On First Looking at English Football

[TranquillityBase]

My old eyes are made curious again,
chase the tiny sphere,
watch with wonder the graceful ferocity of the pass, 
careful not to blink,
my vision soon enough intercepted by tangled legs,
lines and knots of heroes from many nations scattered
across the green field 
in and out of lifetimes in constant motion.

I worship every player
for a few seconds at a time, 
leaving my age and anxiety behind
amid the measured conflict 
of their sudden collisions 
and the balletic footwork battles,
all to careen the magic ball into attacks
and counter-crossed retreats.

Especially I admire the stoic goalie,
and dread the penalty kick,
that seems too much like an execution;
follow the commentators’ strange poetry
and the thundering chants from massed spectators, 
like cinematic Zulus 
who threaten with distorted hymns.

I’m learning what it takes to make a goal,
minutes that seem filled with hours of ceaseless effort
to make a single point,
but I just want to see the ball in play again
a deliverance from infirmity
and its inevitable relegation.

I wanted to grow old
without going mad.
I did not learn the lessons
of middle-age, at least not properly,
and a psychiatrist has become a life sentence.

So I turn spectator,
something called English Premier League,
I, who’ve hated sports 
since I was old enough to be picked
last for any team
now revel in a game I barely understand.

My eyes chase the ball,
watch with wonder the beautiful pass,
careful not to blink.
I admire the stoic goalie,
and dread the penalty kick,
follow the translators’ excitement
and the obscure chants of the crowd.

Secretly, I’m in love with every player
for a few seconds at a time,
leaving age and anxiety behind
amid the heroics of their runs, kicks,
collisions and rolling agonies.

Only one refusal remains:
a goal leaves me cold,
the celebration seems almost tragic.
I just want to see the ball again in play
to take me away
from what is gently called 
relegation.