Giant Killing

I was holding Big Phil’s shin-pads as he marched up

to take that final penalty in the southern league cup;

he always took them out for such crucial moments –

one of his rituals that I’d never dared to question.

I remember smiling when I saw the boy running

down to the front of the stand; perhaps Phil laughed

at such a gawky lad going to join the ranks of men

waving their fists, spitting all the usual insults.

Big Phil, at that time our most popular player,

was felled by a laser pointer procured, allegedly,

by the boy, on-line, for four pounds ninety nine pence:

as he strode up to strike, the light hit his eye, he winced,

his boot scuffed the ball, which bobbled, slowly,

like a giant’s head, into the hands of their grinning goalie.

I still have the shin-pads, I found them yesterday in a box in the attic.

Just when I tried to clear the memories out, they all came back.

It turned out the boy did have a God-given right to take the piss,

but Phil was a man of ritual – who never got over it.

2013