Ode to grass

Filippo Ricci


Saturday afternoon, usual fucking drizzle at Stamford Bridge
Rain graciously hammering the grass like the Blues with Pompey
A message from Damien, a Welshman worried by the weather
In the press stand you think of mud, of tackles, of wet jumpers for goalposts
Of English football, as we see it from the continent
Incredibly far from Roman's millions
You fall asleep dreaming of Regent's Park. Shanks for the memories

Morning. The light from your bed, a sign
The sun, the clear air, the memories of the mountains in Italy, years rolling back
And rolling even further with Big Jack on the back of the moped
He's wearing shorts, not even a Geordie would dare
Bloody freezing, an unhinged two wheels, many fucking miles to cover
Notting Hill, Maida Vale, The Lords, Regent's Park. No traffic, it's Sunday morning
Gaffer coordinating the reunion. Everybody lost, scattered everywhere
Then you see him, his gestures, unmistakable. One in a million
Back to where he belongs, even without his bike
Where we belongs

No nets to put up, changing rooms under the ground, no Lady Phillys
But the atmosphere, the odours, the air, the "Dolomites" inside the zoo
And the grass. Uneven, muddy, threadbare, faded
Alive and kicking, not dead like the astroshit
You run, up and down. Feeling your legs weighed down by the same grass
You dribble, one, two, three. And then you lose the ball
You shoot, unluckily very wide
You do the sombrero
You don't score, but this has nothing to do with the grass
That gives you wings, and a smile
That makes you dare, and happy
You may even think that London is a wonderful place. Innit?