Help! I know nothing about football (but I’m Euro-curious)

NOT OVER YET

The surgeon smiled, his khaki green Triumph motorbike

Stood in the hospital car park, his black helmet on a hook

Behind his desk, his Gore-Tex jacket, dripping wet and drying.

As he examined the six-week-old scars on my operated knee,

He told me motorbikes were possible as soon as I was able.

But, not yet stable enough to raise over quarter of a tonne

Of metal off the side stand, I’m frustrated at the limitation.

When my old Jag slipped into limp mode on my way back

– another engine failure since the last repair –

The RAC were so many online clicks away by phone

That my day was going to disappear into the dog hole

Of the layby in which I waited. Before pressing “send”

I tried the ignition again, and wishful thinking got me home,

Where, in the stillness of a Wednesday evening,

Despite no football pedigree, my Euro-curiosity

And the smell of the semi-final that hung in the air

From Dortmund, Germany, had me watching TV

For the last ten minutes of the game and an England win.

Sometimes the world does not open doors,

You have to kick them in, but only with your good leg.