At Last

Fairly well remembered

that final game for Stanley.

Boys spread out like

ducks across a floating pitch,

and me, under new rules

trying out my spec-less eyes

for blind spots.

Before kick-off,

the thirties brick changing room

reeked sweetly of

White Horse embrocation

and Fiery Jack

(chilli seeds ground into

rubbing-cream for

the grossly insane).

Today's ref, clogged up in

a starched Polaroid

of football through the years

read FA directive, 8liND,

for specs, I was no

longer allowed to play in.

Lens-less, I launched

myself frailly

like a fight in a blindfold,

a centre forward for once,

with no regard, and ostrich-like morals

as I could see nowt.

Second half we trampled

the over-wide pitch,

I picked up a short cross, Jesus,

and hammered toward goal,

forty yards out I blasted it,

under shock, it smashed the bar,

and jumped over.

almost my best ever goal.

But that final match

all seems a blur now.

Jerry Pike