Sicker Soccer

The £10,000 a week defender can’t quite catch the £20,000 striker who's got the ball at his nimble, expensive feet, the stadium yelling fit to raise the roof – what does he do? why, he pulls the striker’s shirt, of course…; the ref, the commentators remain silent. We, we were told off at nursery classes, for pulling little Johnny’s shirt… I mean, for Pele’s sake, what is this about? ! .. then at the end of the game (one side’s got to win, you’d think the fans are like they used to be, paid good money to watch a good match) the managers spit out their gum, pat each other on the back whilst walking away, and not looking each other in the eye… none of that love of the game stuff, the sparkling eyes of those who love their sport, shaking hands with a worthy opponent…ha… and as for cricket – ‘sledging’ – can you believe it? making sneery remarks to the batsmen while you stand in close… never happened when sport was something you enjoyed, loved to do, enjoyed the challenge and the company… ‘oh it’s all in good fun’… yeah? tennis, being one-on-one, ain’t so bad; psych yourself up but put the venom in your shots; but then, when the match ends, run up to the net (or so they used to) , eyes meet, shake hands, a few words? not so often – shake hands without making eye-contact, off to thank the umpire who's up there out of reach… it’s like some sorta natural law: when sport is a game like life, the game’s the thing, and well-played, sir; pay your ‘sportsmen’, your mercenaries, in the name of ‘popular entertainment’ and big business, and something disappears, as revenues increase; how long before poetry becomes a ‘spectator sport’ with a World Slam League out there and TV rights?