Kabbadi Keegun!!!

Kabbadi Keegun!!!

Kabbadi Keegun!!!

On one permitted breath
(proved by chanting kabbadi)
he runs inside from the line
for an arc of Walsall’s defenders –
with a lunge he touches a limb,
the defender must break to pin him
out of his breath, but that’s a dream
as my uncle’s already turning
and turned shimmying for the centre.

With our granddads and dads, us fans
of Southall invade waving
fivers and tenners – slapped
on his oil’d chest or laid at his feet,
cos he’s the raider who scored
the trophy point, against his pleas
he’s raised through the crowd to the sun
and compared by chants to his hero:
Keeegun!!! Keeegun!!! Keeegun!!!

In class, I’d go with the chat of
Keegan winning the European Cup
or Golden Boot with Hamburg
hitting the charts with ‘Head over
Heels’, but I’d keep our Keegan
and the ways of our world
to myself or I’d be knocked
into touch
by lads up for footie alone.

This fatherless boat-boy, a packer
at Walls (who sleeps on my floor!),
inherited debts to the family,
yet he was the Captain of England
touring the globe on unpaid leave.
Behind his back, while he’s at his
peak, my parents hounding
the marriage-brokers to win
the finest figure.

Retired to Mansfield as part
of the deal, he runs a cousin’s store.
Though once in a while he’s forced
after thugs who escape in cars
he’ll chase round the bend as they
chuck dribbling cans at his feet
impressed by the man they’ve heard
will follow them over the rise
with the ends of the sun on his back.