Patiently he stands in wait,
a ceaseless shadow that won’t abate.

An arm across his man’s chest,
the final bell is when he rests.

The Sherrin flies into his zone,
a fearless mark makes it his own.

With both feet planted, his eyes they dart,
the rival system soon picked apart.

From up the field he hears the call,
his left leg swings and moves the ball.

End on end with trained precision,
a testament to his fine vision.

Black booted feet, he shuns the frills,
his fist it kills opponent’s thrills.

As reliable as Greenwich time,
procured mature like a fine wine.

An accountant by trade and game,
not quite yet a household name.

Never one that prone to gloat,
his role unsung, a silent note.

Once a Rooster, now a Saint,
his lone estate the defensive paint.

He does not conjure our loudest roar,
still we all count on forty-four.