Match

 

Match

 

 

The three o clock sun, hung low in the sky,

she’s masked by thick, solid cloud

sandpapering your three o clock shadow,

and clammy mist lies low on the ground.

It’ll set four twenty, floodlights already

switched on and floating halo high;

we’re about two thousand, drifting in

from the sea, strong against iced mist,

packed together in long padded coats

against exposure, shared bodily warmth.

Those old, familiar Christmas refrains

are tuned out by deep-frozen brains,

interrupted by half-heard team news

and countdowns to kick off; you stamp,

cup hands around mulled cider or Bovril.

He fought over wearing your Charlton hat,

exclaiming that ‘he’s not wearing that’,

might be seen by his mates at the match,

so you ruffle his lanky blonde hair,

glad he’s there, squeeze his shoulders,

because he's getting older – his first game.

And you know what? He can’t contain it,

after strip ripped paper choked the boxes,

stuffing down food all screen glazed,

no longer amazed by that unfolding day,

here’s a cold field stretching far, far away,

filth streaked flesh about to play

as though lives depended on results,

cheering tackles and chucking insults.

Behind us, sofa strikers throw in verdicts,

‘play to the whistle’ , ‘card him, ref’,

‘how high does he want that goal?'

and 'he’s out for a Sunday morning stroll,’

so you cover his ears against the cursing.

Tomorrow says he’s up for seeing Argyle,

as out through the turnstile we’re piling,

and I think on his face that’s real smiling.

When all’s done, chatting, walking home,

chuckling about balls the goalie didn’t catch;

happy you’ve always been a good match.