It's strange the things
The mind recalls
Of Ugo Splaine
Not much at all.
He'd a Yorkshire dad
And a German mum
And hair grips in
His wavey blonde hair.
I'm not sure how his mother felt
Amidst our exuberant excitement.
For thirty two minutes
There were no more goals
Then Alan Ball's pass
Hurst's shot deflected
Peters is there
And gets the score.
We all leaped up
The men all roared
I broke a cup
But no one cared.
Clap, clap
Clap, clap, clap
Clap, clap, clap, clap
England!
Thirteen minutes
We'd need to hang on.
How could they breach
Our famous defence?
Emmerich's kick
Comes off George Cohen.
It falls to Held
He shoots across goal
It deflects off Schneider
Sends Banks the wrong way.
Weber is there to equalise.
We couldn't believe it
We thought we'd won.
World Cup victory
Snatched from our grasp.
The game's forced in
To extra time.
YOU ARE READING
Summer of Sixty Six
PoetryThey say if you remember the sixties you were not there but if you don't remember the summer of sixty six you were not born or are not English. Summer of Sixty Six is my take on the events of that summer recounted in verse. It swings between the Eng...
