Dad comes to watch my football,
He says he wants to help my game,
Improve the way I play.
He paces up and down the line,
“Go faster, go harder” he growls,
I struggle through the muddy grass,
Afraid I’ll let him down.
He stamps his feet and screams aloud,
“For God sake, take the shot!”
Mum’s mortified, on the side,
Again, Dad’s lost the plot.
I wish I were a better player,
Like my other football friends,
Whose Dads smile and cheer and clap their hands,
And hug them at the end.
On the way home I am silent,
As Dad offers his advice,
Blocking out the words I’ve heard,
More than once or twice.
“Next week” he says “we’ll warm up more,
That’ll help to fire you up,
We’ll practice more drills to hone your skills,
And get aggressive, be more tough.”
“Actually Dad” I whisper,
Almost too afraid to speak,
“I think I’ll play a better game,
If Mum takes me next week.”
He glares in the rearview mirror,
“What do you mean?” He’s getting wired,
“It means as far as football goes,
I’m sorry Dad, but you’re fired!”
© Lisa Nimmo 08/06/16Lisa Nimmo is an author, poet and mum of two teenagers, based in Wellington New Zealand. To receive more poems like these direct to your inbox, enter your details here: