Sunday Bloody Sunday

Watching your face,
your athlete's body
crumple,
so out of control -

what did we know
of you the person,
and all that went on
in your past...

the eight year old
boy, hiding under
a table, whilst a man
you already knew,
ran amok through
your school,

gunning down
classrooms of kids
and teachers,
littering the playground
with tiny bodies

then not long after,
when your mum and
dad quit throwing darts
at eachother, and
called it a day -

were you batted back
and forth, like those
footballs, tennis balls,
filling the void for you
and your brother -

and later, much later,
when you chose one
sport above another,
swapped your layers
for T-shirts, and

stepped into an alien
culture - through all of
this, were you acting
all big-boy and strong?

And now comes
Sunday Bloody Sunday,
a monumental day, when
the Chosen One with
a bulging pocket,

claimed that which
should have been
yours - so no wonder
the floodgates opened
as he left you bloodied,
and battle-scarred,

yet, triumphant too,
in ways he could never
understand...

sometimes you don't
need a trophy to win,
as we, the intruders,
sensed, and feeling
your suffering, even
His fans became
converts,

but for me, who first
saw you - a callow teen
with that birthmark on
your leg - take a single
game off Johnny Mac
at Wembley Arena -

I knew who you were
all along....