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