THE BEAUTIFUL GAME / 1966
THE BEAUTIFUL GAME / 1966
When I was Edson Arantes Do Nascimento, it seemed everyone knew my name.
From the back streets of Botafogo to West Midlands housing estate,
we played the beautiful game. In the shadow of electricity pylon,
its arms outstretched in pose of Christ at Corcovado. The Maracanã transposed
from Rio de Janeiro; streetlight illuminating our stadium.
There was no Portuguese in the language we spoke, our folk were black country.
Where, long after dark, In streets and parks, matches of world significance
were played with feverish intensity. As on our way home, I was bequeathed the name,
and henceforth known as ‘Pele’, by a fraternity of friends and foe alike.
My real name subsumed; a secondary ‘nom-de-guerre’.
His name among global icons, a beacon of our time, underlined
by grainy black and white film broadcast by Pathe’ News, to the Royal Picture House.
Our fanaticism fuelled by the beat of Bossa Nova rhythms filtering through the screen.
Lifting the veil between audience and spectacle. Breathless sighs palpable,
from Cradley Heath to Brazil.
History records who won, heroes emerging with English names.
The beautiful game now played to a different beat.
Another dream to be lived by others, on another street.
[ Edson Arantes do Nascimento / Pele ]
R.I.P
Greg Freeman
Wed 9th Sep 2020 09:08
Pele? You must have been good. Excellent poem, Trevor, which I hadn't spotted at the time. Worth reminding us, amid all the glory of '66, how Pele was kicked out of it early on. Ironically, it was Portugal who did that to him. Eusebio subsequently won plaudits as 'the new Pele'. So good that functional old England disposed of them in the semi-final. I can be as patriotic as the next man when it comes to football! Going back to your poem, I like the way it portrays grassroots football, down at the rec, in fact. We played there every night for two months in the summer of 66.