Less than a minute remains on the clock,
As I tighten my lace and turn down my sock.
One last chance, and its 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 who have faced the same test,
And never once failed to give it their best.

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

From boys in a field to a big crowd roar,
There’s never been anything to excite me more.
From 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 shoulders of team mates expressing their joy,
Its 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 my dream.
I’m watching my own son play for the team,
but maybe one day they’ll announce HIS name
As he steps out to play - the beautiful game.