Philip Kitcher: Anthem For Underdogs Everywhere
(In the third round of the FA Cup the sixth tier Cheshire side
Macclesfield (known as 'The Silkmen') defeated a team 117
places above them in the rankings, no less than the holders,
the Premier League’s Crystal Palace.)
A gallant band of football minnows
confront the holders of the chalice.
Sometimes this competition winnows
the current champs . . . like Crystal Palace.
They take their shots, they make their tackles –
when overmatched they don’t give up.
All glory to the Field of Maccles!
They galvanised the FA Cup!
I wish we could deliver kicks
to other things besides a ball . . .
within the sphere of politics,
to make the self-styled mighty fall.
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Jerome Betts: Expensive Round
On the skewbald Centurion Tank
He knocked the first double for six.
Then the jump that they owed to a bank
Got reduced to a sad heap of bricks,
And a timber firm's tough post-and-plank
Saw the wretch in a similar fix,
Till his hopes irretrievably sank
In water as cold as the Styx.
Although – with a crackle and moan
After one of the infrequent halts
In the loudspeaker's flat neutral tone –
They publicly said “Sixteen faults”
As the culprit lay jarred to the bone
At the last of these deadly assaults
And his mount galloped out on its own,
Off the record, they called it four malts.
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Philip Dunkerley: More than a Game
Saturday morning, a bright sunny day,
I set out in my car for the drive
to the golf course to meet with my old buddy Pete
and at ten on the dot I arrive.
We met in the clubhouse, got ready to play,
and were on the first tee by eleven.
I felt really good, selected a wood
and drove like a dream, it was heaven.
By a quarter to twelve we were at the fourth hole
and Pete was at one under par.
I was one over, but just then I drove
a nice ball that went ever so far.
And so it went on, from the fifth to the seventh –
at the eighth, another fine drive.
Down the fairway it flew, delightful and true.
Golf can sure make a man feel alive!
We got to the tee of the ninth and I drove
with a three iron straight in between
a pair of deep bunkers, and sweet as you like,
I pitched up my ball on the green.
Now skirting the green of the ninth was a road
that led to a chapel nearby,
and just as I settled, preparing to putt,
a funeral cortège caught my eye.
A hearse led the way, sedately of course,
and two or three cars followed on.
I paused in my putt and tears welled up
as I thought of the one who had gone.
And when the last car had vanished from sight
I prepared to continue my stroke,
but Pete interrupted, and said, “Mate, I didn’t
know you were that sort of bloke.”
“What sort of a bloke?” I said. He replied,
“The sort that would show such respect
for the dearly departed, so very kind hearted.”
I said, “If I may interject,
golf’s only a game, and you shouldn’t blame
me for shedding a few kindly tears.
It’s the least I could do to give Gertie her due –
we were married for thirty-five years.”
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Peter Emery: Dad Plays Lawn Bowls North of Sydney
“Ain’t never shook no pommie’s hand,
won’t start today – you’re on my land.”
An Australian bowler, talking tough,
couldn’t know he’d said enough
to wind my father up to play
and tan his Aussie hide that day.
But, in defeat, the proffered paw,
offered respect and so much more.
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Philip Kitcher: Monosyllabic Cricket
For Akeel Bilgrami, second only to Wisden
English Test cricketers are simple blokes
with simple names like Foakes, and Woakes and Stokes.
They roll their sleeves up, and they do their jobs:
fellows like Gooch and Snow and May and Hobbs.
The heights of glory may be out of reach
for left-arm overs flighted down by Leach.
Nevertheless, one should not cock a snook,
when runs flow forth in torrents from a Brook.
Yet there are some who don’t admit their place,
with snobby monikers like Pope and Grace.
Other pretenders try to cultivate
an artsy image, style themselves as Tate.
Then there are those who preen and strut their stuff,
for whom one syllable is not enough.
When will they learn that you can be a beaut
hiding behind an earthy name – like Root?
Postscript
But … could there be a secret extra power,
in scansion’s ambiguities of Gower?
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L.A. Mereoie: Pots Of Money
Here is a pastime that enthrals
With chalk and cues and coloured balls
Which glide and click on smooth green baize
As watching millions gasp and gaze.
No wonder skill in playing snooker
Spells kudos, plus a load of lucre.
