It is your t- shirt stiffly dry on the Hills hoist

brings memories of misty mornings, following the team.

I shouted, and shouted, disgracefully, my breath 

a stream of strong heat, crying out, urging you

forward pocket to Kick a goal, Be a winner;

Quick and crafty like Buckley, Up like Cazaly,

Keep the ball in play, I would scream

Kick forward. It’s all about winning the game.

Suddenly you stopped, sick of bumps, thumps,

tackles and pummelling, from bulldogs and boars

twice your size and skite, ripped off the jumper,

striped socks , and the boots, out before the last fight.

With a shake of your head, joined me, in the outer,

Shouting, screaming and urging them on. Your t-shirt a smug fit.

Wendy Fleming

Acknowledgement

This poem first appeared in Melbourne Poets Union Chapbook Series No3

Kickers and Knockers eds. Phil Ilton and Garth Madsen 2005