Football

The Magic of the Cup: A Poem

The Magic of the Cup

There are two different embodiments of the game

Two different footballs forever in opposition

Forever in contest on some spectral field

In a match that will never cease.

Crunching tackles that roar like thunder

Fierce shots that flash like lightning

Toiling through the elements

Wrestling for every inch of turf,

Every second of possession.

Two different types of football.

One of them is for the people and

One of them is of the people.

One brings record profits to thirsty businesses

While the other depends on charity.

One is seen on every television screen

In every city in the world

While the other is played

In the street and in

The park for no audience.

Each of them is glorious

But money and passion

Are like oil and water

Every new season begins with

Capitalistic talent hoarding and ends with

The richest teams lifting the most coveted silverware

Yet between the inevitable end

To the inevitable start there is

The wondrous reprieve of Cup football.

Weekend trips to Wycombe Wanderers

Midweek replays in Milton Keynes

Muddy pitches

And rusty goalposts

It’s the Magic of the Cup as it lives and breathes.

It doesn’t even matter the result

It’s about that moment right before kick-off

When the stakes of the entitled are entwined

With those of the poor but hopeful.

It doesn’t even matter the result

But should the underdogs happen to triumph

Then we will tell their tale for generations

And should the underdogs happen to fall

Then we will love them anyway

Because they reminded us

That sport is more than just

Winning and losing and

That those memories of

Jackets and scarves on the terraces

Straining to see through the

Pouring rain and standing to see