
Anyway, I miss that old football.
The relegation six-pointers on March Saturdays,
The faint sound of “oohs” as we nipped away from the ground a few minutes early.
Now the football is flyovers, security queues,
Airy trains with a smidge of legroom.
I could be on my way to work,
You wouldn’t know the difference.
Though we’d still shuffle along
Each weekend arguing about the formation, the tactics, the manager-
We’d of course conspired to throw away another two-goal lead at home
In the final minutes after failing to keep the ball in the corner-
And there I go
Half wondering what you’d be saying,
Half dreaming of days gone.
Scott Parker doing his three-point-turn in the centre circle;
Proper football.
All rights reserved. Jack Elderton. 2020.
Jack Elderton 