Getting behind the bid.

January 19, 2010 at 7:39 am | Posted in australia, blogging, football, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 12 Comments
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At some point you have to pick a true allegiance to something, and often it is already a lost cause. In the end though, you are not dead, you are sitting around on a beach watching children led by their mothers into the sea for the first time and thinking cool, The World Cup in Australia would be a nice thing,

I might write another football poem, should be a breeze,

(If I win these tickets, I will give them to someone, hmmm,


The True Legend of John Terry.

April 12, 2008 at 4:12 pm | Posted in football, poetry, writing | 4 Comments
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Frank knows who is really paying his wages, owners come and go. He is a man who understands the primacy of a fundamental rhythm through the team. All they are doing is thanking him, he says to me looking out over the pool sparkling in the Mediterranean sun. All of those people in the crowd have a special moment in their lives when Zola made them feel alive again, feel proud of who they were, of the community to which they belonged and he did it, Frank smiled shyly, with the creative unexpected, supported by flawless technique. On the lawn below his children are laughing and his wife looks up to the balcony. I swear she did not see me at all.


Well, I’ve looked at the first reel through the telephone, he said and I thought you said it was a documentary about football. The Americans don’t know who this guy F. is, and I thought you said you had the captain of England. Ask him why they keep losing, that’ll make some interesting footage. Oh and stop spending so much of my money. Click.

Oh come to bed she says curling into herself for warmth. And close the window. One more call, he murmurs, hello is Mrs Terry there? Well, could you tell me the name of her hairdresser? It’s Paul. I’m a friend of Frank. She rolls her eyes and waggles her ringless fingers in the moonlight. Great thanks for that. He turns back to the bed, my darling Saudade, you need a new hairdo.

hmm, she says unravelling her self hug, another one, well you shall have to be careful this time, and you forgot to close the window,


“the japanese squid fishermen are asleep” she had said,

introspection, he says, turning from the smudged mirror back into the chaos of the room. i take my hat off for the photojournalist, his faith that mere description will effect change but to exercise desire requires imagination. the world as it is was imagined into being, sometimes by sailors.
he shrugs on the long cloak Takeshi had given him and turns back to the bed where she lies sleeping, eventually everything will be as it was before i arrived,

silhouette, he says,

the curtain flickers on the moonlit breeze,


John Terry is very tall but he moves with a grace which belies his obvious strength. He has shoulders made for balance in the air. It is easy to forget that he is such a young man. It’s an honour, he says, however the team performs. It’s part of being a modern defender, you have be able to move up the field, to make an impact and hope that team moves forward with you. If they do, then you are the Captain of England.
and if they don’t, i was tempted to ask just as Saudade appeared, oh here you are, there is somebody on the phone, he says you owe him money,

The True Legend of Gianfranco Zola (humility)

April 11, 2008 at 7:23 pm | Posted in football, music, writing | 7 Comments
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the movement in that name, Zola,
remembered forever in his adopted home,
when he left they lined the streets
and cheered his name in thanks
all the way to the airport and he remained
the perfect Italian gentleman, mannered,
gracious and calm, both a loyal servant
and a leader, a prince among men,
and all the while a smiling five feet
five and light on his feet,
movement contained even
his name, i give you,
Gianfranco Zola,

“It made me better as a player and as a man.” Gianfranco Zola.

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