England bus driver Michael Chandler's poem to Jude Bellingham gets 16.5M likes on Instagram

The Lion does not boast aloud,
Nor chase the praise of every crowd.
He knows the roar that shakes the night,
Is born with fear is met with might

The match is not with foe alone,
The truest pitch is self unknown.
Before one pass is struck with grace,
The heart must first have won its race.

For strength is more than driving speed,
Or planting firmly every cleat.
It lives within the iron will,
To climb again the steeper hill.

The body tires. The lungs grow tight.
The legs grow heavy in the fight,
Yet steadfast minds refuse retreat,
They drag the weary to their feet.

Endurance is a faithful friend,
It walks beside you to the end.
While other yield to pain’s command,
It whispers low, “Hold your stand.”

The clever mind outplays the strong
Who rush with fury all day long.
A patient pass, a measured pace,
Will forever conquer reckless haste.

The hawk may see the pitch above,
The lion wins through steadfast love
Of every movement, every run
Where many minds become but one.

For tactics are not tricks concealed,
But wisdom sharpened on the field.
To know when pressing serves the day
And when restraint becomes the way.

The storm may rage. The crowd may cry
The score may refuse the sky.
Yet none of these command the soul
Whose purpose governs every goal.

No referee can steal your choice
No hostile song can drown your voice.
The world may shake, the night may burn
Your answer shapes the final turn.

England wore Three Lions bright.
Not chasing glory’s fleeting light.
They sought instead a nobler prize.
To master self before men’s eyes.

They trusted feet that years had trained
They trusted minds that calm had gained
They trusted hearts that would not bend
Though every minute neared the end

One perfect move
One selfless pass
One moment born from countless tasks

The net gave way
The crowd arose
The thunder rolled through friend and foe

The victory belong to those
Who rule themselves before the blows
And therefore earned a greater name
Than those who merely play the game

The whistle blew
The contest done
Three Lions work had been won

Victory now was the score
Lifting gold evermore
But greatest triumph, clear to see
Was quiet self mastery.

For trophies tarnish
And crowds grow still
Time itself outlets all the skill.

But those who govern both heart and mind
Leave fear and doubt far behind
So walk the Lion’s ancient road
Carry calmly every load
Meet each trial firm and true
Let discipline be the strength in you

For fortune favors not the loud,
Nor always crowns the largest crowd.
She often walks beside the one
Whose hardest battle has been won
Not on the pitch beneath the light
But deep within, through sleepless nights

And when the final whistle sings
And victory lifts its golden wings
The truest roar will still be heard
A soul made strong, a soul assured.