MATCH ONE vs. Don’t Give A FC 31/01/07 21:15
LOSE 4-8
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Martin
“There’s been an accident! Calm down. There’s been an accident! Breathe. In and Out. Calm down. In and out. Calm down. In and out. Calm down.”
I know I said I’d forget the past, not delve into the dusty annuls of history, and instead look forward to the bright and breezy second coming of the dark phoenix rising, that is the Molly Maguires. The truth is that, so much of the past popped its decaying, festering head up, through the cabin hut trapdoor, that you couldn’t escape it. For the first time, since Ben defined ‘waking coma’, and Ian became an Oxford English expletive, there were actually some new players, who not only volunteered to play, but then actually delivered on their threat. Comparisons with previous incumbents of the ‘new boy’ tag were inevitable.
The week began with the over familiar song and dance routine that is team selection. IMF, Ocean’s Double Figures, Blake’s 7. All groups of handpicked, specialist experts brought together for a common goal. Sharratt’s Seven by contrast, would barely outdo a third of Charlie’s Angels (the ugly one), such were the twists and turns of team tuning, that even this report could not do justice to it.
With people dropping out, like Matt’s butt crack from his trackies, the gaffer, stressed and blind, would barely be capable of a heist on a brewery, even if they dropped the keys in his lap, and built the bloody building around him. Thankfully, the final paper selection matched the reality and a seven strong squad would at least start the match.
We’d been burnt before. Mr X and Ben had previously upset the delicate eco-balance of nature’s greatest footballing petri dish. But the addition of Martin “Sheriff” Roscoe, and ‘hunky’ Adam, actually strengthened the squad, adding depth to the lacking midfield and attacking options. With the Sheriff capable of shooting with both feet, powerfully, and on target, and Adam, with shoulders built for water carrying, they filled the potholes left by the much missed Dave, and many missing Nobby.
It would be pretty churlish for me to take the piss outta the new boys straight away, so Adam, as a fellow Breach Officer, gets a stay of execution for this week. The Sheriff, however, was as deceptive a player that ever graced the squad. Ill-prepared with incorrect playing fee, no shinpads, and no blue top, it was almost as if the scarecrow had wandered off the yellow road, whilst looking for wizard country, and pitched up pitch side. On the field however, it was hazard county, as he drew on energy reserves presumably stored in his front hump, to raid and burn the opposition’s defence, as the attacking apex. Ably supported by Deputy Dawg, wearing a tea cosy on his head, and dreaming of Nora Batty’s tights, the outfield fizzled with old man musk mixed with young man virility.
Matt reluctantly, but bravely, gave up his shin pads to allow the Sheriff’s participation. Clearly concerned that he wouldn’t be able to squeeze back into his girdle before the start of the match, the gaffer was going to have to show his ability to dive and ground drop was all him, and not his pads.
With a line-up completed by d’money attack-midfield-defence pyramid scheme of Gareth, Jon, and Leo, there were exceptionally high hopes of cashing in against the white team who managed just three wins in the season previous.
The match started tentatively, as the teams felt each other up, looking for an opening. Nothing much happened for the first few minutes, a weak concede cancelled out almost immediately by a bullet from the badge. Things were nicely balanced, with DGAFC very much there for the taking, until the icy grip of the ghost of Lungboy’s past, finally caught up with him, metaphysically crushing his chest from within. With the team’s anchor Leo incapacitated so soon into the match, and failing to make any recovery from his inability to breathe properly, the defence was quite frankly shot to shit.
Amazingly, the team’s balls didn’t drop as Leo got stick-pulled from Molly’s Ker Plunk, and instead were suitably galvanised to trade blows like for like, an old washed up has-been punching out a franchise. DGAFC went two goals ahead, before the Mollys retaliated with a balboa of their own, Gareth and Martin providing the continuing goal threat. Both ends of the pitch saw shot-blocking of the highest order, with Matt taking a pretty awesome ‘double or nothing’ body shot stopper to keep the team a contender.
The team were working hard, and a real concerted effort not to be substituted, and to break the back of their unfitness was initially looking promising. The referee was blowing his whistle like a ‘paid by results’ street walker; officiating the match with all the restraint of a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs, so there were ample opportunities to catch a breather.
Half-time saw the team down by 5-3. The bulk of the opposition’s goals were from degrees acute on the edge of the D, just not sufficiently cut down by the Mollys’ uncute. This was a very salvageable position, as the gaffer motivated with words, bursting into some beautiful half-time team talk rhetoric that he’d clearly been practising all week long.
Unfortunately, another injury nightmare was set to haunt the team, as Jon’s uncompromising hard running style, left him knee-clutching after a heavy challenge, spookily almost exactly in the same spot (near the pitch door) as he had fallen on that fateful night on 26th May 2005. If you add 26 to 5 (the fifth month) you get 31. The exact date of this match. Ooooooooooh. The portents are true. The Horsemen are coming, and gawd knows, some of this team could use some Famine.
Whilst Jon bravely charged in and out of the match, as a running wounded, tweaking his knee back into place on the sidelines before subbing back on, to fuck it back up again, the rest of the team were having to remain strong. Steve was frequently in some sort of sweeper system that owed more to mockney jigging, than anything approaching defensive technique. Adam continued to swipe and swish in all areas of the pitch, filling up space, and Gareth was busting his way down the wings to provide the extra dimension to Martin’s central hold.
I pause for a moment, ‘cause The Lost Room has come on, on Sky Two. Yes, I know when the Inquisitor gets here, I’m getting zapped. Be back in an hour and a bit.
Right then, where was I? Oh yes. Alas good intentions ain’t gonna score you goals, and as the match wore on, the Mollys did their best to cope with the inevitable fitness depletion, due to the one sub situation. The team started to falter, and discrepancies in the back line were sufficiently significant for the whites to further drive ahead, despite Matt continuing to display a solid grasp of goalkeeping mathematics. With us only able to further draw blood once more, the opposition’s more clinical finishing, and our more disjointed structure, doomed us to our first defeat of the season, and left us langrishing (see what I did there?) at the bottom of the table despite the new recruits.
A lack of anything written meaningful about the football itself, will suggest to you that I either had my eyes shut in sheer agony, or actually the performance wasn’t exactly earth-shaking and eventful. As it turned out, I effectively spent £6 to watch The Molly Maguires play. So as a paying customer, my view holds valid. No wonder Don banned himself from the touchline. It was a shame that injuries, coinciding with the 'getting to know you' blooding in of new players, blighted our first competitive league match, but couple the graft shown tonight with a pristine fitness upgrade, and a sharpened attacking edge, and the multi-purpose sonic screwdriver of soccer, may yet teleport the team into the future.
Goal Scorers: Martin 2, Gareth 2
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Steve 6, Leo n/a, Jon 7, Gareth 6, Adam 6, Martin 6
Man of the Match: Jon (for guts)
LOSE 4-8
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Martin
“There’s been an accident! Calm down. There’s been an accident! Breathe. In and Out. Calm down. In and out. Calm down. In and out. Calm down.”
I know I said I’d forget the past, not delve into the dusty annuls of history, and instead look forward to the bright and breezy second coming of the dark phoenix rising, that is the Molly Maguires. The truth is that, so much of the past popped its decaying, festering head up, through the cabin hut trapdoor, that you couldn’t escape it. For the first time, since Ben defined ‘waking coma’, and Ian became an Oxford English expletive, there were actually some new players, who not only volunteered to play, but then actually delivered on their threat. Comparisons with previous incumbents of the ‘new boy’ tag were inevitable.
The week began with the over familiar song and dance routine that is team selection. IMF, Ocean’s Double Figures, Blake’s 7. All groups of handpicked, specialist experts brought together for a common goal. Sharratt’s Seven by contrast, would barely outdo a third of Charlie’s Angels (the ugly one), such were the twists and turns of team tuning, that even this report could not do justice to it.
With people dropping out, like Matt’s butt crack from his trackies, the gaffer, stressed and blind, would barely be capable of a heist on a brewery, even if they dropped the keys in his lap, and built the bloody building around him. Thankfully, the final paper selection matched the reality and a seven strong squad would at least start the match.
We’d been burnt before. Mr X and Ben had previously upset the delicate eco-balance of nature’s greatest footballing petri dish. But the addition of Martin “Sheriff” Roscoe, and ‘hunky’ Adam, actually strengthened the squad, adding depth to the lacking midfield and attacking options. With the Sheriff capable of shooting with both feet, powerfully, and on target, and Adam, with shoulders built for water carrying, they filled the potholes left by the much missed Dave, and many missing Nobby.
It would be pretty churlish for me to take the piss outta the new boys straight away, so Adam, as a fellow Breach Officer, gets a stay of execution for this week. The Sheriff, however, was as deceptive a player that ever graced the squad. Ill-prepared with incorrect playing fee, no shinpads, and no blue top, it was almost as if the scarecrow had wandered off the yellow road, whilst looking for wizard country, and pitched up pitch side. On the field however, it was hazard county, as he drew on energy reserves presumably stored in his front hump, to raid and burn the opposition’s defence, as the attacking apex. Ably supported by Deputy Dawg, wearing a tea cosy on his head, and dreaming of Nora Batty’s tights, the outfield fizzled with old man musk mixed with young man virility.
Matt reluctantly, but bravely, gave up his shin pads to allow the Sheriff’s participation. Clearly concerned that he wouldn’t be able to squeeze back into his girdle before the start of the match, the gaffer was going to have to show his ability to dive and ground drop was all him, and not his pads.
With a line-up completed by d’money attack-midfield-defence pyramid scheme of Gareth, Jon, and Leo, there were exceptionally high hopes of cashing in against the white team who managed just three wins in the season previous.
The match started tentatively, as the teams felt each other up, looking for an opening. Nothing much happened for the first few minutes, a weak concede cancelled out almost immediately by a bullet from the badge. Things were nicely balanced, with DGAFC very much there for the taking, until the icy grip of the ghost of Lungboy’s past, finally caught up with him, metaphysically crushing his chest from within. With the team’s anchor Leo incapacitated so soon into the match, and failing to make any recovery from his inability to breathe properly, the defence was quite frankly shot to shit.
Amazingly, the team’s balls didn’t drop as Leo got stick-pulled from Molly’s Ker Plunk, and instead were suitably galvanised to trade blows like for like, an old washed up has-been punching out a franchise. DGAFC went two goals ahead, before the Mollys retaliated with a balboa of their own, Gareth and Martin providing the continuing goal threat. Both ends of the pitch saw shot-blocking of the highest order, with Matt taking a pretty awesome ‘double or nothing’ body shot stopper to keep the team a contender.
The team were working hard, and a real concerted effort not to be substituted, and to break the back of their unfitness was initially looking promising. The referee was blowing his whistle like a ‘paid by results’ street walker; officiating the match with all the restraint of a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs, so there were ample opportunities to catch a breather.
Half-time saw the team down by 5-3. The bulk of the opposition’s goals were from degrees acute on the edge of the D, just not sufficiently cut down by the Mollys’ uncute. This was a very salvageable position, as the gaffer motivated with words, bursting into some beautiful half-time team talk rhetoric that he’d clearly been practising all week long.
Unfortunately, another injury nightmare was set to haunt the team, as Jon’s uncompromising hard running style, left him knee-clutching after a heavy challenge, spookily almost exactly in the same spot (near the pitch door) as he had fallen on that fateful night on 26th May 2005. If you add 26 to 5 (the fifth month) you get 31. The exact date of this match. Ooooooooooh. The portents are true. The Horsemen are coming, and gawd knows, some of this team could use some Famine.
Whilst Jon bravely charged in and out of the match, as a running wounded, tweaking his knee back into place on the sidelines before subbing back on, to fuck it back up again, the rest of the team were having to remain strong. Steve was frequently in some sort of sweeper system that owed more to mockney jigging, than anything approaching defensive technique. Adam continued to swipe and swish in all areas of the pitch, filling up space, and Gareth was busting his way down the wings to provide the extra dimension to Martin’s central hold.
I pause for a moment, ‘cause The Lost Room has come on, on Sky Two. Yes, I know when the Inquisitor gets here, I’m getting zapped. Be back in an hour and a bit.
Right then, where was I? Oh yes. Alas good intentions ain’t gonna score you goals, and as the match wore on, the Mollys did their best to cope with the inevitable fitness depletion, due to the one sub situation. The team started to falter, and discrepancies in the back line were sufficiently significant for the whites to further drive ahead, despite Matt continuing to display a solid grasp of goalkeeping mathematics. With us only able to further draw blood once more, the opposition’s more clinical finishing, and our more disjointed structure, doomed us to our first defeat of the season, and left us langrishing (see what I did there?) at the bottom of the table despite the new recruits.
A lack of anything written meaningful about the football itself, will suggest to you that I either had my eyes shut in sheer agony, or actually the performance wasn’t exactly earth-shaking and eventful. As it turned out, I effectively spent £6 to watch The Molly Maguires play. So as a paying customer, my view holds valid. No wonder Don banned himself from the touchline. It was a shame that injuries, coinciding with the 'getting to know you' blooding in of new players, blighted our first competitive league match, but couple the graft shown tonight with a pristine fitness upgrade, and a sharpened attacking edge, and the multi-purpose sonic screwdriver of soccer, may yet teleport the team into the future.
Goal Scorers: Martin 2, Gareth 2
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Steve 6, Leo n/a, Jon 7, Gareth 6, Adam 6, Martin 6
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