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.