Funerals can truly be augmented by a poem that is apt and fitting for the person you have just lost. The following list of funeral poems about referees are for those who had a passion for officiating, umpiring, or refereeing sporting events.
Mr. Ullubux Umpires A Cricket Match
by Nicholas Moore
The blaze photographers will catch my white
Tunic, and turn me to some ancient priest,
My three fingers in a heraldic pose
Held up to catch the darting evening light;
Nor do I now suppose
These will betray my function in the least.
Rather I am that god’s priest who has ruled
Vast countries for so long, the mystery
Carved from such a solidity, composed
And calm: it is the gazer’s eye that’s fooled
By this superimposed
Judgment – I stand in calm conformity.
I take my stance behind the wickets, cool
And orthodox: with me decision rests,
And I am confident to give it rightly,
Though in my house they treat me as a fool,
I would not take on lightly
So difficult a task, to umpire contests
Of bodily skill and mental clarity,
The arm, the eye, the leg in strict control,
Cunning of Ulysses in the bright mind;
But such an empire was devised for me
Where, short of being blind,
I could not fail to judge aright. My whole
Being is bent to this solemnity.
Spectators clap, and these photographers
Have represented me, solid, unmoved
By the excited movements of the three
Principal players, proved
Excitement of the limbs. Who can disperse
These far from orgiastic rituals?
Who can control the game but I? I hold
This whole world in the fingers of my hand.
And now at last the vivid evening falls
And the last shadows stand
Around us. All the air is fixed and cold.
I pull from the green earth the three symbolic
Sticks; and the players now retire, to chat
Together, drink, go home to bed, and find
Another life as real as this, authentic
Symbol for the tired mind.
I’ll keep my photograph to wonder at.
Ode To The Umpire
by Clifton Eastham
An umpire’s life is not that fun,
Spending four hours in the dry hot sun,
Making calls that half dislike,
Telling rowdy managers to take a hike.
He spends his afternoons or nights
Calling balls and strikes and breaking up fights,
He calls him “out” and the crowd goes wild,
Then the manager tells him he’s nobody’s child.
He makes calls on plays that are lightning quick,
The player’s upset; he has a bone to pick.
“What kind of life is this?” the umpire thinks,
Nose to nose, this whole deal stinks.
The team at bat is a run behind,
Bottom of the ninth, he is in a bind.
Two outs, three on, three balls strike two,
The catcher calls time to tie his shoe.
The umpire hopes the batter swings,
So he doesn’t decide the team that wins.
The pitcher looks in to get his sign,
While the umpire tries to clear his mind.
The pitch comes in and time seems to freeze,
It’s headed for the corner right at the knees.
The batter just looks as the ball goes by,
“Strike three, you’re out!” was the umpire’s cry.
The game was lost by the home team then,
The umpire tried to remember when
He made the choice of this career,
When the clubhouse tunnel was nowhere near.
He ran like the wind to escape the mob,
He knew he should find a different job,
You can’t please them all, he knew that well,
But when the home teams loses, it’s just pure hell.
The Ref
by Graeme Cook
His striped form stands alert there, at the kick-off of each match,
His whistle shrill, the game gets under way,
All the players know who’s boss, so it flows without a catch,
His eagle eyes are watching ev’ry play.
He knows when it’s offside, and he can spot the slightest foul,
Take a dive, and he will treat you hard,
He knows his football backwards with the wisdom of an owl,
And any bully’s swiftly shown a card.
All the youngsters that he’s trained, know just what to expect,
Upon the field on any playing day,
Coached, advised, encouraged, with a mutual respect,
So lend an ear to what he has to say.
Play your game with skill and passion, guard that goal with all your might,
Or strike toward the net so hard and true,
For he loved to see you love the game, so never lose the sight,
Of ev’ry single thing he’s taught to you
For now that sadly he’s moved on, where he refs for higher teams,
Don’t you ever, be too surprised to find,
Although you can’t see or hear him, he’ll be far closer than it seems,
A top man never leaves his team behind.
The scores, they never mattered, it was how you played the game,
To do less than best would surely be a crime,
Play on lads, as if he’s there, treat the ball and field the same,
The Ref’s last match didn’t run to ‘extra time’.
The Referee
by Peter M Adamson
Football is the greatest game, of that there is no doubt.
Some people like to play while others like to shout.
but when the game gets out of hand, who helps to keep things fine?
The one in the middle, with the whistle and assistants on the line.
They arrive on time, their shoes shined, and the kit is neatly pressed.
and despite the welcome “Not you again!” they always do their best.
They are of course the refs in black,
with eyes in their head at the front and back.
But whatever they see throughout the game,
what the players see is never the same.
The supporters view is even worse,
but they just shout and swear and curse.
“Well done ref!” the players say,
only because it went their way.
“You’re a joke, a clown and totally blind!”
is what they say when they’re being kind.
Other words would turn the air blue.
The referees reply: “A red card for you.”
They call the ref without a care
but the game’s a lot worse when there’s no ref there.
It’s time to leave the ref alone,
so give them a cheer then get off home.
To access our full list of funeral poems, click here.
All poems featured on this website are free to use during any ceremony, although it is good practice to make sure the author is mentioned, if known. Should you require a celebrant for your ceremony, be it a funeral, a wedding, a naming ceremony or something else, feel free to get in touch. I am a double award-nominated Family and Funeral Celebrant covering the entire UK, and would be happy to help you commemorate in a meaningful and personal way.
