One day I shall write a book. An agent would probably suggest that I chose the title once the book has been written. However, I like my title and while you’re waiting for the content of my book I’ve written a series of poems with the same title to keep you entertained.
I feel a bit of a fraud because at school I was quite often picked for the team. Unless of course it was a maths or cookery competition, which fortunately for me we never had anyway. To be honest I dreaded being picked for the (especially cross country) team because competition made me very nervous and jittery. I have a few medals in my cupboard. Not Olympic ones, in case you were considering burglary.
I feel for the child who never gets picked. I feel for the adolescent or adult who doesn’t get picked too. We can all learn a lot by not getting picked.
Pick Me
If only my teacher would pick me
I always try to look keen
Though I can’t play in goal
Or dribble the ball
I’m dying to be on the team
If only my teacher would pick me
I’ve got all the kit and the gear
I’ve watched the tv
They look quite like me
Except for the spots and the fear
I’m convinced my teacher will pick me
I’ll get better with practise no doubt
I can run up and down
And shout “Pass!” really loud
Surely this time he won’t leave me out
Why doesn’t my teacher pick me?
So I can experience this beautiful game
I am denied every time
The opportunity to shine
And miss out on money and fame
If only my teacher would pick me
I’d feel wanted and part of a team
But I’m left on the shelf
To play a game by myself
And be man of the match in my dream.