Ten tournaments of hopeless hoping
all defined by moments involving men named David.
Glorious moments of cloudburst joy and
moments where we had to swallow our apples whole.
We'd stumble-tripped into a sweaty night in Bologna.
Gazza lofted our expectations into a rectangular cauldron
and there stood David, his eye on the falling orb,
a sweet moment of pinpoint precision and suddenly we all believed.
But belief was brief as we entered Graham's regime.
A solitary goal in Sweden from that same right foot.
And then Ronald dragged our David and our dreams into the dust
and Diana was closer to scoring than David in the US of A.
As football floated along the Thames and to Wembley's door
a caterpillar crawled across the face of our new favourite David.
His kaleidoscope shirt was blinding at just twelve yards.
His begloved sprawling hand kept our nightmares at bay for a few extra days.
Golden David's time had come as we sailed the Channel,
but he was stung by a nettle of frustration and rage
and he bit back with a ballerina's flick and left
less-exciting David to scuff the final kick.
Moustachio and Glamourboy were the Davids of a new dawn.
In Charleroi David grasped at grey clouds, but couldn't catch the dying sun
and two years on the fist-pumping revenge of the ballerina
didn't make up for slippery fingers selling our dreams cheaply.
The gloves were handed on to another David
A smiler, a joker, but not a calamitous choker?
He stood face to face with his opposite number
And one minus one proved to be zero for us.
Davids had succeeded but ultimately failed and the inevitability
of tears before bedtime in Gelsenkirchen
and tears before tournament-time back at home
have become the familiar tale of the international David.
The joker remains, probably the last David for years,
the last time such a man will carry our bold fearful boasts
to another shore to see whether he can be the
second David to grasp the Jules Rimet in his paws.
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