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.
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.