On my second day in Bootle, an old man,

withered looking but comfortable in his stride

and his shoulders resolutely swaggering

towards recruitment, came up to me as I breathed in

a different town’s air and asked from underneath

his floating pencil gray moustache, which side

of the divide

did I belong?

 

“Divide”? I enquired, naturally thinking red or blue

or what was it she said, they also play up the road don’t they

in a different colour, or of course this could be a Wirral

infiltration plot, like being recruited for MI6,

the chase scene through the yet unexplored

streets of my new town, culminating

in dying heroically in some fair maiden’s arms, a bullet

having struck my heart as the team sheet I carried

for Tranmere Rovers was smuggled safely to Prenton Park;

a nation thankful for the unnamed man who gave

his life to protect a vital three points against

the scavenges of the lower league.

 

Divide? Perhaps he meant did I favour the crib team

who played in the pub at one end of the road

or the pool squad, limber, resolute, their training sessions

so complex that it required the skills of a manger

who had worked on the continent, Champions Pool

League and whose tactics were not only legendary

but his fierce drive was infectious, expecting everyone

in his team to want to win at all costs.

The Crib team, managed locally, a player through

The Boot Room ranks, always promoting from within,

Winners of major trophies throughout history and with

a sense of conviction and love

for all things Bootle from the edge

of the Pitch Pine Pavement

to the outskirts where the postcode became

the outer limits.

Their legacy built upon the founding father,

a man from the Docks who gave his life

in pursuit of the perfect

twenty-nine hand.

 

I could see that an answer was forthcoming, divide?

What did I know about divides? Then in the nick of time

it struck me, of course, how stupid could I be,

I didn’t have to hedge my bets

on which team shirt I would cheer on in a Merseyside,

or perhaps, but unlikely,

Wirral Earth shattering event, F.A. Cup Final,

hopes of a commendation medal and a posthumously

discreet O.B.E. placed with pride by my weeping bride

on the wall, dashed in seconds as for who wants

to pass on the tactics of a manager before their

biggest day, neither would I be choosing so soon

on whether the baize or the

heroics of pegging out, stifling the opponent with

bluff and counter bluff, my only tell, the slight, tight

curled at one end smile as my own moustache

bristles with subdued excitement, the honour

of playing for the Shankly of the card table

driven from my mind as I replied with certainty

in my voice, “Oh, I am very much a Beatles fan,

my mother always said you were a Lennon fan or

you were in bed with the Stones.” I joked with him,

“I don’t think the Stones

needs groupies like me, cramping their style!”

 

With a look of contempt, he turned his back on me

and hasn’t spoken to me since, I want to tell him I

realise now what a fool I had been and that I understood

what he meant on that kindle dry October day,

I also think that the seagulls

on the parish church roof

are a nuisance.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.