Bland On Bland – Pretty

The theme Jon chose for the JVG Radio Method today was “PRETTY”.

But there is no recording as this was done before I  got the recording and stuff sorted out.

I have “finessed” the words a bit to make it flow better.

pretty 2

that girl can kick a football, my uncle said with pride
as a group of kids played kick to kick on the nature strip outside

that girl was my cousin, i’d not admit it to her face
she had all the skills of frances bourke and jimmy krakouer’s pace

slightly built like robbie flower, with a leap like malcolm blight
she could handball, mark, run and baulk and kick both left and right

she could play up forward or down the back, week in, week out she starred
she could even sell the dummy, but at our school that wasn’t hard

she’d intercept at half back and come streaming down the wing
to quote the well worn cliché, like the ball was on a string

she could stab the ball across the park, not an inch above the grass
and with the drop kick still in favour, she was deadly on the pass

my uncle used to say “that girl was born with pharlap’s heart
what she does with a football, that’s not sport it’s bloody art”

to watch the pill come off her boot, regardless of the leg
“she’s bloody pretty”, he used to say, “as pretty as kieth greig”

she had all the poise and self control of someone more mature
unless you pulled her hair and she’d go off like robbie muir

the boys would try to rough her up, but they couldn’t suck her in
she’d sort them out behind the play, with an elbow to the chin

they’d try to find her weakness, she’d come home bruised with cuts
she’d remind them when it came to weak spots, it was boys who had the nuts

prompted by her teacher’s faith, she hatched a long term dream
to one day run out on the ground for the local district team

one weekend she turned up unannounced, unfazed by driving rain
made herself known to the coach and asked if she could train

the coach just looked her up and down as though she was on trial
then slowly his misogynistic stare became a patronising smile

“sorry love, no girls allowed”, his words designed to sting
“we wouldn’t want you getting hurt, such a pretty little thing”

then he turned as if an afterthought, lips pursed like a snake
“you could always cut the oranges for the boys at the half time break”

then he walked off to the change rooms, his runner by his side
and sniggered loud for all to hear, “there’s enough sheilas in this side”

no-one dared to question him, none rose from their seat
quietly sitting on the fence, staring at their feet

but my cousin had a spirit rare for one still shy their teens
she strode out to the centre and swore they’d see what pretty means

the look tattooed across her face, said i’ll show all you pricks
she unleashed a huge torpedo, that sailed right between the sticks

that goal became her epitath, she never played again
talent lost to ignorance, at the ripe old age of ten

the moral is that pretty can be used in more than just one sense
for at least one district coach, it means pretty fucking dense

the moral to this story is don’t sit on the fence
it was the coach who was the pretty one, pretty fucking dense
(coaches are the pretty ones, pretty fucking dense)

© Copyright 2007 Ian Bland

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