Memoir poem: The Silence Of Saturday Teatime

Written for the prompt X is for X

The Silence Of Saturday Teatime

Every week my dad would write

His Xs in the column:

A ritual time-honoured,

Almost sacred, always solemn.

He diligently worked out – well,

I say ‘worked out’, he guessed

Which teams would win or lose or draw,

Whose score would be the best.

On Friday evening at the door

The coupon man would be;

I never knew his name – he was

‘The coupon man’ to me.

He’d walk along the local streets,

Knocking door to door,

Collecting forms and entry fees

From hopeful souls galore.

His battered leather satchel

Carried all our hopes and dreams;

Our future prospects riding on

The scores of football teams.

On Saturday the teams would play

And try to beat each other

But teatime Saturday – no sound

From me, my mum or brother.

We couldn’t speak, laugh, sing, or cough

We knew they were the rules

While on the telly scores were read

To those who’d done the pools.

The papers printed fixture lists

And Dad wrote down each score

And maybe this week we would see

Dame Fortune at our door.

But as a score forecaster

My dear dad was not much good;

We never won a million

I suspect we never would.

Undaunted, he would try again,

The coupon man would call,

But when the final scores came in

My poor dad’s hopes would fall.

More Xs in a column,

Silent teatime Saturday;

No luck but next week there would be

Another chance to play.

It didn’t seem to bother him

Each week turned out the same:

The promise of great riches but

No winnings from this game.

© Carol Carman 2025

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