A Football Poem

I haven't posted anything in a while because my family and I just got back from an excellent trip to Ghana. As you are probably aware, the World Cup, which is held every four years, is underway, and football (soccer) fever was at its peak while we were in Africa. The devotion to the sport, and the connection much of the world feels toward their country's football team is unlike anything I have seen in the U.S. any sport.

In case you haven't been following the games, Ghana played Uruguay on July 2. They were the last African team in the tournament and would have been the first African team to reach the semifinals if they won. In addition, this is the first time the World Cup has been held in Africa. Ghana was "the hope of Africa" to quote a commentator. At the end of the game it was tied 1-1 which sent them into 30 minutes of overtime. In the last minute of play (still 1-1), a Ghanaian took a point-blank shot which was blocked by the hands of a Uruguayan defender. This meant that the Ghanaian player was granted a penalty kick (a gimme shot in pro soccer) which bounced off the crossbar and missed. This sent the two teams into a penalty kick shoot-out which Ghana lost. Basically, they came as close to winning as a team possibly can without winning. This is a poem about the game.

Also, this is essentially a first attempt at a new style, a style which I frowned on for a long time. It is a very free, almost expressionistic style that I often see written poorly. Because of its minimal amount of rules, the poet must have excellent, insightful content to make it worth reading (which I hope I have here), otherwise it can sound like childish prose. That's one reason I generally use a more nursery rhyme style, it provides a firm structure to fall back on when content is lacking, even though it can be limiting and sometimes sing-song sounding.

Ghana Loses to Uruguay 7/3/10

Who made this man in yellow and white

the puppeteer of nations?

Unelected,

Yet all have chosen that their

hopes and fears should

rise and fall with his

success and loss.

And yet, against their will,

and even his,

This man must move a country,

a continent,

To glory or despair.

Nations rise to their feet

At the rise of his foot.

The strings and sinews beneath his skin

Are strings that swing the limbs

And bob the painted head.

A billion strong are bound

In one man,

In one moment,

In the simple kick of a ball, performed

A billion times before.

But now...

The hopes of all are born by

An air-stuffed sphere in Johannesburg,

No wings to guide its flight,

And sure to crash

to crash

crash

Three muscles rebels were,

Two neurons duty failed,

One billion faces fell.

Fickle Celebration, Ghana-weary,

Scattered elsewhere on the globe,

Finding finer friends in Uruguay

(Though no better earned)

At the mistake of one man kicking a ball.