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| Give us a goal! : football poems Text: Paul Cookson Illustrationer: David Parkins London : Frances Lincoln Children's, 2012. |
Först handlar det om olika generationers syn på sporten. Så här kan det vara att titta på fotboll tillsammans med farfar.
Watching football with my Grandad, by Paul Cookson
Watching football with my grandad
Feels like school and history
He tells me of the good old days
And the way things used to be
Way back when - men were men
Shoulder barges were allowed
No one minded proper tackles
No one dived and rolled around
Nobody wore gloves in Winter
No one swore and no one spat
No one kissed when goals were scored
They shook hands and that was that
He tells me of the good old days
And the way things used to be
Way back when - men were men
Shoulder barges were allowed
No one minded proper tackles
No one dived and rolled around
Nobody wore gloves in Winter
No one swore and no one spat
No one kissed when goals were scored
They shook hands and that was that
Proper footballs with pig's bladders
Real footballs, real leather
Head it and you'd get a headache
Like a stone in wetter weather
Everybody's hair was short
No ear rings and no tattoos
Nobody earned stupid money
The game was only back page news
Real footballs, real leather
Head it and you'd get a headache
Like a stone in wetter weather
Everybody's hair was short
No ear rings and no tattoos
Nobody earned stupid money
The game was only back page news
Saturdays were football days
Every kick-off was at three
Proper football, says my grandad
Football like it used to be
Every kick-off was at three
Proper football, says my grandad
Football like it used to be
***
Jag följer upp med ett härligt akrostikon om spelaren som ska rädda laget från baklängesmål, fotbollsmålvakten.
A.C. Rostic - Goalkeeper, by Paul Cookson
Gargantuan, colossus, somewhat god-like
Omnipresent guardian of the goals
A giant among mortals, superhuman
Lord of the area he patrols
Keeper of the nets, he keeps them empty
Omnipresent guardian of the goals
A giant among mortals, superhuman
Lord of the area he patrols
Keeper of the nets, he keeps them empty
Everything he touches he controls
Even shots of thunder and deflections
Perfect timing, joyous to behold
Ever the invincible of athletes
Reflexes of lightning, touch of gold
Even shots of thunder and deflections
Perfect timing, joyous to behold
Ever the invincible of athletes
Reflexes of lightning, touch of gold
***
Avslutningsvis ett par reflektioner kring vädret, vilket kan vara lynnigt - såväl på de brittiska öarna som i Sverige. I synnerhet i april. Så här kan supportrarna tackla det.
The weather, the winning and the losing, by Paul Cookson
On those days when we win
The bad weather doesn't matter one bit
But on those days when we don't
Every raindrop pummels home the defeat,
Every ice-blast of wind chills the weary bones,
Every snowflake in the eyes freezes frustration's tears
And the longing for home and a hot drink increases infinitely.
The cold feels colder
The wet feels wetter
Everything's worse
Nothing's better
But on the days that we win
Nothing else matters.
On those days when we win
The bad weather doesn't matter one bit
But on those days when we don't
Every raindrop pummels home the defeat,
Every ice-blast of wind chills the weary bones,
Every snowflake in the eyes freezes frustration's tears
And the longing for home and a hot drink increases infinitely.
The cold feels colder
The wet feels wetter
Everything's worse
Nothing's better
But on the days that we win
Nothing else matters.
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