Delighted to be delighted in watching The Euros and, again, suffering the old familiar agonies of supporting England, I thought I'd post a series of three footie poems which appear in my latest collection, Alpha. I shall start with a poem and a title which the great Pele used for his autobiography. (Although whether the great man would agree with the sentiments, therein, is not for me to say.....)
***
The Beautiful Game
In those days the balls were bread puddings
and heading the lace meant early onset.
No bending it like Beckham or Ronaldo --
unless you fancied wearing a pair of calipers.
Full backs were psychopaths to a man
and the tackle from behind was de rigueur.
And if a striker still had all his own front teeth
it was regarded as an affectation.
Mike Di Placido: Alpha (Poetry Salzburg,2020).