"I could score from there", Fat Gary said.
Then there he was, on goal,
40,000 screaming at him,
Defenders hot on his heels.
Fat Gary shit a brick.
Swiping wildly, he went spiralling,
Shorts soaked with everything he'd ever ingested
And the crowd baying for blood,
Praying for his untimely death.
Fat Gary ended up on his arse,
His "shot" calmly collected by the keeper.
He was subbed, of course.
Straight down the tunnel, no one
Looking him in the eye,
Spit raining down on his bald head –
His XL shirt might as well have been a noose.
The team lost. And Fat Gary left the stadium in shame.
Grown men waited for him as he hurried
To his rented Jag, letting Fat Gary know
That he was indeed a fat shit, that his wife was
A bitch and his kids were ugly little fuckers.
Fat Gary went home to an unspeakable wife and
Gary Jr burning the team shirt on the BBQ.
The press turned on him and the masses were not
Far behind. Rumours of being shipped off
To Scotland persisted and his house was regularly
Burgled in this time, sending the wife and kids packing
And leaving Fat Gary all alone.
Fat Gary sat in his silent home, his world shattered,
Unreclaimable and left to binge-watch
Midsummer Murders boxsets,
Pondering that maybe this wasn't the life for him.
Then there he was, one of the crowd and
Watching the striker bear down on the goal with
Only the keeper to beat.
Fat Gary bit back his remark
And silently urged the lad on who
Repaid him by blasting it high and wide.
"You shit bastard", Fat Gary screamed. "I could've scored from there."
But Fat Gary knew the truth.
Fat Gary knew.
James Smith is a creative writing graduate. His prose has appeared in both print and online and he is currently working on a novel. When not writing or reading, he is agonising over the fate of his beloved Sunderland AFC.