0021 Football's new rules
I guess you read the news
about the town – soon to be copied –
which abolished traffic lights...
what happened? Self-preservation,
care, and courtesy have won the day..
while the soccer news this weekend was
that everybody blames the referee..
who’s after all, just the traffic-lights to this game..
suppose we tried the same daring system on the soccer field..
any player who makes a bad tackle
or an inadvertent trip (deliberate ones
would disappear as a mark of shame)
to apologise politely and offer
a free kick to the other side..
the player who kicks the ball into touch
immediately hands the ball to the other side
or at the very least, runs away – both sides
always knowing very well who touched it last..
shirt-pulling and diving would be
such matters of shame that the player’s
own side would stop playing and remain
rooted to the spot until
the culprit offered a free kick..
and any really doubtful events would be referred
to the television cameras for a quick decision;
and all the players might just feel the urge
to applaud and clap a tricky moment fairly resolved?
and at the end of the match,
the players would line up and just like
an international does at the beginning,
shake hands down the line…
while the managers would meet symbolically at centre-pitch,
shake hands publicly on a game cleanly fought,
and even – full on camera – look each other
in the eye..
and we the supporters would feel damn proud
that sport was sport once again, that
football was and is the life-blood of the nation,
and if not more important than life and death
at least a happy occasion of skills enjoyed..
and that, win or lose, chivalry and
the game’s the thing..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Woman, The Oranje And The 2010 World Cup
In a bar in Amsterdam,
I realise how football consumes the soul.
Did I care yesterday whether there had been changes to the team?
Or whether one particular player was match fit?
No.
But, today I am swept along,
I feel the electricity in the air,
The hoping, the waiting, the tension,
The tangible excitement as the team walks out.
I grasp the momentary pride as the national anthem plays
And feel the lump in my throat as I see players join in and sing along.
I’m not even Dutch.
But, I’ve bought the shirt.
Then, as the game progresses I feel the air coarse back and forth,
As each spectator gasps, oohs and ahhs when free kicks go astray and shots on goal are deflected.
I watch fingers twitch, hands wring, and nails being bitten - all in the name of football.
Football, the beautiful game.
Football, the life giving ether that unites a nation and makes busses late.
Soon a hush descends,
As a player (who I don’t know the name of) “storms” his way through to the centre,
And slides the ball neatly under the goalkeeper.
Goal! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Time stops.
In this moment there is no war, no hunger, no pain, no hate in the world,
God is alive and he wears a number 11 shirt.
poem by Teedy Dawn
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Sicker Soccer
The £10,000 a week defender can’t quite
catch the £20,000 striker who's got
the ball at his nimble, expensive feet, the stadium yelling
fit to raise the roof – what does he do? why,
he pulls the striker’s shirt, of course…; the ref, the commentators
remain silent. We, we were told off at nursery classes,
for pulling little Johnny’s shirt… I mean, for Pele’s sake,
what is this about? ! ..
then at the end of the game (one side’s got to win,
you’d think the fans are like they used to be,
paid good money to watch a good match)
the managers spit out their gum, pat each other on the back
whilst walking away, and not looking each other in the eye…
none of that love of the game stuff, the sparkling eyes
of those who love their sport, shaking hands
with a worthy opponent…ha…
and as for cricket – ‘sledging’ – can you believe it?
making sneery remarks to the batsmen while you stand in close…
never happened when sport was something you
enjoyed, loved to do, enjoyed the challenge and the company…
‘oh it’s all in good fun’… yeah?
tennis, being one-on-one, ain’t so bad; psych yourself up
but put the venom in your shots; but then,
when the match ends, run up to the net (or so they
used to) , eyes meet, shake hands, a few words? not
so often – shake hands without making
eye-contact, off to thank the umpire who's
up there out of reach…
it’s like some sorta natural law: when sport is a game
like life, the game’s the thing, and well-played, sir; pay
your ‘sportsmen’, your mercenaries, in the name
of ‘popular entertainment’ and big business, and
something disappears, as revenues increase;
how long before poetry becomes
a ‘spectator sport’ with a World Slam League out there
and TV rights?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Football Farce
Football managers and players should hang their heads in shame,
For what they've done to our traditional football game.
Now sportsmen in the game are a dying breed,
with managers and players getting rich with greed.
Sportsmen! They are not, for they will cheat and connive,
winning free kicks and penalties by taking a dive.
Pushing, pulling and shirts being torn,
Punching and swearing are now the norm.
After a night on drugs and all night boozing,
players get violent if their team is loosing.
The managers aren't any better when staring at defeat,
encouraging players to go out there and cheat.
If the players do wrong and it's plain to see,
the managers will argue and blame the referee.
And now referees are getting in on this shameful act,
with the top premier clubs they've now formed a pact.
If the top club is loosing, then with the last kick of the ball,
the referee gives them a penalty for no good reason at all.
If that doesn't help they commit another dreadful crime,
by giving them another chance by adding on extra time.
The F.A. watches these games and don't seem to mind,
What's up with them? are they totally blind?
The F.A. should now hang their heads in shame,
for they have let money and greed ruin our football game.
That's why I have finally decided to call it a day,
Football ain't getting anymore of my hard earnt pay.
By
Alan Weston
© Copyright Reserved 2007
poem by Alan Weston
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Kick Off Ball
Kick off ball,
Kick the ball to win the game!
But, with fair play.
Player,
Lyricist,
Arranger,
Keeper,
Composer,
Winner! !
But it was only yesterday that i found you;
And like the game ball in the land of your muse.
Face to face,
Again and again!
But pay and take it;
And, play the match to win the game! !
Play the ball,
Kick the ball,
And like the African Cup of Nations!
Race, ace, face, brace, mace, place, lace;
But words are things upon a thought,
And like something long lost! !
However, play the ball into the net to win the game.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Memory From 85
I've always thought that Gaelic Football was a grand and a sporting game
But after witnessing a match between Rockchapel and Kiskeam
Played in the Gaelic Playing Field half a mile from Knocknagree
The uglier side of Gaelic Football was all brought home to me.
'Twas Duhallow B league final on an evening in July
And with little to enthuse about for a neutral such as I
A scrappy game of football and the language it was crude
And both sets of supporters were mouthing loud and rude
And I watched on in silence and I could not feel amused
When a linesman by an old Rockchapel mentor was abused
And one could feel the tension rising and things were boiling to a brawl
And 'twould not be a night for sportsmanship or classical football.
And worse was to come later and an ugly sight to see
A young Rockchapel player assaulting the referee
And when he received his marching orders and refused to leave the field
The ref to intimidation rightly refused to yield.
The ref blew the final whistle with Kiskeam to the fore
They had won a tarnished victory by a mere five points to four
In a brutal game of football they'd survived a gruelling test
But at kicking and at mouthing they had come out second best.
'Twas a sad night for Gaelic Football and Duhallow's night of shame
And I'm not pardoning Kiskeam they must partly share the blame
But for a cup and set of medals and with little else at stake
For their attitude and thuggery Rockchapel took the cake.
The ref's motor van was interfered with and a door lock it got broke
By a wild man from Rockchapel a half crazed gray haired bloke
And this rowdy behaviour over a game of ball
It's no wonder I felt sickened fairly sickened by it all.
I've always thought that Gaelic football did not have an ugly side
That the players and spectators on their native game took pride
But now I know quite different and I see things differently
Since that Duhallow local derby game that was played in Knocknagree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Let Us Learn How To Play!
Life is a game,
Full of anxiety,
Full of excitement,
Who is the player?
I, you and we are players
if we are all players,
for what we play?
For what we have to play?
For money or name,
Or to gain some toys
to feel only more pain?
We take nothing at the end,
trophies and medals,
will not have meaning,
why we run here and there,
Jump and hop,
laugh and weep, Why we strive to win?
We never know causes,
Whose effect is this life?
We don't know our cause here,
And we talk of causes!
What cause may take us where?
Useless to think, just play your game!
Find the player
who play and enjoy all alone,
Creating own ground and arena,
He plays and enjoys the game,
so many things bring us shame,
Our own thoughts and deeds,
Who is enemy of us greater than these?
Let him play his game,
Pray him for rest,
sit and meditate at his feet,
Or get the yellow card for wrong play!
Anyway find a way to sit aside,
Let others play,
let us rest a while,
Watch and learn how to play!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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God's miracle
Say not
That this is just a game.
As I watch the little boys play
After a heavy school day
He goes straight to the field,
And there he is in his element
Raising up the dust
As he scores that goal.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the boys make their football
Collecting plastic from the dumps
And cutting ropes that were washing lines.
As the boys create a pitch
Or just play on the road,
They take sticks or stones
And they build a goal.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As these boys return home at night
Return to be whipped after their delight
The ball will be smashed,
The plastic seperated from the rope
And the field will be taken.
To the farmers and goat herders it will be given
But the boys collect themselves, with undying determination
And they go back to playing football.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the scout sees that young player
And he is sent to England
Maybe he will play with Man U or maybe Inter.
He sees a world far from home
From sunny rays to raindropp beats.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As that girl plays on the boy's team
She raises rumours,
As people see her and say she will not marry
She drops her bucket of water and goes to be goalie.
The boys boo and make fun of her
But they know she is a very good player.
And she is an example to other little girls
Who long for that ball and not for pearls.
Say not
That this is just a game.
As old men sleep in bars
Just so they can see that match
Of their favourite English team,
And when they reach home their angry wives will ask
'What will that team give you if they win? '
The men will go to bed silent
But their minds know the answer
'They will give me pride, and honour.'
Say not
That this is just a game.
As the world cup starts
Linking whole nations.
And in that stadium
There is no such thing as rich, poor, colour or religion.
Because everybody will mix
As they go to cheer their country,
And their players from Eto'o to Messi.
Say not
That this is just a game.
When that player has the ball
At the box for a penalty
And it is the finale
When all hearts will stop.
And all breaths are held.
And when that goal is scored,
Each cheer is louder than the next
Every person with smiles so big
Both in the stands and on the field
There stand a connection of confusion,
But also true happiness.
Say not
That this is just a game.
When the team will hold that cup
And the whole country becomes a champion
Every man, every woman, and all the children.
It's name goes down in history
And it will be known as a cup holding nation.
Say not
That this is just a game.
No, this is football.
This is God's miracle,
To that little boy and girl
To that man who knows the answer
To not one but all,
And to you and me as well
Say not
That this is just a game.
For this, this is football!
poem by Mariam de Haan
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Soccer
I have always liked soccer
such a rough game
Such skills are required
And popluar
You must be strong
and fearless
long kicks to bring you closer
to achieving your goal
of making goals to win the game
heading and saving the ball
is important too
its all about a game called soccer
poem by BOBo ROBbY
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My love is like a Soccer Game....
My love is Like a Soccer Game
the field is my life I am the player
the ball is my heart and the goal
is you, ill keep hitting the keeper
till the ball gets closer to you...
^^..
poem by Henric Kristoffer Miranda
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Know The Game Of Life
A rich man built up a stadium,
In a ground to play every game.
On the day of inauguration,
There was a big congregation.
It was a show of football match
A pleasure for them to watch
Both the teams played well
Kicking forward the football.
The rich man's father,
An illiterate old villager,
Who was the chief guest
Kept his face in utter disgust.
At the end he asked his son
Why each player wasn't given
A ball each to avoid their run
Between goals for that ball one?
A sorry figure, his son kept
At his father, a man ignorant
Of the rules of the game,
What a shame to his name?
Yes, knowledge is essential
For anyone to enjoy the thrill
Lest, in the game of life, he will
Be like a two legged bull.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Meaning of Soccer
Soccer is a sport of heart, joy, skills, and Honor. Many people play it for money and don’t really
Care about the sport. A true professional soccer player plays for what’s in the front, NOT the
Back. If the team that’s in the front goes big and then you’ll go big with them. Play this beautiful
Sport for fun and enjoy. Many youngsters look up to big names stars like Cristiano Ronaldo,
Kaka, David Beckham, Pele, and many names. Guess what my friends they practiced so they
Could get where they are now, INTERNATIONAL SUPERSTRS! You want to get there just
Practice hard and in games try harder then what you practiced.
poem by Luis Baires
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A Ritual of Victory
Out on the playing arena long about now,
Two teams are competing as if they are on trial.
Cheerleaders are entertaining with a new style,
Holding the attention of the crowd for a while.
The fans are cheering as loud as they can.
The players are inspired by the music of the band.
The scoreboard lights seem to blink at will,
The victor's final score is bright and still.
Shortly after the game, they'll all come in,
The players tuckered out, the coach with a grin.
Proud of their victory, they'll scarcely wait,
Specially if the post game ceremony is late.
It may be football or soccer or any other game,
A ritual of victory is basically the same.
The players huddle together and in unison say grace.
Wonder who is standing in my old place.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Flamengo Team! ! !
i am a little dizzy
little muddled
with the force of your impact
you kick the ball to me
and do your goal
1 X0
I run by green field
to hold the white ball, firmly
you kick in a dishonest way
you are the top scorer
what a stroke!
2X0
I try to spare me
and move quickly towards back
my place is not safe
a direct free kick
green and black of his shirt vibrates
3x0
but i am Flamengo
my colours are black and red
and never surrender run on my blood
My nation is rubro-negra
and certainly is not end this football game
First Time, friend! ! ! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
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Zinnedine Zidane
One of the all time great players a head butt to an opponents chest caused him shame
And with such a cloud hanging over him he retires from the World game
A magician with the soccer ball his likes we may not see again
He will always be remembered as the great Zinnedine Zidane.
'Twas an alleged personal insult that got him all fired up
And with his dismissal went the great dream of France's second World cup
But he will be remembered and football fans will long recall
One of the all time masters of the World game of football.
For one moment of loss of self discipline he must wear a lifetime taint
But is there one amongst us who can claim to be a saint
You will not find many people despite what some might say
Who will turn the other cheek and from insult walk away.
For his skills a lasting impression on so many he did make
And his deeds on the football field from him one cannot take
He will always be remembered as an all time great
In the World game of football with the very best he rate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My soccer team
I see men standing next to each other
in a line
and they wear yellow and green.
The national anthem plays
and its like nobody honours it
or know the words,
but maybe they are caught by the great moment.
The whistle blows
and the ball is kicked to and fro
and there are men attacking
and others that defend.
The goal is open
and the ball flies past in a wide arc
and it’s as if my team
can’t score any goal.
The opponents have the ball
and shoot it right over the field
and one of their front players
hits it with his head.
The ball flies twisting
and with a swing in the air
and is accurately aimed at the goal
As from the ground
the goalie rises
and the onlookers are silent
and just before it’s too late,
the ball is caught
and the crowd cheers.
It is as if something sweeps into
the men with yellow and green
and they play perfectly,
like only a good team can.
There’s passion to win
and the ball is passed
from player to player
and a mighty kick,
launches it accurately past the goalkeeper
to get entangled in the net.
The crowd cheers and go nuts
and vuvezelas are blowing
and flags are swept to and thro
and the players grab each other.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Beautiful Game
A ball hit into empty stands in a game of cricket,
A game so bland won’t have me buying a ticket,
As a kid I saw my first footy game at Stamford Bridge,
Gullit was a magician with the ball he’d flick and trick it,
Knew there and then that id be picking it,
As my favourite sport played on this earth,
Picked up a football never stopped kicking it,
First touch chesting it, cross comes in always headering it,
The beautiful game has a magic that keeps you remembering it,
Mini football games like ‘66’ boost skills and tricks
For schoolboys bunking school claiming there sick
The dick in black blowing his whistle for a diving prat,
Blokes in pubs screaming “what was that? ! ? ! ”
Sad to see the beautiful game run by money men and bankers,
Warms my heart though to still hear the crowd go
“The referees a wanker! The referees a wanker! ”
Im forever blowing bubbles walking in a winter wonderland,
Oh to be a man and football fan on your sofa in the pub or the stands,
There’s nothing quite like it to be together in your team clan,
Cheering our teams on with every emotional breath at hand
No sport is as passionate or bigger,
No sport can do it like football can,
No nation has stadiums that are fuller,
No country can love this game more then England fans!
poem by Kaspa Richards
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The Beautiful Game
As you step on to the muddy field,
You feel the joy rise inside you,
The crowd roars as the players take up there positions;
And your team gets ready to kick off.
As the game commence all nervousness is lost,
Replaced by a sudden adrenaline rush,
The play goes back and forth, forth and back;
But you run on still,
nothing else concerns you but the ball.
It goes on as such for many minutes,
Until your rivals get a chance,
Your goalie tries but to your despair the ball finds the back of the net;
The crowd boos in anger and frustration.
The very next play the ball comes to you,
You run up the wing blasting by defender after defender,
You see an opening in the keeper’s defences;
You wind up to shoot and…
TWEET! You’re tackled by a defender,
Penalty shot declares the ref,
To the opposition’s protest.
You place the ball on the penalty spot,
And the once roaring crowd goes silent,
Thousands of eyes are upon you unspeaking and unforgiving,
As you wind up to shoot all time seems to stop;
And Suddenly time resumes to the roar of the crowd
And your teammates swarming around you,
At this moment you think to yourself,
Soccer, the beautiful game.
poem by Joseph Conlan
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The Sport I Love
Like any other sports
this is the one I choose,
I love, and I have been playing.
the sport I want to be belong.
That is soccer.! ! !
Playing this game
have been giving me an event
that is hard to forget.
It is exciting right! ! !
And therefore
I do not know how
could I leave this sport.
Of which is this sport
help me to build my stamina,
meet a lot of friends, and
also this sport taught me
how to act as a human being,
in order to have a discipline
not only in this sport
but also in the community
as well as in a situation.
It help a lot in me right! ? ,
therefore i must not have to forget
as well as to leave this sport
but to love this sport forever..
I love soccer.! .
poem by Patrick Pinote
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Liberia Plays Soccer
When Beckham kicks the ball on a
soccer pitch in England, it
breaks through the opponent’s
defense and slams into the goal post.
It then continues over the heads of the
cheering spectators, over miles of oceans
and seas, and countries, and lands at the
feet of soccer-crazed Liberian men, who
immediately kick that same ball, again and
again, into that very goal post, in their living
rooms, in posh sport lounges, in hot, smelly
video clubs, around the ataye* tables, on the
buses, on the sidewalks. They keep kicking
that ball until somewhere in Europe, Drogba
kicks a different ball, into another goal post.
Then, Drogba’s ball comes to Liberia and the kicking begins anew.
*ataye – a hot drink, popular with Liberian males. The ataye tables have grown into informal political and social forums.
poem by Charlina Daitouah Smith
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The Football Fan
They love their football team
their loyalty is never in doubt
they rarely ever miss a match
from the stands they scream and shout.
Even when the teams playing poor
and their favourite player is off key
that will never stop them from going
as the ground is where they want to be.
Football is always on their minds
they think about it night and day
non football fans think they must be crazy
watching men kicking a ball home and away.
Relationships can become strained and tense
as football takes the leading role
partners can become irritable and even jealous
when the fan talks for hours about a wonder goal.
The fan even dreams of football in their sleep
shouting out and butting the pillow with their head
they jump up and down as if they've scored a goal
and kick their partner out of the bed.
Yes the football fan is a breed apart
slightly eccentric and a thick skinned soul
when all that matters to them in life
is seeing their favourite player score a winning goal!
poem by Kevin Halls
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