Thursday, 31 October 2013

'KEEPY-UPPY': my record score...


The rear garden’s surroundings were my boundaries,
Banished from the living quarters again;
 Must have done something else disagreeable:
So I picked up a football, instead of a pen.
I juggled, as the shady lawn grew cool,
With feet, thighs and the occasional shoulder;
Totalled maybe 10, 27, 68 perhaps,
Then more than 200, my goals getting bolder…
Finally, the style really kicked in,
The feet were repetitive, in a rhythmic groove;
The occasional respite, on thighs or knees,
The rare poor touch forced a retaliatory move…
200, 300, the perspiration was dripping,
The strain and desperation were beginning to show;
Hot, tense, increasingly careful:
400, 500, 600 and in flow…
Head spun, calves and quads in agony,
But 700 and counting, not losing control;
Then I reached an unknown 800, but quite settled,
1000 in sight, my throat dry as coal…
And then, on 873,
I reached, a loose touch to retrieve;
The ball rose, my smarting eyes held it,
But what then happened, I could scarcely believe:
The ball descended, I stretched out
And as my lips counted 874,
It clipped a slightly sagging washing-line
And dropped, agonisingly from my toe to the floor…
Never again did I reach that total, or even try
And I remain defeated by a sagged washing rope;
But I’ll get there, despite my damaged right knee:
I’ll hobble and juggle in a forlorn hope…
This actually happened to me, when I lived in Hodge Hill, Birmingham...
At the site of the World War 1 Christmas soccer game between German and British soldiers...

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