Soccer Lesson

A masterclass in the art of football commentary given by a well known author (living or dead)

I gaze at the mown pitch and almost weep remembering my childhood days, lost in the June grass, then taller than I was. The players’ colours, Costa Rica in red and England in white, blend together like apple blossom blazing against the crimson skies of a Cotswold sunset. Intent on winning the ball, opposing players trip over each other and fall, their limbs entwined as mine once were when, still young enough to sleep in my mother’s bed, I nuzzled into the warmth of her flesh. The referee blows his whistle taking me back to my village school and Miss Wardley blasting the end of precious playtime. Meanwhile play resumes. The teams fight on in tropic heat. Their legs, brown as haycocks, glow like honey. Wiping the sweat from my brow I think of Rosie, close-up and salty, quenching my thirst with more than a stone jar of cider.

(Laurie Lee)