Park Football Parents


The sun momentarily exploded,
from behind fleet clouds,
then gone, sleet-showered,
return to mourn-shift-shrouds.

We parents stood stiff,
numbed, ski hood-wearing,
watching our parked stars,
but dreams of butt parking.

Seven days before,
without the ice,
the team were crushed,
in a one-sided match:

But in training here,
stick-kids are bellowed:
– On to the ball,
– Off the ball,
– Down the line,
– Wide,
– Mark-him, mark-him!

The coach, never mellowed.
Bunched, fathers and mothers:
now soaked, hardly talking,
minutes dribble to the end of the session:

Murmurs in the long-stood section,
– Is it ten, does he know?
Eventually, after extra time,
The coach lets them go.

We parents are first in the cars,
door-slammed,venting, heat-pumped:
Our drip-kids, back-seat drivers in life,
listen to our hurrumphs, as we pull away;

Thankyou and Goodbyes,
Only those players, in the rear
know the full truth,
and how it can disappear.


 

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