Touchline

There he'd stand every Saturday afternoon Rain pouring down that well-worn face With a cigarette in his mouth Part of a tiny, noisy crowd He'd watch his sons play the game he loved He would tell us lots of stories of heroes and glories And the pride of the Wembley Wizards on Busby Babes His enthusiasm was infectious He bought us football boots for Christmas Our dad was a Scotsman and a plumber by trade I remember one time being three down at halftime So, we looked at dad for a plan to turn the tide He said, "Son, we're not here to have fun" That winger's trying to welch, be a muck Tackle him hard, and leave him face down in the mud On the touchline On the touchline, our dad A sturdy man of Caledonian principles But of course, we all believed him to be invincible A father with a heart on the line But as time went by those old legs grew tired So we braced ourselves for the inevitable One sunny afternoon, the final whistle blew My two brothers and I took him to his grave As a lone piper played that beautiful Amazing Grace Our touchline dad had died Now the funeral wasn't sad, but a humorous affair Our dear old mom, God bless her, suffered memory loss She said to my sister, "Where on Earth is your father" Sister Mary said, "Mom, he's at the front there in that box" On the touchline, our dad On the touchline, our dad Now it's my turn in the stand On the side in the rain And watch my boys play the beautiful game And sometimes, sometimes I look up to the clouds and I say "Dad, I hope you're looking down 'Cause if it wasn't for you, all this might not have been" On the touchline, our dad On the touchline, our dad