Sub

I came on in extra time in '66, my breasts
bandaged beneath my no.13 shirt, and put it in
off the head, the back of the heel, the left foot
from 30 yards out, hat-trick. If they'd thought
the game was all over, it was now. I felt secure
as I danced in my dazzling whites with the Cup –
tampon – but skipped the team bath with the lads,
sipped my champagne in the solitary shower
as the blood and soap suds mingled to pink.
They sang my name on the other side of the steam.

Came on too in the final gasps of the Grand Slam clincher,
scooped up the ball from the back of the scrum, ran
like the wind, bandaged again, time of the month
likewise, wiggled, weaved, waved at the crowd, slipped
like soap through muddy hands, liked that, slid
between legs, nursing the precious egg of the ball,
then flung myself like breaking surf over the line
for the winning try, converted it, was carried
shoulder high by the boys as the whistle blew.
They roared my name through mouthfuls of broken teeth.

Ringo had flu when the Fab Four toured Down
Under. Minus a drummer, the gig was a bummer
til I stepped in, digits ringed, sticked, skinned,
in a Beatle skirt, mop-topped, fringed, to wink
at Paul, quip with John, climb on the drums,
clever fingered and thumbed, give it four to the bar,
give it yeah yeah yeah. The screams were lava,
hot as sex, and every seat in the house was wet.
We sang Help!, Day Tripper, Money, This Boy,
Girl, She Loves You – John, Paul, George and Moi.

It was one small step for a man for Neil
to stand on the Moon, a small hop for me
to stand in for Buzz, bounce in my moon-suit
over the dust, waving a flag. I knelt, scooped out
a hole in the powdery ground, and buried a box
with a bottle of malt, chocolates. Emily Dickinson's
poems. Ground Control barked down the line. Houston,
we don't have a problem, I said. It comforts me now,
the thought of them there, when I look at the moon.
Quietly there on the moon, the things that I like.

And when Beefy fell sick in the final Test,
I stepped up, two of his boxes over my chest,
and hooked a four from the first of Lillee's balls.
He bowled so fast you could hear his fingers click
as he spun off the seam. I lolled at the crease –
five months gone – and looped and hooped them about
like a dream, googlies, bosies, chinamen, zooters,
balls that dipped, flipped, nipped, whipped
at the wicket like bombs. I felt the first kick
of my child; whacked a century into the crowd.

Motherhood then kept me busy at home till my girl
started school. Not match-fit, I was talked
into management when Taylor went, caretaker role,
jacked that in after the World Cup win – Beckham
free-kick in extra time – and agreed on a whim to slim
to the weight of a boy, ride the winner at Aintree –
Bobbyjo, '99 – when the jockey dislocated his neck.
After that, I pulled right back, signed up to write
a book of my life and times, though I did play guitar
for the Band in LA when Bob gave me the call.

And when I look back – or my grandchildren ask me
what it was like to put Mohammed Ali on the dec
when Cooper was scratched from the scrap, or stand in
for Graham Hill to be Formula One Grand Champ
in the fastest recorded speed, or to dress up
as Borg in bandana and wig and steal the fifth set
at Wimbledon from under – You cannot be serious –
McEnroe's nose, or to kneel, best of all, first woman there,
on the Moon and gaze at the beautiful faraway earth –
what I think to myself is this: