Cannonball [1935-2010]

for Ron Cockerill

Another ghost to grace the field of memory
understated glider, side-stepper, perfect gentleman tackler.
Master of Time. Detonator, crossbar-rattling net-buster.

A towering neat-haired man in a mac
signing books for the boys.
Patient, kind, composed.

Lifeblood

In The Main a pulse abides in wood
of feet and hearts that stamped and drummed
in cold, in fear, in anger and in time
with magical rhythms of play,
with maestros and journeymen,
sinners and saints, with master mariners
and slayers of giants.

In no stand in the land has a tattoo lasted longer.

On Saturday

These wordless bards draw in such crowds
as those with pens can only dream on.
We gather along the wings,
awed by eloquent crafters of legend and myth
whose drama is uttered in passes and runs,
in stops and blocks and crosses and shots;
dribbling their soliloquies - these disbelief suspenders,
this timeless troupe of hope inspirers,
rage inducers, joy creators,
this priceless chorus of passion purgers.

Artists in Our Midst

Justin whittles strikers’ chins and shins
composing and conducting Barnes’ defence
while Bosh and Bolly mould and sculpt the play,
Rodin and Michelangelo in stripes.

The Bagatelle Boys, Newey, Croft,
Toner and Till, work lines
as taut and tight as Leonardo’s -
Ciaran’s feet tapping, sliding,
shuffling like Flatley’s
while a local Nijinski waits to take point
and spring in the wings as Jonah climbs
and pirouettes like Melville’s whale.

Macca, the master, casts a valedictory eye
across the Park’s old canvas where Reddy and Rankin
take up paint and brush in injury time
and Thomas Pinault plays a ghostly pierrot.

Sonnet for Danny Boshell

This Bradford Strawhead stroller came on a free.
Just one more journeyman stopper and blocker,
Nothing more than emergency cover, another
Squad player. Not a punter among us could see
Any sign of him becoming the key
To unlock opposing defences; the hustler,
The crafter, the bustler, controller, provider, inspirer,
The handyman saviour of a team all at sea

‘Til he slaughtered the Pilgrims, put Pirates to the sword,
Rolling, stroking, steering, ruling the ball.
In the Main, the Smiths and the Pontoon he was adored,
The master director, maestro, conductor of all;
A duckling transformed, scarecrow turned hero, redeemer,
Wizard, avatar, Zidanesque schemer.

In The Red

Were you there today ?
Did you watch the sky burn scarlet on The Pontoon,
deepening its blushes, sharing our shame
as The Town were undone by The Dons?

Did you see how the heads of Hegarty and Bolland,
Ravenhill and North,
paled to pink as the day closed crimson,
reflecting our embarrassment and theirs
as what used to be Wimbledon extended their lead
while the crowd shrank,
the faithful in frustration
streaming from the ground
in waves of disappointment
with fifteen minutes left to play?

At least the team was humble,
chastened and subdued,
not daring to celebrate the meaningless
well-taken, ninetieth minute goal,
deferring to the fans that remained,
the last of the sanguine, some of them red-eyed
as they offered tired applause
for a team whose credibility is seriously in arrears.

Faith, Hope and Charity

Its about faith. We keep it. We place it. Always in hope; and sometimes irresponsibly and unfairly.

We lay down an awful burden when we expect Peter Bore to carry the responsibility for the fulfilment of our hopes, the denial of our despair. Rodger burdens him enormously. The crowd do the same. Both, desperately expect the young to save us.

We lose it and abandon it. This is because we are afraid. We live in fear of the Conference. Long gone is re-election and the “old pals act” that for decades kept the door so firmly shut on upstart non-leaguers.

But Workington and Barrow, Southport and Bradford Park Avenue in their humility remind us of what the future could hold. Even Accrington Stanley’s resurrection offers no comfort, coming so long after the death. Those of us who survived the ignominy of 1968 know that we would not survive such a wait should relegation come our way.

Fenty’s faith is in the new stadium. In the dream of future revenue to breathe new life into what increasingly resembles an attenuated corpse. But what the cost? What of the Internal Revenue? Where do we stand? How close to administration are we?

Can we invest in a future that might break us? So what if planning permission is granted? How generous might sponsorship be if Football League status is lost. Sure, its unthinkable. But it is a blind faith that refuses to see the dangers ahead.

I have my faith. I believe in Ciaran Toner. I believe in Paul Bolland. I even believe in the Lazarus that is Gary Croft. I have hope for the wounded archangel Michael Reddy, in Gary Cohen and Isiah. But for how long? I have dreams. I dream of Gary Jones once again receiving the service he once enjoyed from Curtis Woodehouse.
Here’s the faith, here’s the hope. Please, of your charity, the soul of Grimsby Town Football Club 1878 - ?

Faithful Reflections

Let the word go out from this day forth that here will be found the earnest musings of a soul lost to what might be the lost cause of a love for an English football club, Grimsby Town; once great but now less than, once famed but now pitied, once feared but now tamed, once proud but now humbled.