STEPHEN WATT waxes lyrical about breaking the losing streak in the latest entry into our 'What Football Means To Me' series.
Three-nil down before half-time
pissing into a cast iron pig trough
while leaning against
an unsanitary, magnolia toilet wall,
the losing streak slithers in
beneath my skin, and settles.
Apathy is apparent.
Supporters slew phones, twiddle radios
for other scores, harvest pie crumbs
from scarves, percolating snores
as wave after wave of attack upon us
dispatches chills into the bones
that we may be witnessing a club record score –
It costs a lot of money to feel this grim.
To never win.
To sit on mild steel and plastic,
bereaved of blood and heat
confronted with parts of you which shrivel
after each successive hefty defeat
while the old lad seated next to me
smuggles a cider-charged colostomy bag
into the stadium.
On the plus side,
at least he’s abstaining from popping Valium.
Reduced crowds culminate in razor-sharp winds
lacerating new fingers
and assisting the ball-boys
with the enthusiasm of a grave-digger.
Let’s try keep it below double figures, lads.
And then, it happens.
Someone scuffs the mudded ball off an outstretched knee;
an O.G, and the goal is given.
One-nil. Oh holy… Games-a-bogey.
We’ve won! The run is done. All is forgiven.
Football is loved again.
STEPHEN WATT IS THE POET-IN-RESIDENCE AT DUMBARTON FC. FOLLOW HIM ON TWITTER @StephenWattSpit