Less than a minute remains on the clock,
As I tighten my lace and turn down my sock,
One last chance, and it's all down to me,
It must be a goal, for we need all three.


I step up to the ball and look towards the posts,
Is that the crowd I hear, or is it the ghosts
Of men who before me have faced the same test,
And never once failed to give of their best


My father he gave me the love of it all,
When he guided my feet to strike that first ball,
A hurley or football it's the same thing to me,
It's playing the game that matters you see.


From boys in a field to the crowd's great roar,
There's never been anything to excite more,
From the day I could run till the day I can't walk,
And even then, about the game I'll still talk.

The few steps to the ball now seem like a mile,
But a well placed shot and I'll be carried in style,
On the shoulders of team mates expressing their joy,
It's a dream that's consumed me since I was a boy.


My feet pound the ground, my foot sends the ball,
It sails through the air over men who are tall,
Then dipping and curling it finds the goal,
And just for a moment I'm in touch with my soul.


A whistle blows hard and I awake from the dream,
I'm watching my own son play for the team,
And maybe one day they'll announce HIS name,
As he steps out to play.....The Beautiful Game