A poem based on the accurate representation of a football match in 181 seconds, replayed on the cracked display of a recently smashed smartphone.
Scrap that. 178 seconds; 3 being replays of already once repeated highlights.
Ode to Wes’s 350th game.
Two, Three, Four Harrison. Read: the heraldic announcement of a mere mortal breed. Six. A German. Impressive. Great. Summer recruit.
Number 8 – 1 long ball forward, shit touch at the back. Committed by name. A footballer… slack. Two fists down low. High fives all around. A corner to City, other end of the ground.
The teen Madders takes it, we’re on the attack. Nelson meets hit, hits the post with a thwack. Smack, hacked away like a hot chocolate orange.
Like City’s attack nothing works
Here we’ve returned, more side to side passing. Our Murphy’s back too, shit finish. Needs glassing.
Wes passes backwards. Sunderland Away. 350 appearances. This won’t be his day. Take me out, please. Hanley obliges. The post to Gunn’s rescue. Isle of Fernandos. Surprises.
Surprises, Wessi back on the bench. He’ll get the best view. Of this thriller. Intense. Like the foil on a milk bottle; Gunn’s latest stop, down to his right the cream of the crop.
Now comes the fun part, the comedy caper. Like a Delia recipe, it looks easy on paper.
Maddison – Oliveira. The latter he misses.
Oliveira – Maddison. The latter. Two misses.
Ball back off the post. Your grandfather’s missus, Been dead ten years, even she couldn’t miss this.
Free kick from the left falls kindly to Ivo. He slots it home nicely. Captain fantastic. Believe. Oh, heads in hands. Pots and pans. Kitchen sink time. But wait it’s not coming. Draw this is a crime. Watch Josh Murphy back up to his tricks.
Handshakes all round. This won’t be a quick fix.