On his last game

With two rolls of bandage on his bad ankle,
And one on the other just to be sure;
With a prayer to avoid another bad tackle,
And one to reduce the pressure.

He steps onto the field, one last time,
Not knowing how well it'll turn out, or how bad;
If his touches are to be crass or sublime,
He knows not, but he vowed to give the best he had.

A single floodlight lit the park with its beam,
Though with more shadows than he would like;
He counted three more on his team,
And four on the other, ready to strike.

There were no referees, no whistles,
No boundaries, no fixed goalies;
These men intent on their battles,
But would forgive him his follies.

After his injury, they knew what this meant to him,
This wasn't just a kick about, but his retribution;
Doc said play again and invite consequences grim,
But here he was, once more before his resignation.

After the formality of a kickoff,
Both teams scored one;
Everyone was getting picked off,
More than him, none.

And then the ball fell to him in the middle,
His roaming eyes fell on a teammate, far wide;
And like a thread through the needle,
He sent the ball to his mate, to his feet precise.

When, with a sumptuous volley, his mate finished,
He knew in his heart it was just the beginning;
And as he moved forward, his fears banished.
The opposition knew, it was going to be a long evening.

One off his heel,
One on the volley,
One after cutting across,
One just toe poked in.

Four beautiful goals really made his day,
It was nothing but a strong display;
If he had to say goodbye, this was his way,
Playing his heart out, come what may.

***

Epilogue

They don't know when he played his first match,
No record books shall note when he played his last;
His history and his fame is all within himself,
But he feels proud and happy, just to have played the game itself.