News

Sheffield Spirit by Chris Towers

December 2023

Sheffield, dashing in shirts and shorts of blue,

full of the spirit of Creswick and Prest,

ran like greyhounds unleashed upon grasses,

before gathering to form closed huddles

 

by the puddles, talking teams and tactics, 

linking arms and puffing cheeks to the full,

before breaking from their round cluster to 

fist pump the air, for Sheffield, all for one.

 

Families bunched with knees a knocking and

tuna fish sandwiches, sundaes, and smiles

as players bumped like dodgems in the sods

of grass, with bumps in lumpy, like porridge.

 

On a pitch sticky like treacle pudding,

with tricks, flicks and tippy tap skills, Sheffield

subdued the Reds as I smelt gravy, warm

on chippy top trays with sauce and sausage.

 

I saw smoke billowing from a tower,

the power station offloading fumes,

like a cigarette from a lone smoker,

as hungry hearted Sheffield harried proud

 

Forest, replete in their poppy red shirts,

on a Sunday of rain and remembrance.

Rain, swirling softly in Catherine wheels.

The sort that curtails camping holidays

 

on sodden moors in a late September.

Sheffield, chasing, charging, pounding as rain

pitter pattered on the steel of the stand,

sounding like the tip taps of a keyboard.

 

Sheffield lost, but headed with pride to the

pumpkin like orange glows of changing rooms,

with hot showers, towels, and physios and

ready-rub creams to comfort the tired limbs.