I wrote this at a Poetry Business workshop in March 2019. I've been revisiting old drafts and decided to tidy this up and give it an airing.
This photograph (from 1970) was published in the Derby Telegraph courtesy of local photographer Terry Fletcher. It's not the Stonebroom team of 1971 but it could be. The haircuts and kit have exactly the style I remember.
Saturday Afternoon, 1971
I head towards the slanting field
through the village
past the pub.
The players burst out of the changing room,
propelled by smoke,
tangerine shirts pristine.
Laughing and swearing, fake fighting.
I hang back and follow,
captivated by camaraderie
beguiled by bravado.
Number 7 is small and bald,
leader of the pack through wit and guile.
5 is huge, the one who never smiles.
8 throws a heavy leather ball at 6,
it hits him on the head.
6 is unamused, and a chase ensues.
He unleashes a volley with the ball
and a volley of new and interesting words
for my memory bank.
Later they defend the honour of the village
against the Miners Welfare
from over the border.
Blood is spilled on an orange shirt
and the ref is called a wanker.
After the whistle 7 is hoisted
on 5's shoulders to unhook the nets.
I go home, they go to the pub.
I know that I will never wear the Three Lions
but I think that, one day,
the tangerine shirt could be mine.
Tim Fellows 2020
