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.
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