Football and Poetry

 

There’s a lot of guff talked about the poetry of football, “the beautiful game” that is played in “the theatre of dreams”. But we all know that’s just a collection of platitudes and cliches used by the media, the sporting organisations and their sponsors to sell shirts and put bums on seats.

But there is beauty in the game, and poetry too.  I’ve been enjoying the World Cup and following it closely enough on the TV. You know, of course that you are being manipulated to an extent as you watch, but there are also moments when the game goes off script – when the racial stereotypes are debunked by the players themselves, when a core of nobility shines through. And then there are those other unscripted moments when the behaviour of a player excites the anathema of whole nations. Such was the case of Luis Suarez in this World Cup. Here was a guy with a huge gift for the game but also a history of peculiarly violent behaviour who appeared to have somehow succeeded in rehabilitating himself, only to throw it all away again last week. He had an exemplary year at Liverpool bringing them to second place in the Premier League and had almost singlehandedly put England to the sword in their second group game against Uruguay.

Many talented footballers have been morally compromised over the years. We don’t need to name them or their flaws once again. Messi is the exception that proves the rule. If he is the Son of God, then Suarez is the Demiurge.

Strangeley enough, the more I thought about the bite on Chiellini the more I felt a peculiar sympathy for Suarez. Of course I couldn’t understand why he’d done it – who could? But still I felt bad for him, and I was not alone. Even Chiellini, the victim, felt the player’s punishment was too much. Last Friday Donal Óg Cusack, the former Cork Hurling goalkeeper, wrote a very refreshing and compassionate piece on the whole affair in the Irish Examiner.

For my part, I offer this poem.

The Demiurge

for Luis Suarez

He came from the favelas,

the barrios, the shanty towns,

mouth dry and belly empty.

Made, not begotten,

fatherless, rudderless,

no soul to speak of,

no words to explain

the threat in his eyes.

Made in God’s image and likeness,

but ugly with it –

the kind of face

only a mother could love.

He had nothing

but hunger and love

for a game played

from sunrise to sundown

through the heat

of the day with scant

hope in his heart and

a small dusty world at his feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Comments (2)

  • Hi Brian,
    thanks for sharing this wonderful poem – at the home of football poetry.

    Your poem wonderfully captures the enigma of Luis Suarez, in a reverential way that all true football fans would probably share – along with incredulity at the action and a sympathetic arm hoping he can find guidance to eliminate his strange compulsive disorder.

    regards,
    Simon, co-editor, http://www.footballpoets.org

    ps
    any more – would be entirely welcome.

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