Three minute hero

Like Alan McLoughlin, it could’ve been permanent,
His name writ forever in Ireland’s bright firmament.
There could’ve been fireworks, a legend forever,
Writ loud in the annals of Irish endeavour.

So closed to attaining that scarce immortality,
Snatched cruelly away by the jaws of banality,
St. Ledger, your hands were out grasping the crown,
Till Alberto Gilardino’s late blow struck you down.

Priorities

As they lowered you down in the cold, clammy clay,
Distinctly I heard you knock-knocking.
The rest of the fam’ly had all turned away,
Only I saw the pine coffin rocking.

I should have cried “Halt! I believe she’s alive!”
I should have said something, dear Nellie,
But, alas, all I knew was at quarter past five,
Ireland were playing on the telly.

Bigmouth strikes again

“Man of the match!” shouted Georgie
“Is awarded to young Kevin Doyle!”
And then he went into an orgy
Of praise for the blonde Irish Royal.

He’d run any niggly knocks off
And torn at the Bulgar defence.
He’d worked his proverbial socks off.
His worth to the team was immense.

As soon as the words had been spoken,
The ball came to Doyle five yards out.
Resistance would surely be token!
The nation drew breath to let shout.

The header was weak and untesting.
Their goalie breathed sighs of relief.
We spent several minutes divesting
Ourselves of our palpable grief.

“Man of the match?” we repeated,
In tones unforgiving and callous,
While Kev stood there pale and defeated,
Staring down at the poison-filled chalice.

.

Ireland 1 Bulgaria 1 2010 WC Qualifier

Highway robbery

“Stand and deliver!”
The words sent a shiver
Through those on the road to the Cape.
The Georgians peered out
When they heard the fierce shout,
But they’d no means by which to escape.

On eleven black horses,
The feared em’rald forces
Stood waiting, their pistols well cocked.
And a deafening barrage
Of shots rocked the carriage,
The roadway now totally blocked.

“Hand over the goods!”
Snarled the men in the hoods,
As the Georgians shrank back with a yell.
“And you’d better not tarry
Or these bullets will carry
You off to the great fires of Hell!”

There was naught they could do.
They were right in the stew,
As they looked out, confused yet resigned.
The three points were delivered
And the Fates roundly shivered
As we robbed the poor travellers blind.

Joey O’Brien terzanelle

To work your way onto the national team
Was once the goal of ev’ry fresh-faced lad.
It should be ev’ry budding player’s dream

To represent his country. It is sad
To hear about a young man snubbing what
Was once the goal of ev’ry fresh-faced lad.

It seems the Bolton midfield star has got
The hump with Signor Trap. I was aghast
To hear about a young man snubbing what

Could be a great career. In times now past
You revelled in the honour bravely won.
The hump with Signor Trap? I was aghast

At his presumptuous threat. ‘Twas never done
For, playing for the country of your birth,
You revelled in the honour bravely won.

No greater honour is there here on earth
To work your way onto the national team
For, playing for the country of your birth -
It should be ev’ry budding player’s dream.

The new Lansdowne

Oh John Delaney, thank you for your letter
Offering a seat in Lansdowne Road.
The graphics show the place will look much better
Than Irish football’s previous abode.

I’d really like to join you in this venture
To bring this country even further glory.
A real fan would have to have dementia
Not to want to join you in this story.

Sadly though, I must decline your offers.
I won’t be one of Irish football’s backers.
Tragically the Goulding household coffers
Don’t extend to seven thousand smackers.

If ever I’m enriched by antique pottery,
If ever I amount to very much,
If ever I should come up in the lottery,
Rest assured, I’ll surely get in touch.

Reiding the game

Eamo cannot understand
Why Trap will not play Andy.
“The best left foot in all the land
Must surely come in handy.
He’s far more gifted than, say, Hunt,
And really makes things happen.
He’ll feed the boyos we’ve up front,
Young Doyler and his cap’n.”

But though I favour Andy Reid
When victory is nearing,
If we should go on to concede,
Then Reid goes disappearing.
He doesn’t do much tracking back,
He doesn’t do much tackling.
In truth he comes across as slack,
When midfield needs tight shackling.

Oh Eamonn, you’re just one of those
Who loves to spout baloney.
I’ll put my faith in one who knows –
That’s Signor Trapattoni.