You were,
without a doubt,
the worst goalkeeper I ever played with.

Six, seven, eight nil,
it was often your fault,
your 10-year-old arms flapping in the wind.

Having a flailing and wailing
custodian behind me
made my job as a defender that much harder;
my confidence diminishing
whenever the ball went past me.

When you eventually left the team,
we won games.
When you eventually left the game,
we lost our team.

What I’d give today
for a soft, floated cross to come in to our box,
slip through your hands
and smash you in the face;
The ball bursting
on your everlasting smile.

© Carl Burkitt 2013