Rush Goalie Poem by Jerry Pike

Rush Goalie

We played, feet off ground, to decide captains,
one potato two, for first pick,
the serious ones took boots,
skull toed with dubbin stitching,
though no one had a proper kit,
still school grey-socked,
a decade from the great white shortie.
We lined up deep in our summer field,
skied a whirling coin,
and heads of course, stared up.
At seven, you had scuff knee,
bumper boot status,
if you were in the first chosen elite.
Our select gangs mingled and threatened,
jousting and jostling in pre-fight bravado,
mocking and chanting those poor losers.

Jumpers down, your own goalposts moved,
depending how much the enemy watched.
Small goals were good, broad posts were good,
a boy that didn’t turn away
when shots were blasted at his face, was best,
though bloodier.
One less runner in the boot brigade,
and you had rush goalie, that super hero,
who could both save you and score,
though usually he was last choice, so did neither.
With no touch lines or goal lines,
people would near vanish from sight,
while dribbling down the wing,
reappearing through the long grass,
to score past Gordon Banks,
and dash back,
the scream team of sixty-four.