This is not you because you don’t work
anymore. Hands that once caused crowds
to roar in derby matches – flicking
balls like flies over the bar – now struggle
with a fork. That chest which swelled
to face the cavalry stampede of strikers
groans at all the air still left in the world.
Legs which booted the ball miles behind
enemy lines now buckle like wiry twigs.
We sit in the car listening to the sea
and the football results. Bolton wanted you
once. You could have played in the
Matthews final but you stayed behind
because of the girl. Old enough
to kick you taught me the goalie’s trade –
dragging lines in the grass with your boot
to show where the posts were. Making
your body big. Yours has shrunk.
I never got a ball past you – now
I could score all day. You smile and
the tutti-frutti dribbles like Charlton down
your cheek. I flick a tissue. Wipe it away.
