‘He’s won it already,’ Dad had said

the previous afternoon.

He’d always hated him.

‘Boring ginger git,’ he’d said,

as the score went seven nil.

It hadn’t helped that in eighty-three,

the one time he’d had tickets,

the ginger had finished Thorburn

before he’d even got to the theatre,

and all he got to see

was Reardon playing Spencer

for nothing but beer money.

 

The Irishman had been there too,

and he never liked him much either.

‘Bloody show-off with his trick shots,

thinks he’s bloody funny.’

But suddenly the clown

had become his biggest hero

and his best mate rolled into one.

 

Neither of us needed to mention

that it was way past both our bedtimes.

There was never any doubt

we were sticking this out to the end.

At seventeen each we knew it had been worth it,

and by sixty-two fifty-nine

we’d forgotten how tired we were.

 

I waited till the morning before I asked

if I could have a cue

for my birthday.