Jumpers for goalposts

A writing group inspired attempt at combining prose poetry and football - well it is the World Cup, the sun is out, England is winning (at least for now), so why not.

Colours, tribes, dreams screams Reffffffffffff are you blind. Smell the grass, Stanley Matthews' bath, sliding tackles, better than sex. Do you remember, Unbelievable, a worldy, a stinker, my mate John. My father, my son, my daughter, my mum. Long suffering. Community. Faith and belief. A place to hide. New season sunshine. New season hope, new season kit, mid season dip. The familiar, the friends in the stands. What's their names, I don't know. Twenty seasons sat with them and I still don't know. Winter, Boxing Day, Bovril and a pie. Come and sit up here with me lad, I'm going to kick the cat when I get back. Injustices injuries spankings and romps, Which will I need first, a new knee a new hip an arthritic thumb. Scars, stitches, strains and tears. Comedy thigh, the Ranmoor Chippie, don't tell me the score I've got it on record. Bloody Germans. I'll have what you've got left. They think its all over. It never is.