Falling over in stages, a man goes down

one moment at a time, a second per inch passes,

the ticking of ridicule commences,

for even via television

the lover of the game

can be heard muttering, casually screaming

as the hands come out imploring,

looking to the referee with whistle in hand

as a penalty first won,

is cruelly, in his eyes, taken away.

He is not the first to sully

the memory of the game I loved

playing, too many, too often,

exposed, a hand of God,

my arse, a touch to the back

in friendly gesture, calls for the medic

to be airlifted, no country absolved,

the game they say is rotten and corrupt,

nothing new, when the cowboys

are running the show.

Ian D. Hall 2018