COMPETITION
Footing it featly
Jaspistos
In Competition No. 1550 you were in- vited to write an admiring sonnet to any well-known team or combination in sport.
Underneath the jesting, cerebral mask of Jaspistos the hero-worshipping school- boy still cheers and groans in the stands. Yes, I saw Alex James weaving at High- bury and later faithfully watched Johnny Haynes at Craven Cottage slide through those perfect long passes which there was nobody alert enough to collect; I witnessed Prince Obolensky, the most astonished man on the field, score that immortal try in the 'Varsity match; and I clapped till my hands were sore while Patty and Mulloy, in the Wimbledon doubles final, outfoxed opponents whose combined ages were less than half their own (we shared that one, Noel Petty). So I was delighted when nostalgia came up by the bucketful this week. Four of the best runners-up were Robert Baird, Nigel Blewrell, Peter Nor- man and John Willoughby, who celebrated respectively Nottingham Forest, Sunder- land, Oldham Athletic and dear old Darl- ington. The prizewinners printed below get £15 apiece, and Basil Ransome-Davies skates off with the last bonus bottle of Château Cantemerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshetons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, London WC2, who earn our hearty grati- tude for having generously sponsored a dozen competitions.
Remember them, adept upon the ice
In flowing swirls of purple, every move Erotic and alert? Their skates would slice The surface into arabesques, each groove A light thread in a love-knot, deftly tied As the Bolero's rhythms throbbed and flowed. His face was studious, stamped with secret
pride; Her lips were parted, and her features glowed. What sacrifice of usual life is made To reach perfection in a narrow sphere? What other aspirations are delayed While spellbound, gaping millions gasp and cheer?
Does art's exacting discipline mean selling Your heart's desire? Torvill and Dean aren't telling. (Basil Ransome-Davies) Last summer few had heard of Richard Dodds; Barber, Sherwani, were not household names; Batchelor, Kerly, Taylor? — Odds and sods, Pure amateurs with hockey sticks, their games Played out on misty autumn afternoons In London suburbs . . . Suddenly it seemed That hockey, victim of unfair lampoons, Was something else. First bronze, then silver gleamed As Indians and Aussies bit the dust, And, finally, the Germans. The sweat rolled Down, through Olympic heat. An English cheer Broke from astonished throats. We felt the lust Of victory: 3-1! We'd won the Gold!
For me these are the Sportsmen of the Year. (Richard Watts) `Four Musketeers' they called you, in those days When France triumphant ruled the tennis scene, A string quartet it falls to me to praise, Whose artistry I saw at seventeen — Borotra, Brugnon, Cochet and Lacoste, Those happy giants of the Centre Court: They won most often, and yet if they lost Remembered tennis was not war, but sport. Then Wimbledon was strictly amateur And flaming June invariably hot, The ladies' dress impeccably demure, And words unknown today were heard — 'Good shot!'
If I should qualify, it would be nice To see them play again in Paradise.
(Peter Hadley) Lancashire's won the toss; the wicket's dry; The visitors prepare to field and bowl; And soon spectators at Old Trafford spy The openers who to the wicket stroll. One is the captain, slim, with supple frame, Admired, respected, loved by all his side; The other (who is paid to play the game) Is well set-up, full-bearded and clear-eyed. The captain, fearlessly, and with great dash, Peppers the boundary, four after four; His partner's bat is never seen to flash He steals quick singles to advance the score. Years later, Thompson dreamed of this duo His Hornby and his Barlow, long ago.
(Stanley Shaw) To Watford PC The first sweet Saturday I saw you play Was from a freezing terrace in the rain In February, and Tranmere won away One-nil. I fell in love, and took the train Next week to Scunthorpe with the travelling Kop; All four of us — we chanted "Ere we go' And 'Scunthorpe shit' although it didn't stop Another one-nil loss: I loved you so!
And then you started winning, Elton John Sold golden discs and bought two hundred grand's Worth centre-halves, while with Division One Came sponsors, Johnny Barnes and sold-out stands.
My love's in fashion, yet like Luther Blissett When joy's an open goal I tend to miss it.
(Hugh Sullivan)
Previous page
