Sunday Bloody Sunday By Mark Walmsley

Out of bed as late as I dare, pick up my bag from the kitchen chair Dash out to the street, sleep in my eyes, late again, no surprise. Get to the ground and shabby hut, the changing rooms all locked up 'How many lads have we got today?' 'Not sure right now we're playing away'. In we go, only ten men we've got, we now hope to win from the penalty spot Dried mud on my boots from last weeks' game, unwashed shirts and no one to blame

The ref' turns up; all whistle and flag, 70 years old, a cough and a fag What a sight we make as we take our place, fat and hung over, such a disgrace. We pass the ball, in practice we're good, superstars, already blathered in mud The pitch, like a ploughed field but undeterred, we kick off, tactics unprepared We scream and shout give us the ball, as we huff and puff, trip, stumble and fall Ten minutes in, we've had our fill; the opposing striker makes it one nil. Our keeper screams, now highly strung, the midfielder gasps as he looks for his lung The forwards cough and gasps for a smoke, defenders give chase without any hope Nippy and zippy the opposing team, after 35 minutes they've scored fourteen Now down to eight as our side depletes, but we carry on, facing another defeat. Ref' looks at his watch, the whistle he blew, a half time sight, this motley crew Come on lads we're better than this, what you doing out there? You're taking the piss A plea goes out 'learn to pass straight', as the captain and forward, break into a fight With bloody nose and black eye, back onto the field, its do or die. It's not going to plan; in fact it's going to hell, another five goals, in a 12-minute spell Now twenty two nil, but we're not beat yet, as a miracle happens, a corner we get The ball is kicked, wrong direction it soared, it bullets down wind an own goal is scored Awe! Referee! he tries his best, up and down he runs in his string vest All studded and scarred as we try and play, this stupid game on this stupid day Remembering back, how fit we where, when we where young without a care But refusing to give up our yesterdays, we carry on in our veteran ways Lighting speed, and quality flair, has made way for clumsy despair. One last attempt, only a minute or two, we can still come back, 'put the ball through' As the pass is chased, a trip, a fall, sixteen stone of deadweight nowhere near the ball A penalty is given, the ref' must be blind, but who cares, we're twenty eight behind Our forty year old striker, who used to be good, places the ball in the wet mud. The pitch is silent, the wind blows around, with baited breath, without a sound Our striker bounds up with all the grace, of a drunken giraffe falling flat on its face With one last effort he connects with his boot, the power of a snail he begins to shoot The keeper is rooted, our striker swings hard, his miscued shot, the ball moves a yard The whistle is blown to end the match, another drubbing, dejected heads we scratch If we played better, a win we could sneak, but never mind, there's always next week

Copyright © Mark Walmsley 2010

thisisUll.com Featured Writer Mark Walmsley
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