His name was Eric Bennett. He came stumbling across the Bradford Stadium pitch in flames like a human torch. My wife saw it first and called me to watch. I wished I hadn't seen it. I watched helplessly as he stumbled, unable to help him, unable to do anything except remember his name. Of course, it slipped my mind eventually, but for that there is Google. The poem says as much and, I still think, says it with admirable directness, brevity, and simplicity.
Apostasy by Morning TV
The speed with which the fire took hold was graphically described as faster than a man could run.
—The Popplewell Inquiry into the Bradford Stadium Fire
There was an old man ambling across
a football pitch, seemingly unaware
that from his trouser cuffs to his supporters’ cap
he was a biblical pillar of fire.
I memorized his name, spoke it
like a mantra over the coming days
and it pains me that I can’t remember it now.
All I remember is how his suffering—
for he must have suffered in his stripped down
animal heart—
tore apart my certainties,
and how I carried the old man’s cross
as mankind its disgrace,
and bore through the loss of my own faith
witness to that innocent’s immolation.
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