Peter Harris - Eulogy

Eulogy by Pat Neil and read at Peter’s funeral in 2002

The Match began at half past two, we’d been there on the wall

Behind the Milton goal, of course, long ‘ere they kicked a ball.

We kids had waited patiently, but soon our spirits soared

Our visitors, ‘the Blades’ succumbed and Peter Harris scored.

That season started magically – ‘twas 1948.

The crowds would throng to Fratton Park, they had to shut the gates.

Our weekdays dragged so slowly, by all we kids ignored,

We only lived for Saturday s, when Peter Harris scored.

For he was born within the sound of Fratton’s fearsome noise.

A schoolboy star from Milton way, and picked for Pompey Boys

At inside left, would you believe, but all this soon was ended.

The war broke out, and sad to say, school football was suspended.

Apprenticed as a carpenter, that was the job intended,

His destiny would now emerge – hostilities not yet ended.

The land of Nat Gonella’s jazz and Mumby’s lemonade,

Enticed his ‘cross the harbour straits, the Gosport Peter played.

But soon this unassuming youth was giving so much pleasure,

They signed him on at Fratton Park – they knew they’d bagged a treasure.

And thus it was he cast aside his chisel, bit and brace,

To enlighten austere post war years, and join the championship race.

Electrifying pace he had athleticism too,

So sore afraid were number threes when he came into view.

Some backs were swift, some big, flatfooted, other just plain kickers.

But slender Peter took them on – all shin pads and white knickers!

The kids down our street loved to watch his raiding wingman runs,

And grown men would watch with glee, not just their str struck sons.

When homeward bound we’d feel the glow, if victory had been won,

And yet again our hero had his marker ragged run.

We’d have our bread and dripping and a pint of winkles too.

A Football Mail we’d bank on – but we had to form a queue,

To read about the team’s display, and how the crowd had roared,

For soon our team would champions be, and Peter Harris scored.

And when he did so frequently – six hat tricks, records say –

Congratulations he’d receive in such a modest way.

He had no time for posturing, a handshake would suffice,

Or Duggie Reid would ruffle his hair, to add a bit of spice.

He should have played for England more, his caps they numbered two.

He only was prevented by Sir Stanley, “you know who”!

For fifteen years he charmed the crowds, we kids became young men,

He left the game, he had no choice, he’d not be seen again.

But wait, he played for, managed too, the veteran’s team, ex pros,

To help raise funds for charity, the record also shows.

So times have changed it’s different now, it cannot be ignored

But images remain untouched, and when the drinks are poured,

The talk will be of yesteryear, from deep down memories stored,

When we were there, and Pompey won, and number seven scored!

Pat Neil