"Brisbane Road"
A raw late nineteen sixty
Saturday at Brisbane Road
You, a terrace regular
Standing behind the goal
Through midwinter chilled
Second Division days of little optimism
Blowing into your hands for warmth
And wishing thermal socks worked
Like the advert guaranteed.
I watched you
Not the match
A drab draw
No score
Until
With four minutes left
Or maybe five
A blatant dive
That the ref and linesman
Failed to spot
And the penalty put Orient behind.
You shouted an obscenity
At the referee
You wore the Orient bobble hat
And that
Twenty-foot blue white scarf Nana knitted
With her knotted arthritic fingers
And your mates would take the piss
And call it shite
But you wore with pride
In memory of the dear old bird
Who cast it off
Then promptly died.
You lit
A cigarette
And keen on a cheeky drop
Swigged Jack Daniel's from a flask,
Then checked your watch
Just a minute left
Time to dash
To beat the exit rush
You half skipped
Half fell
Down the weed cracked
Piss wet concrete steps
Then Tommy Johnston
Latched onto a hoof from Sid Bishop,
Telegraphed withered arm right
Shuffled and shot left,
Their keeper bought the dummy
The ball was netted
The match was saved.
I caught the bobble hat you threw
Returned it to you
“Cheers, Squire” you said
As celebrating the lucky shot
We hugged and sang,
“There's only one Tommy Johnston,”
As one, giving it all we'd got
You were slim
Your hair was long and black
You could not guess
The identity
Of the bald fat ugly guy
Dancing with you delightedly
The stranger
You were to become
I wanted to warn,
“Don't make the mistakes I did.”
But you were bound to anyway.
As I weaved my way
Through the crowd
I turned,
“By the way,
Orient will go up.
Next year
The Arsenal will be down here
You will outplay the Hammers,
Don't forget.
Bet your pay on two-nil.”
And you smiled thinking,
‘Pigs will fly'
You replied, “Cheers, Mate,
I'll never live to see the day
If you're right
The beer's on me."
I wiped my eyes of tears
At the heartaches and years
Of hardship ahead
For this, the younger me
And heard
Your mates bantering,
Jeering,
“That fat bastard looks the image of you in forty years.”
And you laughing,
“No fear. I'll top meself first.”
Peter knaggs
Wed 27th Jul 2016 08:58
Well done Rick, ee this Hull place must be good; Poem of the Week, Another Hull Poet!!!