MATCH TEN vs. Jason's Helmets 04/04/07 19:00
Draw 10-10
1.Matt (c) 3.Don 5.Leo 6.Robbie 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nathan
“Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend. Somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night. Had I known how to save a life.”
Save the cheerleader. Save the world.
It may be a mantra unfamiliar to many, until heard uttered on BBC2 later this year, but it defines the mission. Of seemingly ordinary people. Doing extraordinary things. The cheerleader is the key, by whom the power to avert annihilation can be unlocked. Oh how life imitates art. Oh how our very own cheerleader saved us all.
Surprise has a habit of taking you unaware. And the week was full of surprises. As if Lucy Pinder finally exposing her nipples in Nuts magazine wasn’t enough, Don showing off his pasty legs after 18 months, almost literally pale(d) by comparison, in the flesh baring stakes.
Injuries have had a disabilitating effect on the team this season, and this fortnight was no exception. Last week’s match had been conceded by the gaffer, by default, due to a shortage of able bodies, to the approval of some, and the chagrin of others. With Jon not willing to risk a full match without substitution, and suggestions of a ringer falling on deaf ears, Matt was free to moonlight as head coach of England with the usual shitty results.
This week, ever present Steve finally succumbed to an injury sustained in the previous match, and Dean kept everyone guessing as to whether his village homosexual balloon-shaped ankle had sufficiently straighten up to be playable with. Well actually, he’d made it very clear he was out for the rest of the season, but Matt, he who cannot read, saw fit to name him in a masterstroke that saw the squad a player short, moments before kick off.
At ten to, with Robbie dribbling of news that Jon and Nathan had only just left work, schemes of delaying kick off were concocted, but not necessary to call into action, as the midfield general joined the team in a protracted warm-up, to make a starting five. Matt baggsied the far end of the pitch, to avoid the setting sun, in the only worthwhile tactical decision he’s ever made. Still, would’ve helped to have known in advance (from those who played them last time) that the Helmets wore a blue strip, sponsored and numbered, so to avoid a colour clash and see which personnel had actually retained that Umbro diamond white away number.
Draw 10-10
1.Matt (c) 3.Don 5.Leo 6.Robbie 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nathan
“Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend. Somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night. Had I known how to save a life.”
Save the cheerleader. Save the world.
It may be a mantra unfamiliar to many, until heard uttered on BBC2 later this year, but it defines the mission. Of seemingly ordinary people. Doing extraordinary things. The cheerleader is the key, by whom the power to avert annihilation can be unlocked. Oh how life imitates art. Oh how our very own cheerleader saved us all.
Surprise has a habit of taking you unaware. And the week was full of surprises. As if Lucy Pinder finally exposing her nipples in Nuts magazine wasn’t enough, Don showing off his pasty legs after 18 months, almost literally pale(d) by comparison, in the flesh baring stakes.
Injuries have had a disabilitating effect on the team this season, and this fortnight was no exception. Last week’s match had been conceded by the gaffer, by default, due to a shortage of able bodies, to the approval of some, and the chagrin of others. With Jon not willing to risk a full match without substitution, and suggestions of a ringer falling on deaf ears, Matt was free to moonlight as head coach of England with the usual shitty results.
This week, ever present Steve finally succumbed to an injury sustained in the previous match, and Dean kept everyone guessing as to whether his village homosexual balloon-shaped ankle had sufficiently straighten up to be playable with. Well actually, he’d made it very clear he was out for the rest of the season, but Matt, he who cannot read, saw fit to name him in a masterstroke that saw the squad a player short, moments before kick off.
At ten to, with Robbie dribbling of news that Jon and Nathan had only just left work, schemes of delaying kick off were concocted, but not necessary to call into action, as the midfield general joined the team in a protracted warm-up, to make a starting five. Matt baggsied the far end of the pitch, to avoid the setting sun, in the only worthwhile tactical decision he’s ever made. Still, would’ve helped to have known in advance (from those who played them last time) that the Helmets wore a blue strip, sponsored and numbered, so to avoid a colour clash and see which personnel had actually retained that Umbro diamond white away number.
As it was, the Mollys donned the bibs of orange. Jon, meanwhile, got in his bitch about his injured leg a lot earlier than normal, which made his stunning second half display all the more hustling. Having spent so much time on the treatment table this season, it would probably be more cost effective, if Jon were the treatment table. With Nathan still another ten minutes away, hurtling like a bullet train from Newbury, the team of five got settled into what could be a long and tortuous forty minutes against a team that easily mirrored us in skill and fitness.
Having the video evidence to hand, facts can be little in dispute. The first half being a complete police baton disabled smacking terrace riot. Sure, the opposition resembled the cast of Golden Axe (well – the dwarf anyway), with a notable fellow looking like the Pub Landlord, with J-Lo’s arse, but they played with a fluidity that saw them walking on water, whilst we were merely treading it. Robbie stood between the ball and the net when five of the goals against us were scored, as the opposition were confident to shoot through, around and at our defenders, from all areas of the pitch, with Matt falling to his knees, like someone had sliced his legs off from under them.
Having the video evidence to hand, facts can be little in dispute. The first half being a complete police baton disabled smacking terrace riot. Sure, the opposition resembled the cast of Golden Axe (well – the dwarf anyway), with a notable fellow looking like the Pub Landlord, with J-Lo’s arse, but they played with a fluidity that saw them walking on water, whilst we were merely treading it. Robbie stood between the ball and the net when five of the goals against us were scored, as the opposition were confident to shoot through, around and at our defenders, from all areas of the pitch, with Matt falling to his knees, like someone had sliced his legs off from under them.
We’d started slowly, certainly things never getting going till Nathan arrived, coming out of hyperspace, ten minutes into the match. With Jon feeling a tweak merely by walking onto the pitch, and Gareth fearing he would never see a clean pass to him without dropping deep, the Mollys were the shy lame loser in the room corner of the party, sipping on his beer, whilst all around were dancing like goons. With absolutely no structure to our shape, and no designated positions, we barely made any inroads at the oppo’s goal, only getting the lucky break of a foot in the D penalty, coolly dispatched by Gareth. And admittedly, a well worked passing move that saw Gareth slide in another goal, upgraded our first half performance from ‘frozen faeces’ to ‘lukewarm puke’.
We'd hit the woodwork a couple of times, and Gareth was long shooting from kick-off with the alarming regularity afforded to him by our goal concessions, but the damage had long been done in the first five minutes. Only a miracle of inspirational awesomeness would be able to salvage this car-crash pile-up of a performance.
We'd hit the woodwork a couple of times, and Gareth was long shooting from kick-off with the alarming regularity afforded to him by our goal concessions, but the damage had long been done in the first five minutes. Only a miracle of inspirational awesomeness would be able to salvage this car-crash pile-up of a performance.
Yeah, I haven’t got a lot else to tell you about the first half.
Half-time saw Nathan, as the only one not completely breathless, taking the opportunity to inspire us to keep the ball better and slow down our frenetic panic-passing, whilst Jon ranted about how shit the ref was, and even Gareth weighed in with a tactical nugget to make more space without over-commiting men forward. Don revealed how distraught he was at our performance that he had selflessly nipped into a phone box, to change into his superhero pants, whilst no one was looking. He needed just a little encouragement, but “Grandpa Johnson” was going to provide the necessary buffer to our fitness freight train, as he dodged Death armed with a heart attack-shaped scythe for twenty minutes.
The change in tactics was extremely notable. Either through complacency or weariness, Jason’s Helmets sat back, inviting us to attack them. This allowed Gareth and Nathan to sit higher up the pitch where they were better stationed to inflict the necessary damage. Gareth was finally putting together shimmies and dribbles on the left wing that got him clear from his marker to shoot relentless at goal, and Jon had recovered a second wind that saw him put together short, sharp shock runs into danger areas, including a goal of the game precision run and shot, that belied his bigness.
The video still doesn’t lie, but thankfully for the second half it speaks only of sexy erotica, and not night vision sleaze. The play throughout seemed inordinately slow, the ball caught frequently beneath the feet of the opposition, allowing us to win more of the fifty-fifty balls, and come through the last line of defence. Goals started to flow like fluid from a dyke’s hole, the Gareth and Nathan axis coming good, with Jon providing the necessary link between attack and defence.
Our free-kicks have shown constant signs of improvement, in no small part to Nathan taking responsibility for them, allowing Gareth and Jon to provide the necessary movement, for deftly weighted passes. Jon barely moved a couple of yards as he latched onto two terrific freekicks that he swept into the net with that outside of his foot toepoke thing he does. One of those goals being the last minute equaliser that saw Jon trundle onto the pitch straight onto the end of the pass that drew us level in a dog fight we’d previously hadn’t a cat’s chance in hell of getting anything from.
Of course none of this would’ve been possible without the luxury of another substitute to combat the fatigues of Jon, Robbie and Leo. And so it came to pass, that the retired kitman, resident cheerleader fulfilled the yearning he’d been harbouring deep in his gut since September 2005, that feeling of stepping out onto the hallowed turf with his idols, like a child matchday mascot, with slightly more effectiveness.
Gawd only knows what Jason’s Helmets must’ve made of our last chance throw of the dice, but we had at least someone on the pitch, rivalling in size, statue and strength of two of their brutes, and it was on this foundation that we built this superb comeback. Don, playing under a pseudonym and without socks, punched, and pummelled his way around the pitch in an awe-inspiring display. Never mind the length, feel the width.
Mirroring the opposition’s first half scoreline, the Mollys scored 8 to their 2 in the second half to wrap up a well deserved point, and it remains to be seen whether Don’s retirement/comeback is destined to be remembered like George Foreman’s boxing or like George Foreman’s grill. Whether commemorative t-shirts should be printed depends on whether Matt can dig money out of the kitty with the same regularity he digs the ball out of his net (yep, left the obligatory ‘dig’ to the last minute), but for now Don’s accomplishment is certainly worthy of a bronze statue with disproportionately short (marble white) legs.
Goal Scorers: Gareth 6, Jon 3, Nathan 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Don 9, Leo 7, Robbie 7, Jon 8, Gareth 9, Nathan 8
Man of the Match: Don
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