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Sheffield FC - In Winter - By Chris Towers

This month I reflect on football played in winter when the elements seem to conspire but the harsh conditions make it strangely more enjoyable. The orangeness of the ball in times past and the huddling together made for memories. The shirts always seemed shinier, the weather always colder and the air so much thicker. Food always seemed to taste better in the chill of winter. My poem seeks to capture these recollections.

And it was in winter that snow befell

upon the Sheffield turf like powder light,

a dusting made for season, dressed for an

orange leather ball glowing Jaffa bright.

 

And the floodlights cascaded light upon

the sheen of flakes as fires of sunset pink

dipped upon the horizon, like beacons

from the city shining over Dronfield.

 

The ball punted high and low as soft ice 

balls drifted , tender as tissue paper,

with your eyes of teacup china blueness

and your coat as red as bright tomatoes.

 

You saw the Jaffa ball  fly in the snow

poked peas and pickles in a  plastic cup,

watched the steam snake into the chilly air

as you shone in your shiny Sheffield shirt.

 

With legs a pumping like steaming engine,

the Sheffield Striker unleashed the leather,

lost in the lights and drifting shards of white

you then saw it nestle in the netting.

 

You smelled hops from the coach and horses,

heard referee whistles in the brothy

air, saw amber lights on the Sheffield Road

as you clasped your winter bonnet, tight.