Rachel McCrum - Game of Two Halves Poem #6

As part of my ongoing explorations into communities across Scotland as part of the Residency, I have come to find myself at the (for me) most unlikely of places. A football match. In Paisley. On a grey, dreich, freezing cold Saturday afternoon.

An invitation (one might even say challenge) has been extended from Tam and Stu from BBC Radio Scotland's 'Off The Ball' to join them on the show, to present a new poem about football. Having been to precisely one football match in my life at this point (Arsenal vs Moscow, 2007. I think. My then boyfriend lived around the corner from the stadium and had been given free tickets. It was very cold then too), it becomes apparent that I'm going to have to top up my experience. Preferably in the company of someone who knows what they're talking about.

That someone comes in the gentlemanlike form of Scottish crime novelist Christopher Brookmyre, a lifelong supporter of St Mirren FC. One of my favourite characters in Scottish fiction is Angelique de Xavier, the untypical protagonist of three of Christopher's novels. In 'The Sacred Art of Stealing', there is an extraordinarily perceptive – and funny – digression into what it means to be a football fan in Scotland, politically, culturally and socially. Thinking about it on the way to Paisley Stadium (the replacement for the fantastically – and to a poet, irresistibly named – Love St Stadium), I mull over how pervasive football is in Scottish fiction, particularly Scottish crime fiction.

At the match itself, we're bundled into seats. Chris has a season ticket, and it becomes appararent how much a community is present here, down to spending most Saturday's in the company of the same folk sitting beside you. David McDonald, of Pie and Bovril, is also present. Before the match starts, there is a running commentary on the supporters around, introductions made, a summary of how the Buddies are doing this season (in short: who might to be blame). A sea of black and white colours, with the visiting team, Hibs, in green and white at the opposite end of the stadium. To our right is the family stand, with a clatter of young cubs in football colours hollering at the players. No swearing allowed in the family stand.

As the match begins in earnest, I find myself watching the supporters more than the players. I'm fascinated by the movement of the crowd, the rise and fall of it, grim anticipation soaring to careful exuberance at an early goal by St Mirren, then falling again as Hibs score again. And again. And again. I'm surprised by the lack of alcohol, not having realised that it was banned from Scottish football games (but not rugby) in the 1980s. There is the smell of Bovril in the air at half time. Once again, I'm aware how much language bonds the supporters together, a short hand I'm not altogether privy to. Chris patiently explains a few points to me, and I begin to see.

15 minutes before the end of the match, Hibs score again. 4:1. To my surprise, about a quarter of the players in our stand silently rise and leave, knowing the match is over before the whistle goes. But they'll be back next week. It's their team, after all.

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BBC Poem #6: Off the Ball
Rachel McCrum
20/12/2015

Game of Two Halves.
(with thanks and love to St Mirren FC, and all who support it)

Who'd be a linesman at Love Street?
Black and white scarves at the station
and the Buddies assemble.
It's not been a good Season so far.
But this is a game of two halves.
Bets placed, rueful.
'3:1 would see us.'
You're here or you're not.
No commentary today, just the internal
and the shared flinch.
This is the most important thing
in the world for 90 + 15 minutes.
The sigh and the roar of the crowd,
and the tang of Bovril,
('nae booze since the 80s, pal').
Murray looks stoic.
Everyone looks stoic
(apart from that one guy on the seats in front,
and he's just here to get some exercise
for his disproportionate vocal rage.
'Cheat! CHEAT!
Aw, get your hands out of your pockets
and your fingers out of your ____ !')
Ball clears the stadium roof three times
and the clouds
and the crowd sighs.
Sopping humour to match glum hats.
'Thommo's the man for it.
Goodwin's due a yellow card soon, surely...'
A rise! A pass!
That mackerel starling flicker
as hope disperses
through the crowd!
Whistle blows.

Whistle blows.
The crowd disperses hope
with that mackerel starling flicker.
A pass. A rise.
'Goodwin's due a yellow card soon, surely.
Thommo's the man for it.'
Glum humour matches sopping hats.
The crowd sighs.
The clouds
and the ball clear the stadium roof
three times.
'Get your fingers out of your _____
and your hands out of ______!
Aw.
Cheat.
Cheat.'
That one guy on the seats in front
has exercised his vocal rage
disproportionately.
Everyone looks stoic.
Murray looks stoic.
Nae booze since the 80s.
The tang of Bovril,
and the roar
the sigh
of the crowd.
This is the most important thing in the world
for 90 + 15 minutes.
The internal and shared flinch
No commentary today.
You're here or you're not.
'3:1 would have seen us'.
Rueful.
A game of two halves.
It's not been a good Season so far.
The Buddies assemble at the Station,
black and white scarves.
Who'd be a linesman at Love Street?