The away match - a football poem from the pen of Dick Sturch


- Credit: Archant

Milwey Rise FC correspondent, and former player at the club Dick Sturch, has put together a splendid poem about the game he graced for so many years - it’s a good read!

The away match

(circa 1958-59)

We call at the Trout for Sam and Pete

Who emptied their glasses and got to their feet.

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Then quickly climbed into the car

With cigarette smoke and the smell of the bar.

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Then boasts of last night`s beer consumption.

Females and supposed seductions.

Arriving at Donyatt we enter the pub,

Shown to the alley where skittles still stood.

Climb into our strip. White trimmed on blue.

Discarded clothes left laying astrew.

Boots laced up. Shin pads tucked in

`Gainst embrocated, bright red skin..

We walk to the field studs scraping the road,

Into a meadow that cows still patrol.

Dodging the pats we carefully tread

Onto a pitch of green stewed veg.

Its grass grown long. Its surface rough.

And all the lines with creosote cut.

The Ref blows up and we put out our fags.

Skip claps his hands. “Now come on lads.”

From over the hedge some bullocks stare

Then all together they start to blare.

We`re one goal up when Sam takes a gamble

Back heels the ball in a goalmouth scramble.

Several more chances come our way

But the ball`s not running for Pete today.

Half time comes with orange quarters

(Or tea from the flasks of Millwey supporters.)

And a few minutes later we start again,

As constant drizzle turns to rain.

A hat-rick for Sam who scores twice more.

Then Perce with a cracker nets the fourth.

The game is over. We`ve won four nil

And back to the pub in triumph we spill.

Into a tin bath whose waters turn

A thick sludgy brown as we all churn

Hands and faces - legs - then boots,

And lots of very rude abuse.

In the car on our journey back

We plan for tonight and talk of the match.

Agree a time for drinks in the bar.

Then onto the Plaza to see the All Stars.

Drizzle still filling the afternoon’s gloom

As out of the murk the Trout Inn looms.

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