Morgan Schneiderlin is one of a number of players featuring in a new poetic video paying tribute to those involved in the 1914 Christmas Truce.
Players and managers recite lines from Ian McMillan’s ‘The Game: Christmas Day 1914’ to bring down the curtain on Football Remembers – the series of programmes and events delivered jointly by the Premier League, The Football Association and the Football League, in partnership with the British Council, to commemorate the First World War.
The poem will be posted alongside the 11,000 pre-match team photos that have been uploaded to FootballRemembers.com during December. The pictures and poem recital will be handed to the British Library as a record of football in 2014, 100 years on from the Christmas Truce.
The video – which you can watch here – features football people from the Premier League, The FA, and the Football League. There are 17 footballers, coaches, managers and referees who deliver stanzas from the poem.
The poem is a unique contribution of football past, present and future. Work on it started in mid-November during the Christmas Truce National Tournament held in Ypres, Belgium. The Poetry Society and Premier League worked together to enhance the educational aspect of the trip for the 320 young footballers representing all 20 Premier League clubs taking part in the tournament.
Leading poets accompanied the Under 12s as they visited British and Commonwealth and German cemeteries, memorials and the graves of former footballers. They helped them produce their own poems inspired by their visit. These explored their feelings about the First World War, the Christmas Day Truce of 1914 and its fabled football matches.
Their poems were then distilled into the final piece, which received its premiere in the Houses of Parliament on 9th December when it was read by two Under-12 Liverpool players. Now the professional game has added its voices and faces.
The Game: Christmas Day 1914
It is so cold.
The lines of this poem are sinking
Into the unforgiving mud. No clean sheet.
Dawn on a perishing day. The weapons freeze
In the hands of a flat back four.
The moon hangs in the air like a ball
Skied by a shivering keeper.
All these boys want to do today
Is shoot, and defend, and attack.
Light on a half-raised wave. The trench-faces
Lifted till you see their breath.
A ball flies in the air like a moon
Kicked through the morning mist.
All these boys want to have today
Is a generous amount of extra time.
No strict formations here, this morning;
No 4-4-2 or 4-5-1
No rules, really. Just a kickabout
With nothing to be won
Except respect. We all showed pictures,
I learned his baby’s name.
Now clear the lines of this poem
And let’s get on with the game.
No white penalty spot, this morning,
The players are all unknown.
You can see them in the graveyards
In teams of forgotten stone;
The nets are made of tangled wire,
No Man’s Land is the pitch,
A flare floodlights the moments
Between the dugouts and the ditch.
A hundred winters ago sky opened
To the sunshine of the sun
Shining on these teams of players
And the sounds of this innocent game.
All these boys want to hear today
Is the final whistle. Let them walk away.
It has been so cold. The lines
Of these poems will be found, written
In the unforgotten mud like a team sheet.
Remember them. Read them again.
© Ian McMillan