The Match

by Helen Burke

Because ok lets face it
Life is a match.
You know it and I know it,
And where you sit depends how it goes,
And – you never get to pick your own team,
And so much depends on the colours of your scarf.
(None of this is by choice – you think it is, but no.)
You get taller as you go through each turnstile, and, yes the crush gets easier to bear,
Your mam still waves you off , but she’s in injury time now and the old man well – he never really got a game,
Always on the bench – banging on about the class system.

You know it and I know it,
And sometimes you think you’re the star player – but it doesn’t last.
Your boots get old and heavy and your haircuts wrong, so
They transfer you for a younger prettier model. Live to regret it
Won’t she – mark my words.
And they do. Mark you. And hold you back, and spit and shout and make out that all your best footwork is behind you.
That’s all they know.
You know they’re wrong and I know.
And you still see the same lads doing what they did twenty years ago – some are in the better seats now – but some are in the gutter.
And sometimes you want to scream – to say how it should have gone – who should have come on at half time and who got carried off – it's all fucking wrong.
Who are you anyway?
OO are ya, OO are ya.....
You know it and I know it.
And the whole thing hangs on the toss of a coin – as to how it goes
And if it goes at all; and that’s how it is.

Stood outside the ground,
Most of us,
Trying to get a ticket for our own lives.