Number 8 Poem by Phoebe Riley

Gerronimo. Superhero.
The fans call
You strike the ball
It bursts the net
No need to fret
The sea of red congregate
Sing, shout and celebrate
Win wrapped up,
Lauding home another cup.
Number eight
Stains the Trafford gate
Scouse faces alight
Deafening noise into the night
You had me on my knees
Stevie G held the Liverpool key
Violence, punch
The glass went crunch!
Pinstriped suit and shirt in court
My respect for you decayed to nought
Dawn breaks, early hour’s dispute in the clubs
Smash, pound, sweat breaks downtown in the pubs
As you stood there in the dock
Anxious fans stalked the clock
But I could hardly suppress a glee
Seeing you sweat so feverishly
Bang. The sentence. Years in jail
Now it’s me the Kop will hail
Love for the beloved number eight
Has now converted to corrosive hate
Captain’s armband graces my sleeve
All eyes are now on me
They sing JAMIE CARRAGHER, our number twenty three.