Poems about sport

Boxing

The ball of the century

they measure him
they measure me
height weight chest
waist biceps reach

the bandages around our hands
and our gloves are measured
as is the ring and all manner of things
times and towels and helpers
in the corner
all measured and regulated

and we are matched
by men who've been there
and look after us
who draw up columns of equality
where important boxes get ticked
age experience medical matters
the tension of the ropes
the intensity of the lights
the size of the square

but before each fight
as the ring is cleared
and the buzz goes down
my trainer lays his hand
flat on my hard chest
and tells me quietly
now it's about the thing
that can't be measured

Match point

the ball curls through the air
at jet speed to us
though crawling for the one who's
losing this match now

for him the ball's Einstein slow
no calculation
no milliseconds of relativity
can put him and the ball
in the same partition
of time and space

the facts of what happens next
are identical to both players
the ball thuds the back wall
victory-thunder  net-shake

but feelings go flip-side
as the court becomes
more yin-yang than Einstein
blue base white lines one side
white base blue lines the other

the ball of the century
had deception stitched
into its birth certificate
when Warnie's arm
rolled over
like a languid windmill
and Gatting set himself
to watch and block the first ball
of just another spinner

red fizz
puff of grey-brown dust
fallen stump
flung off bail

hang on   how the   what

as he walks away
Gatting turns back
looking for a lump on the pitch
for a crack
an area of soft powder
for something he hadn't seen
something that wasn't there

Cathy Freeman

perspective distorts
the staggered start
puts the first one so far ahead
you'd think she'd have to win

we don't want to know
the seven other girls
they drag behind them
the greatest weight of
don't win vibes
ever sent out on planet Earth

they are pulling tractors
through Bondi sand
and our screaming
makes the air in front
too hot for them to breathe

love erupts all over the place
for the second Aboriginal
to claim an Olympic gold medal
and the first of any kind of us
to win one in a hoodie

Soccer

all that running
back and forth running
lateral running
running on sine curves
running in circles
backwards and sidewards
inventing new angles
for the compass

what would a satellite
tracker make of it
the ball zig-zagging
within the blinks of lit time
and a laser cut grid
unable to make up its mind
a rabbit running from hounds
join the dots to make
a string art masterpiece

and there are legs everywhere
stretching out to flattened vees
pumping and turning
the random choreography
of Busby Berkeley
on back-lane pills