COLLECTED POEMS

by Allan Ahlberg

  Anyway ten men are sometimes harder to beat

  Than a full team. Right?

  And remember Golden Rules

  NEVER-GIVE-UP.

  Billy… is that a biscuit?

  Mmm. Just what I need.

  Team Talk 14

  Lads, believe me

  You know it

  I know it

  We are not the best team

  In this league

  But this lot –

  Marcus, are you listening?

  This lot

  I have to say it –

  Are worse!

  Believe me

  We can beat ’em

  What am I saying –

  We are beating ’em!

  Yippee!

  So this is the situation, lads

  Stay calm

  Stay focused

  Get out there

  – Yes, now Billy –

  Get out there

  And whatever it was you were doing –

  This is the plan, right Michael?

  Right Charles?

  Whatever it was you were doing

  Keep doing it.

  OK?

  Dad on the Line (or a boy’s nightmare)

  I’m playing in this big game

  New kit, great pitch

  Proper goals with proper nets.

  All of a sudden

  With rattle and scarf

  And a flask of tea… there’s Dad.

  Come on, my son! says Dad

  Square ball! says Dad

  We are the champions! says Dad

  Que sera, sera.

  ∗

  I’m playing now in a bigger game

  Brand-new ball, managers in dugouts

  Proper linesmen and a proper ref.

  All of a sudden

  With our dog on a lead

  And a meat pie… there’s Dad

  Come on you reds! says Dad

  Up the Rovers! says Dad

  We’re going to Wem-b-ley! says Dad

  Que sera, sera.

  ∗

  And now the biggest game of all

  Changing rooms with sunken baths

  Proper turnstiles and a proper stand.

  All of a sudden

  With his mates from work

  And a giant photograph of me… there’s Dad.

  Offside! says Dad

  Foul! says Dad

  That’s my lad out there! says Dad

  Que sera, sera

  Then, usually at this point

  He runs onto the pitch.

  The stewards chase him

  (He’s still got the giant photo)

  The crowd goes mad

  The ref stares accusingly at me…

  And I wake up

  How to Score Goals

  (1)

  Approach with ball

  Point left

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a bunny rabbit!’

  Shoot right

  Goal.

  (2)

  Approach with ball

  Point right

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a fiver!’

  Shoot left

  Goal.

  (3)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘Sorry about all this trickery

  I never saw any rabbit’

  Offer to shake hands

  Shoot

  (4)

  Approach with ball

  Sudden sound of bagpipes

  (For this you will need an accomplice)

  Goal.

  (5)

  Approach with ball

  Plus cake

  Sing ‘Happy Birthday to you!’

  Invite goalie

  To blow his candles out

  etc

  (6)

  Approach with ball

  Point skywards

  Say, ‘Ooh, look – a vulture!’

  (He will have forgotten the rabbit by this time)

  Goal.

  (7)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘I bet I can hit you with this next shot’

  Shoot.

  (8)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘I am being sponsored for charity

  A pound for every goal I score’

  Shoot

  Shoot

  Shoot.

  (9)

  Approach with ball

  Say, ‘Smart boots you’ve got there

  Very smart

  Not like these old things of mine

  Still, Dad’ll get a job soon

  Then

  When Mum comes out of hospital

  And the baby’s had his –’

  Shoot.

  (10)

  Approach with ball

  Sudden eclipse of sun

  (For this you will need to consult astronomical charts)

  Goal.

  (11)

  Approach with ball

  Think of something…

  Goal.

  Talk Us Through It, Charlotte

  Well I shouldn’t’ve been playin’ really

  Only there to watch me brother.

  My friend fancies his friend, y’know.

  Anyway they was a man short.

  Stay out on the wing, they said

  Give ’em something to think about.

  So I did that for about an hour;

  Never passed to me or anything.

  The ball kind of rebounded to me.

  I thought, I’ll have a little run with it.

  I mean, they wasn’t passin’ to me

  Was they? So off I went.

  I ran past this first boy

  He sort of fell over.

  It was a bit slippery on that grass

  I will say that for him.

  Two more of ’em come at me

  Only they sort of tackled each other

  Collided – arh.∗ I kept going.

  There was this great big fat boy.

  One way or another I kicked it

  Through his legs and run round him.

  That took a time. Me brother

  Was shouting, Pass it to me, like.

  Well like I said, I’d been there an hour.

  They never give me a pass

  Never even spoke to me

  Or anything. So I kept going.

  Beat this other boy somehow

  Then there was just the goalie.

  Out he came, spreadin’ himself

  As they say. I was really worried.

  I thought he was going to hug me.

  So I dipped me shoulder like they do

  And the goalie moved one way, y’know

  And I slammed it in the net.

  Turned out afterwards it was the winner.

  The manager said I was very good.

  He wants me down at trainin’ on Tuesday.

  My friend says she’s comin’ as well

  Surely This Boy Must Play for England

  In an ordinary house in an ordinary room

  In an ordinary single bed

  An ordinary boy in pyjamas

  Flicks a casual goal with his head.

  Surely this boy must play for England.

  Helps his dad after breakfast

  To wash and polish the car

  Beats his man in the garage

  And hammers one in off the bar.

  It’s madness – he’s only ten.

  Helps his mum in the afternoon

  With the supermarket trip

  While clearing a wall of shoppers

  With a David Beckham chip

  if he’s good enough, he’s old enough.

  Plays with his little sister

  Takes the dog for a stroll

  And dumbfounds the local pigeons

  With an unbelievable goal.

  Ten-year-old makes the squad.

  Eats his tea in the evening

  Talks to his gran on the phone

  Faces four giant defenders

  And takes them on on his own.<
br />
  Surely this boy must play for England.

  Cleans his teeth in the bathroom

  Draws in the steamy glass

  Shuffles his feet on the bathroom mat

  And flicks a casual pass.

  Youngest-ever sub takes the field

  In an ordinary house in an ordinary room

  In an ordinary single bed

  An ordinary boy plays for England

  And stands the game on its head.

  A hat-trick, and he’s still only ten.

  Leaves the ground with the match ball

  While his mother tidies the pitch

  And his dad turns off the floodlights

  With a casual flick of the switch.

  They think it’s all over.

  Just an ordinary boy in pyjamas

  Fast asleep at the end of the day

  Though his feet still twitch in the darkness

  And he’s never too tired… to play

  Soccer Sonnet

  Now children, said the teacher with a smile

  Put down your books and let your pencils fall

  Come out into the playground for a while

  And run around with me and kick a ball.

  We’ll pick two teams and use our coats for goals

  (But leave our bags and worries at the door)

  And play the game with all our hearts and souls

  And never mind the weather or the score.

  I’ll promise not to test your soccer skills

  The ball’s the only thing you’ll need to pass

  There’ll be no Key Stage Three or spelling drills

  There’ll be no top or bottom of the class.

  So let’s forget the gold stars for a day

  And get outside – and run around – and play.

  1966, or Were You There, Daddy?

  In the fabulous year of ’66

  The year beyond compare

  When England carried off the cup

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, I was there.

  When Bobby Charlton ran midfield

  And Hurst leapt in the air

  And Peters drifted down the wing

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, absolutely.

  When Nobby Stiles snapped at their heels

  And Wilson played it square

  And Gordon Banks was flying

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, no question.

  When Bobby Moore was in control

  And Ball was everywhere

  And Beckenbauer was trouble

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Yes, my son, I really was.

  When England carried off the cup

  And anthems filled the air

  And Wembley was the place to be

  Dear Daddy, were you there?

  Oh yes, my son, oh yes, oh yes

  Oh yes I was really there.

  When Bobby Charlton ran midneld

  And Peters played it square

  And big Jack Charlton headed out

  And Hunt was everywhere

  And Cohen tackled like a tank

  And Beckenbauer showed flair

  And Gordon Banks was flying…

  flying

  Your dad, Oh-he-was-there!

  The Betsy Street Booters

  We are the Betsy Street Booters

  We are the girls you can’t beat

  The sharpest and straightest of shooters

  On twenty-two talented feet.

  The boys in our school think we’re clueless

  Which just shows how little they know

  We played them last week in the playground

  And beat them five times in a row.

  The boys say our tactics are rubbish

  Soccer skills nought out of ten

  We played them once more on a real pitch

  And beat them all over again

  The boys in our school blame the weather

  The bounce and a bad referee

  We played them in glorious sunshine

  And hammered them 17–3.

  The boys now appear quite disheartened

  And wonder just what they should do

  They’re talking of taking up netball…

  But we’re pretty good at that too.

  We are the Betsy Street Booters

  We are the girls you can’t beat

  The sharpest and straightest of shooters

  On twenty-two talented feet.

  Who Kicked Cock Robin?

  Not I said the owl

  Gazing down sleepy-eyed

  I’m not that kind of fowl

  And we’re on the same side.

  Not I said the bee

  Buzzing back to his hive

  Cock Robin kicked me

  And then took a dive.

  Not I said the grub

  My excuse is complete

  I was only a sub

  And – I ain’t got no feet.

  The Song of the Sub

  I’m standing on the touchline

  In my substitute’s kit

  As though it doesn’t matter

  And I don’t mind a bit.

  I’m trying to be patient

  Trying not to hope

  That my friends play badly

  And the team can’t cope.

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  When a boy has the measles

  When a boy goes lame

  The teacher turns to me

  And I get a game.

  When a boy gets kicked

  Or shows up late

  And they need another player

  I’m the candidate.

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  I warm up on the touchline

  I stretch and bend

  And wonder what disasters

  My luck will send.

  if a boy got lost

  Or ran away to France

  if a boy got kidnapped

  Would I get my chance?

  I’m a sub, I’m a sub and I sing this song

  And I’m only ever wanted when things go wrong.

  I feel a bit embarrassed

  That I’m not bothered more

  When decisions go against us

  And the other teams score.

  I try to keep my spirits up

  I juggle with the ball

  And hope to catch the teacher’s eye

  It does no good at all.

  Just a sub, just a sub till my dying day

  And I only get a kick when the others can’t play.

  I’m standing on the touchline

  On the very same spot

  And it does really matter

  And I do mind – a lot.

  I think I’ll hang my boots up

  It’s not the game for me

  Then suddenly I hear those words:

  You’re on! I am? Yijppeel

  Friendly Matches

  In friendly matches

  Players exchange pleasantries

  Hallo, George!

  How’s the Missus?

  Admire opponents’ kit

  Smart shirt, Bert!

  Sympathize with linesmen

  Difficult decision, there.

  And share their half-time oranges.

  In friendly matches

  Players apologize for heavy tackles

  How clumsy of me.

  And offer assistance with throw-ins

  Allow us to help you with that heavy ball

  In friendly matches

  Players and substitutes alike

  Speak well of referees

  First-rate official

  Sound knowledge of the game

  Excellent eyesight!

  In friendly matches

  Players celebrate opposing players’ b
irthdays

  With corner-flag candles

  On pitch-shaped cakes.

  In friendly matches

  Players take it in turns

  No, no, please, after you

  to score

  Kicking a Ball

  What I like best

  Yes, most of all

  In my whole life

  Is kicking a ball.

  Kicking a ball

  Kicking a ball

  Not songs on the bus

  Or hymns in the hall

  Not running or rounders

  But kicking a ball.

  Not eating an ice-cream

  Or riding a bike

  No – kicking a ball

  Is what I like.

  Not baking a cake

  Or swimming the crawl

  Not painting a picture

  Or knitting a shawl

  Not reading a book

  Or writing a letter

  No – kicking a ball

  Is twenty times better!

  Yes, kicking a ball

  Kicking a ball