I would have skipped the stupid games,
long afternoons spent chilled in goal,
or sleepy, scratching, in deep field,
leapt the sagging fence
and learnt, as others do, apparently,
from dying mice, cow parsley,

if it weren't for this persistent sense
of something - like the words to songs,
sung out on the bus
to matches, like my name on lists
on notice boards, shortened
called across the pitch,

trusted by the ones who knew,
the ones with casual shoulders, cool -
that thing, I mean, that knack, that ease,
still sailing, like those hockey balls,
like sodden summer tennis balls,
right past me.