In  1966, those players  
Who took us to our World Cup win  
Stepped quietly from their modest homes
And just as quietly, stepped back in
As comfortable they were with that
As if they had been joiners, sparks
No paparazzi tailed them then
Since they were ordinary men
Who laughing, might have said: "Okay.
You've had your shots. Now go away."
They didn't do their hair like spanners
Then phone-up the party planners
We never learned about their lives
Far less about their girls or wives
Who, if they'd flaunted what they'd got
Back then, no-one would care a jot. 

And England, whistling, went to work
On yet another summer's day 
The Beatles on the radio 
The sunlight on the Jules Rimet 
A bit of toast, a cup of tea
The snowy monochrome TV
Some Tennents in the Frigidaire
A tankard on the sideboard there
Eusebio, Pele and the rest
"All the best, son. All the best."
Roy Of The Rovers? Well, not quite
But closer, maybe in our sight.
Their names provoke nostalgic smiles
The Charlton brothers, Nobby Stiles
And chanted loudest and in awe
"Bobby Moore, Bobby Moore"
The almost-sainted Bobby Moore… 
But old times,hey? They're all long-gone 
You can't go back, you must move on 
And Germany awaits again
Go cheerful from that train or plane
And mellow with those golden beers
To lay the ghosts of  forty years
Play Argentina or Brazil
Good-naturedly - with no ill-will
From round-to-round and day-to-day
The game we showed the world to play
On pitches overlooked by downs
Or blackened stacks of Pennine towns
Where part-time players heard the cheers
Of fellow workers in their ears   
Who stood on terrace, cap and rattle
Or penned in sheds like human cattle
The working lads from sunless streets   
Who never saw a match from seats
And recognised just one way up;
The glory of that football cup                

Maybe those long-dead underdogs
With blakeys on their boots or clogs
Who knew the hunger and desire 
- The tinder that could kindle fire-  
Have passed the spirit and its powers 
To places poorer now than ours
Perhaps in cities in Brazil
Where backstreet boys go hungry still
They've taken on the spark somehow 
                Which wealthy Europe's lacking now                    

In England, we will cram the bars
And drape the streets with George's flag
Red and white on vans and cars
While p.c. tongues and fingers wag
Though what the great and good allow
Is not up for discussion now
The talk is more of Rooney's foot
Of various metatarsal matters 
Whether Messrs Crouch or Owen      
Reduce defending walls to tatters     
Whether Sven the Swede is worthy
Genius or mad professor?
Media poised like vultures waiting 
As they will with his successor

"Now back to our studio pundits…"
Rubicund, grey hair, red ears 
Run back in from green-room doorways
Having finished hurried beers
Face the cameras - don't look up 
Can we talk about The Cup?
Make predictions for the players
Whether Beckham's on his mettle
Old scores, new scores
Scores to settle
Somewhere there's another nation 
Quietly putting on the kettle
No-score draws or matches won?
Dogs let out - or ironing done?
Anything to fill the yawning 
Gap before the game's begun.     

England back in red and dreaming
Forty fated years now gone  
Beckham stern and Lampard beaming 
Moore and Ramsey's ghosts look on
Older players gamely gathered
Near to where they won their bout
Rheumy-eyed, will pose for photos
With the old red line thinned out
Hard avoiding that nostalgia
Seeing the fellows standing there
With the Captain's Number Six shirt
Draped across his empty chair.    

Younger players will take their places
Shoulders squared to fill the frame 
Lighter boots and different faces
But the spirit stays the same
Of these lions who'll play the game.

"…the game consisting of two halves
Is ninety minutes long in all
To gain possession of the ball  
The time not nearly long enough
The world being mad about this stuff."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Martin Newell. 1.6.06  

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