Another Bloody Saturday

I used to be a rugby league referee, I still miss it, sort of ...

 

Another Bloody Saturday

The thud of shoulder into chest,
the hiss of hot breath expelled
into ice-cold northern air. The battlefield
is slathered with mud and shirts
have lost their colour. These warriors
know their opponent, they hold fast,
face to face, no quarter given.
Gerremonsiiiide!
Two props, built from Yorkshire oak
and Tetley's, have ratcheted
the combat notch by notch. A Thwack!
as armguard meets chin. A shrill blast
and dash to separate.

Is that t'best tha's fuckin' got!
Gumshields are out and there's a flash
of brown tombstone teeth. Red nose,
black eye, yellow cards. They accept
their fate and shuffle off to rest for ten.
Are them eyes painted on! The ball
is like a fish in silt - it slips
from the winger's grasp again.
Unlucky, Bodger! shouts the skipper
but as he turns his eyes dart murder.
E's never played that! The game is tied
as the final whistle sounds and all head for cover
from rain that drives in from glowering skies.

The showers beckon and the ref is paid in cash -
Bloody Dick Turpin under the secretary's
breath. A couple of beers in the club,
drinking games, the props discuss who won the fight.
Are tha comin' art for a few, Dave?
Nah, missus wants me back toneet.
He staggers home and sinks into his chair
while his wife watches Strictly. Everything
hurts. As some celebrity messes up
his Paso Doble his eyes close and he recalls
the try he scored. The comradeship. Adrenaline
just before the first contact.
Another brilliant bloody Saturday. 

Tim Fellows March 2021