THE GAME

It's raining, and on a public pitch a kind of war's proceeding, it's rules of engagement known pretty well, and pretty often they're broken.

A handful of people, strung out in a line, are watching with close attention, and their voices are hoarse with yelling commands combined with imprecations.

The keeper stands in the goal mouth mud which he's got on his shirt, his shorts, in his hair, and the ref's blown his whistle for a foul that's committed, and awarded a penalty for it.

The spot's been obliterated, and the ball is placed horrendously close to the goal, but stoic the keeper stands his ground in the mud, while others are loudly complaining.

This is his trial, and the moment of truth's a few moments away.
He dives. He saves, but the ball's slipped his grasp, and there's a thud as it's kicked and comes of the boot with the fury of just indignation.

He's saves it again, and after the corner and a fierce little fracas,
the defenders are on the attack.
The play's moved away, and for the moment, you'd think, the goalie can sigh with relief.

But relief's not what he wants. What he wants is to be
On trial again for his life.

It's the only reason he plays this game;
The reason he fights this Sunday war
On a public park in the rain.