The Lonely Life of the League 2 Football Supporter
With Bradford City comfortably (in the end) remaining in League 1 to fight another season, I thought I'd finally post this, which recently reached the final of the National Poetry Slam. It sounds better when read aloud, particularly the fifth and ninth verses!
The Lonely Life of a League Two Football Supporter
Saturday. Another faceless town Of pound shops and graffiti. Yet again Supporters in their hundreds have come down To brave the air of menace, and the rain.
Claret and amber-clad they left at dawn With Ginsters to sustain them on their way, Longing for victory over rivals sworn, Clinging to memories of glory days.
Four defeats in a row now, and one draw, Yet something tells them this time they will win it… If they can only maybe try to score, Avoiding own goals in the ninetieth minute.
Clustered on concrete terraces they stand Anticipating triumph and success, Rubbing together icy, wind-chapped hands, Expectant of three points, and nothing less.
The home announcer, genuinely sincere, Welcomes the Visitors who’ve travelled down From darkest Yorkshire. In response you hear A loud, lone cry of “WANKER!!” from the crowd.
First up the home team’s mascot ambles by – A man dressed as an unconvincing bee Or giant bird with haunted, cartoon eyes, Dancing to Queen enthusiastically
Then suddenly it’s starting, as the teams Run on, each one accompanied by cheers, Pretending this match is the stuff of dreams – In a flat-pack stadium straight out of IKEA.
Then… ninety uneventful minutes pass, With several near misses and one goal That’s quickly ruled offside, until at last, In extra time, a penalty! The whole
Place hushes (all except a single cry Of “Wanker!” from the terraces again I don’t know who it was aimed at, or why). The striker, self-assured, prepares, and then…
Hits the post. The final whistle sounds. The hangdog players slowly trudge away. Stoic spectators shuffle from the ground, Their sights already set on who they’ll play
Next week. A single point is better than Nothing, but ultimately not enough To reach the play-offs, and fulfil the plan Of reaching League One – where things will be tough.
Yes, oh that it has come to this – the dream We strive for is the Third Division. We Twelve years ago a Premiership Team Fantasize about Brentford and Bury.
Next Saturday a home game could expand Our chances of that mouth-watering prize. But until then we’ve got still got a game in hand With Bristol – who last time ran out of pies.
The Lonely Life of a League Two Football Supporter
Saturday. Another faceless town Of pound shops and graffiti. Yet again Supporters in their hundreds have come down To brave the air of menace, and the rain.
Claret and amber-clad they left at dawn With Ginsters to sustain them on their way, Longing for victory over rivals sworn, Clinging to memories of glory days.
Four defeats in a row now, and one draw, Yet something tells them this time they will win it… If they can only maybe try to score, Avoiding own goals in the ninetieth minute.
Clustered on concrete terraces they stand Anticipating triumph and success, Rubbing together icy, wind-chapped hands, Expectant of three points, and nothing less.
The home announcer, genuinely sincere, Welcomes the Visitors who’ve travelled down From darkest Yorkshire. In response you hear A loud, lone cry of “WANKER!!” from the crowd.
First up the home team’s mascot ambles by – A man dressed as an unconvincing bee Or giant bird with haunted, cartoon eyes, Dancing to Queen enthusiastically
Then suddenly it’s starting, as the teams Run on, each one accompanied by cheers, Pretending this match is the stuff of dreams – In a flat-pack stadium straight out of IKEA.
Then… ninety uneventful minutes pass, With several near misses and one goal That’s quickly ruled offside, until at last, In extra time, a penalty! The whole
Place hushes (all except a single cry Of “Wanker!” from the terraces again I don’t know who it was aimed at, or why). The striker, self-assured, prepares, and then…
Hits the post. The final whistle sounds. The hangdog players slowly trudge away. Stoic spectators shuffle from the ground, Their sights already set on who they’ll play
Next week. A single point is better than Nothing, but ultimately not enough To reach the play-offs, and fulfil the plan Of reaching League One – where things will be tough.
Yes, oh that it has come to this – the dream We strive for is the Third Division. We Twelve years ago a Premiership Team Fantasize about Brentford and Bury.
Next Saturday a home game could expand Our chances of that mouth-watering prize. But until then we’ve got still got a game in hand With Bristol – who last time ran out of pies.
Labels: Bradford City, football, poetry