Poetry and Sports: Soccer/Football

Someone I know (who is a former pastor and now part-time soccer referee) handed this to me the other day. His interest in it was partly inspired by the World Cup, I'm sure, but I was just surprised to have somebody hand me poetry in broad daylight.


The poem itself isn't bad, even if it is somewhat obvious in its approach. It reminds me of growing up in Portugal, my Dad used to joke that to the Portuguese football was a religion, Catholicism was a hobby. This isn't great literature, but I present is as an example of poems living and breathing out in the world, doing good work, fulfilling its mission whatever it might be. 

Football at Night

Michel Quoist

This evening at the stadium the night was stirring, filled with ten thousand shadows.
And when the flood-lights had painted green the velvet of the great field, 
The night was filled by a chorus of ten thousand voices.


The master of ceremonies had given the signal to begin the service, 
The impressive liturgy moved forward smoothly.
The ball flew from celebrant to celebrant, 
As if everything had been minutely planned in advance. 
It passed from foot to foot, slipped along the field, and flew away overhead. 
Each was at his post, taking the ball in turn, passing it to the next one who was there to receive and pass again. 


And because each one did his part in the right place, 
Because he put forth the effort required, 
Because he knew he needed all the others, 
Slowly but surely the ball gained ground, 
And made the final goal! 


While, at the end, the immense crowd flowed laboriously into the narrow streets,
I reflected, Lord, that human history, for us a long game, is for you this great liturgy,
A prodigious ceremony initiated at the dawn of time, which will end only when the last celebrant has completed his final rite.


In this world, Lord, we each have our place. 
You, the far sighted Coach, have planned it for us. 
You need us here, our brothers need us, and we need everyone.


It isn’t the position I hold that is important, Lord,
But the reality and strength of my presence. 
What difference whether I am playing forward or back, as long as I am fully what I should be?


Here, Lord, is my day before me... 
Did I sit too much on the sidelines, criticizing the play of others, my hands in my pockets?
Did I play my part well? 
And when you were watching our side, did you see me there? 
Did I catch my team mates pass and that of the player at the end of the field? 
Did I co-operate with my team without seeking the limelight? 
Did I play the game to obtain victory, so that each one should have a part in it? 
Did I battle to the end in spite of set- backs, blows and bruises? 
Was I troubled by the demonstrations of the crowd and of the team, discouraged by their lack of understanding and their criticisms? 
Made proud by their applause? 
Did I think of praying my part, remembering that in the eyes of God this human game is the most religious of ceremonies? 
I come in now to rest in the Pavilion, Lord, 
Tomorrow if you kick off, I’ll play a new position, 
And so each day... 


Grant that this game, played with all my brothers, may be the imposing liturgy that you expect of us, 
So that when your final whistle interrupts our lives, we shall be chosen for the championship of heaven.