poetry and football - Shakespeare to Messi

Poetry and football?

My working life has been devoted to writing poetry that is clear, crisp, concise and other descriptions that don't necessarily begin with C. For thirty years, I've happily stepped in front of an audience (any audience) and been reasonably confident (another C word!) that what I have to say will interest at least a few people in said crowd.

I attempt to write poetry the way I try and play football. When I was nine years old, I played my first game for South Coast United in the wilds of outer Brisbane. The coach, recognising my zeal, didn't assign me a position. His words, and I quote, were 'Just go where the ball is.' Freedom on the football field at age nine! What more could a child desire? I still recall a moment in that game, when I had the ball at my feet and the coach's son was ahead of me in a goal-scoring position. Between us stood a defender. I simply passed the ball into the space between defender and the goal for Brett to run on to and score. I savoured that pass and learned to love being the provider, not the scorer. For the next ten years, the same coach allowed me the privilege of playing my own game while Brett racked up the goals. I saw truth and beauty in the finely-timed, yet simple pass. I still do. For just a few seconds on the football field, it's the chance to have mastery over my immediate world - how do I pass? at what pace? And where? behind the defender? A chip over his head? My best answer on the field is generally to do the simple thing well.

Whenever a team-mate tries the impossible, yet artful, forty-metre diagonal ball, I sigh in frustration. Everyone thinks they're Shakespeare, or Lionel Messi. Me, I want to do the simple thing perfectly and hope it adds up to a beautiful whole. A bit like writing a verse-novel... line by line, I reckon?

And yet, sometimes I have to stop myself savouring the moment after passing - I realize I'm standing still on the field admiring the pass instead of running into position for a possible return ball. It's a bad look - to be so delighting in what you're doing.

It's much easier in my study to sit back after writing an acceptable sentence, or line, or paragraph - to read it aloud and enjoy the moment.

But here's the thing.

Poetry is my job, it's given me a good living for three decades, and I have no desire to close my keyboard anytime soon, but...

but... please don't ask me where truth and beauty mostly resides? I've tried with all my effort to find it in my study, and the failed attempts have given me a highly enjoyable job for a long time. But, every time I step on the football field, I know I'll find it, only for a few seconds... no matter what the result, no matter how I'm feeling - football allows me the indulgence of sheer poetry. Of all the scribbled lines of misdirected passes and dribbles I scrawl on the field on saturday, one... hopefully more... will be what I'm thinking about, and savouring, when I go to bed that night.

A football tragic, I am.