He wasn’t a big bloke
But agile, seemed to be able to make himself twice his size
By moving and leaping
Nudging one over the top like a six-footer
Next minute down like a plummet at a centre-forward’s feet
Plucking the ball off his toes.
He had a sense of humour too:
Something you need in February when the ball’s bogged down in midfield mud
The wind cuts in off the moors
The sleet slices you in two
And all you can do is stand there
Stamping your feet and blowing your hands and
Cold.
Bone cold.
Fingers stiffen and turn blue.
Oh for some action to get the blood racing again.
But you know that when it does and if you have to catch it or palm it the wet leather will sting
And the fingers will hurt
Even through a glove.
Suddenly the ball, heavy and leaden
Breaks through the mud
The stocky forward nips between the backs and with a glance
Crashes one in from the edge of the box.
Too cold to leap like a salmon
He feels more like a seal
His cold wet weight struggling to defy gravity
The ball bends past him –
Motionless – just off his line
It loops over his groping arm
Away into icy eternity….
But no – double-jointed curving back his circus fingertips
Spine stretching as on a racking machine
Chilled sinews groaning and creaking
He tips it on to the bar with a ringing thud.
The ball spins away into touch.
He staggers back over the line,
Seems to hover briefly till balance defeated
He tumbles into the onion bag,
Dazed and reeling, caught like a wriggling trout in a landing net.
Out of the tangled mass silver sunlight teases
A winter moment of rainbow stipple
And a toothy dry smile beneath a muddied tweed cap.
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Stephen A. Linstead
Image: Antoni Ramallets via 101 Great Goals
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