I've always thought of poets as the goalkeepers of the literary world – the last line of defence. Guardians, custodians, gatekeepers, sentries – they maintain the final position, beyond which the unthinkable lies. It's for that reason they wear the number 1, despite being largely unappreciated and relatively unglamorous in comparison with their team-mates and colleagues.
Goalkeepers are, by definition, weirdos and odd ones out: they put their faces where others put their studs, and their chosen function in a sport defined by its flow and energy is one of apparent inaction followed by occasional moments of joy-killing intervention. They are also deeply contrary, choosing to play with their hands (it's called "football" – the clue is in the name) in a game where touching the ball is the cardinal sin (see Thierry Henry) except where God allows it (see Maradona). I never played in goal because I wasn't really tall enough and always had enough control over the language to talk myself into the centre-forward berth. But I was a wicket-keeper, the cricketing equivalent of the goalie, the "stumper" being the ideal role for someone wanting to occupy a unique position in the team (and who can't bat or ball).
Why Robert Green became a goalkeeper I don't know – perhaps when the kit was being pulled out of the bag he saw the one shirt which happened to be the same colour as his name, and thought "that must be mine". I assume he has never compared his role between the sticks with that of the versifier, but his apparent solitude and contemplative demeanour after his fumble on Saturday night was nothing short of poetic. And I think at some point in their lives, whether they recognise it or not, all goalies have chosen the loneliness of the penalty box over the swank and celebrity of playing further up the pitch. I happen to like Robert Green: his error was uncharacteristic, and he retrieved the ball from the back of the net with a kind of resigned humility, a response he has been able to perfect during a couple of seasons at Upton Park. He's kind of normal looking in a field dominated by the awkward and the ugly (type "goalkeepers" into Google Images) and has a sort of "normal" name. In fact it's the perfect name for an English goalie, Robert suggesting the shortened "Bob" or "Bobby", leading subconsciously to "bobbie" (ie policeman/defender), and Green suggesting Blake's Jerusalem and England's leafy, oaken forests of old. It's as if he was born for it: Robert Green, England goalkeeper, the obvious choice, a safe pair of hands.
