There is a shelter in the park that acted as a goal,

the football aimed squarely at whoever was unfortunate enough

to act as the keeper, imagining they were Peter Shilton, Ray Clemence

or in my case the great Gordon Banks or even

Bert Trautman.

Not that I often went in goal, I didn’t like diving

on to bare concrete and seeing my T-shirt

ripped to shreds in a strange, weird way of portraying machismo.

I made allowances when some of the girls that we knew