THE PLAYERS WITH THAT COMMON TOUCH
I love the players with that common touch,
Jinky Jim Smith’s nutmeg in his own box,
Albert Scanlon on the Coast Road bus,
boots wrapped up under his arm,
on his way to the game,
players with that common touch.
John McNamee swinging from a Roker cross-bar,
Mirandhina in his wooly gloves.
Gascoigne chewing on a Mars Bar
before he takes a corner,
I love the players with that common touch.
As a postman, I once delivered packets
to John McGrath’s door,
predicted the score
as he patted my head,
another player with that common touch.
Alan Suddick pulling shorts down
in the wall,
the triumphant leaps of Martins and Lua Lua,
I love the players with that common touch.
Bobby Mitchell smiling behind the Lochside bar,
the human decency of Frank Clark.
They reach your black and white soul they do,
all the players with that common touch.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
