MATCH 1 vs. Whitehouse FC 9/5/07 20:30
LOST 4-18
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Mark 13.Manon
“If we don’t know where we belong, it’ll make no difference where we started”
I write this report after the real important football season has now finished. The only season and the only league that mattered - the Premiership. Not the disappointing rip-your-shirt-off tease of the Championship play-offs. Not the pink-kitted failed glory-hunting quest for a plant holder. Not a Cup final between two second-rate European losers. I write this report after the only match that matters has now finished, as West Ham United crushed Manchester United 1-0 for the second time this season to retain top league status, and survive The Quashie Effect.
The Molly Maguires themselves were playing with a shadow squad – Don cruising, Dean supposedly at the cricket, Steve and Martin in the trough of a fitness/age axis, Jon on the porcelain potty, and Nathan apparently benched surplus to requirements (?!). Against opposition they had taken four points from last season, this match nevertheless had ominous portent that was hardly helped by the fevered waiting for Adam’s late showing - he’ll have no doubt wished he could’ve skulked back into his car and gone home by the time this debacle was in full swing.
Even with a potentially young, quick, skilled ringer, in Gareth’s friend Mark, his usefulness ultimately seemed limited to driving Gareth to the match. Hardly worth £5.5M of anyone’s Monopoly money, playing with an ineligible player got the Mollys what they deserved – three points deducted, and a minus 14 goal difference.
So before any more catfights and handbag slinging destabilise an otherwise harmonious squad who love their Gaffa’s efficiency, who believe in team sacrifice above personal glory, who always want to play despite odds-on that they’re due for a tonking, lets cheer everyone up with a description of the team's quartet of goals (and a long range punt against the post) – two in each half, and all significantly brilliant to be worth trading with your friends. Collect them all.
Firstly a slash/stroke/tackle, that Leo’s foot scythed the defender and into the ball to boom it past the keeper into the net. Secondly, latching onto great work from Gareth, the pass through saw Leo trap and turn on the ball, on the edge of the D, before lashing home. Thirdly, gripping onto a loose ball around the D, Leo played a cunning one-two off the keeper’s chest before burying the aerial ball into the loving net. And finally, Leo used his pace to sprint down a throw out from the keeper for one of his patented intercepted in yer face returns.
With Leo duly taking on some of the attacking burden left by the Nathan shaped hole, and actually scoring, this would probably be the best time to talk about the conspiracy that has since enveloped Nathan’s non-attendance. It is fact that Matt named Nathan in the team. It is fact that Nathan enjoys playing, and is always available, barring emergency. It is fact that Nathan is always the last to arrive. So there we all were (when I saw ‘we all’ I mean those who weren’t watching runs or having runs) expecting his arrival anytime during the first ten minutes of the match. Matt suitably convinced us all that he was going to attend, inspiring the kind of false hope that gets you relegated, and so seemed utterly convinced himself.
With whispers and rumours circulating about what was actually said between the Gaffa and Nathan, a schism is almost breaking out in the dressing room of Rijkaard vs. Eto’o proportions, with the Captain’s case not helped by a verified history of memory lapses and flawed team selections. Slightly off-topic speculation followed, about his skin ink art, and the need to tattoo important information on himself (Encyclopaedia Britannica anyone?), to help remember (‘This Way Up’ on the forehead; perhaps a Mad Magazine style fold-in picture on the belly).
The game itself went to hell in a rat shit handbag. The defending was way off-kilter, players getting sucked into rash challenges that left them the wrong side of goal, the pace of the opposition not being mirrored by their counterparts, and shots being rained down on Matt like free cream pies throws at a clown.
In defence, Robbie cried like a lost child at an amusement park, people swarming all around him, oblivious to his desperation. Up front, Gareth had his worst shooting performance in ages, unable to get remotely close to tickling the net, shooting the ground around A-Team-style, rather than a f-ing head-kill. The opposition played like an on-speed version of a Nickelodeon cartoon inbred with a Japanese beat-em up. All grunts, and whoops, and hollahs, adorning nicknames like Scagg, Twat and Cocksucker. They played with a passion and pace that we couldn’t live with, and it was only Matt’s superb keeping skills that saw the Mollys trail by just 6 goals to 2 at the end of the first half.
Second half was much, much worse. Every shot fired by the opposition was hitting the target, Matt not getting this kind of workout since he was last on top. And for every acrobatic save he pulled off, another he let slip past him with all the conviction of a Kelvin Davis, another would just be the kind of unstoppable scorcher that Robbie can’t even dream of, with an own goal from Mark’s breeze block first touch rounding off a disappointing sequence. The ferocity of the opposition’s shots meant Matt just couldn’t hold onto the ball, parrying it out, and back in open play, where tired legs were desperately trying to scramble the ball back into the D’s safety.
Robbie continued to whinge like it was somehow the Molly’s attackers’ fault that he showed too much space to the oncoming strikers. Had Gareth scored our four goals, I very much doubt Robbie would be blaming him for his off night, that could not have been better rounded off than a petulant throw of his boots into our goalmouth.
With Matt getting a much needed rest playing in the outfield for the last few minutes, and Mark taking over picking the ball out of the net duties, the match reached it’s nadir. A new low for The Molly Maguires, since their misconceived stint in the top league at the team’s inception.
Goal Scorers: Leo 4
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Robbie 5, Gareth 5, Adam 5, Mark 5
MOTM: Leo
LOST 4-18
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Mark 13.Manon
“If we don’t know where we belong, it’ll make no difference where we started”
I write this report after the real important football season has now finished. The only season and the only league that mattered - the Premiership. Not the disappointing rip-your-shirt-off tease of the Championship play-offs. Not the pink-kitted failed glory-hunting quest for a plant holder. Not a Cup final between two second-rate European losers. I write this report after the only match that matters has now finished, as West Ham United crushed Manchester United 1-0 for the second time this season to retain top league status, and survive The Quashie Effect.
The Molly Maguires themselves were playing with a shadow squad – Don cruising, Dean supposedly at the cricket, Steve and Martin in the trough of a fitness/age axis, Jon on the porcelain potty, and Nathan apparently benched surplus to requirements (?!). Against opposition they had taken four points from last season, this match nevertheless had ominous portent that was hardly helped by the fevered waiting for Adam’s late showing - he’ll have no doubt wished he could’ve skulked back into his car and gone home by the time this debacle was in full swing.
Even with a potentially young, quick, skilled ringer, in Gareth’s friend Mark, his usefulness ultimately seemed limited to driving Gareth to the match. Hardly worth £5.5M of anyone’s Monopoly money, playing with an ineligible player got the Mollys what they deserved – three points deducted, and a minus 14 goal difference.
So before any more catfights and handbag slinging destabilise an otherwise harmonious squad who love their Gaffa’s efficiency, who believe in team sacrifice above personal glory, who always want to play despite odds-on that they’re due for a tonking, lets cheer everyone up with a description of the team's quartet of goals (and a long range punt against the post) – two in each half, and all significantly brilliant to be worth trading with your friends. Collect them all.
Firstly a slash/stroke/tackle, that Leo’s foot scythed the defender and into the ball to boom it past the keeper into the net. Secondly, latching onto great work from Gareth, the pass through saw Leo trap and turn on the ball, on the edge of the D, before lashing home. Thirdly, gripping onto a loose ball around the D, Leo played a cunning one-two off the keeper’s chest before burying the aerial ball into the loving net. And finally, Leo used his pace to sprint down a throw out from the keeper for one of his patented intercepted in yer face returns.
With Leo duly taking on some of the attacking burden left by the Nathan shaped hole, and actually scoring, this would probably be the best time to talk about the conspiracy that has since enveloped Nathan’s non-attendance. It is fact that Matt named Nathan in the team. It is fact that Nathan enjoys playing, and is always available, barring emergency. It is fact that Nathan is always the last to arrive. So there we all were (when I saw ‘we all’ I mean those who weren’t watching runs or having runs) expecting his arrival anytime during the first ten minutes of the match. Matt suitably convinced us all that he was going to attend, inspiring the kind of false hope that gets you relegated, and so seemed utterly convinced himself.
With whispers and rumours circulating about what was actually said between the Gaffa and Nathan, a schism is almost breaking out in the dressing room of Rijkaard vs. Eto’o proportions, with the Captain’s case not helped by a verified history of memory lapses and flawed team selections. Slightly off-topic speculation followed, about his skin ink art, and the need to tattoo important information on himself (Encyclopaedia Britannica anyone?), to help remember (‘This Way Up’ on the forehead; perhaps a Mad Magazine style fold-in picture on the belly).
The game itself went to hell in a rat shit handbag. The defending was way off-kilter, players getting sucked into rash challenges that left them the wrong side of goal, the pace of the opposition not being mirrored by their counterparts, and shots being rained down on Matt like free cream pies throws at a clown.
In defence, Robbie cried like a lost child at an amusement park, people swarming all around him, oblivious to his desperation. Up front, Gareth had his worst shooting performance in ages, unable to get remotely close to tickling the net, shooting the ground around A-Team-style, rather than a f-ing head-kill. The opposition played like an on-speed version of a Nickelodeon cartoon inbred with a Japanese beat-em up. All grunts, and whoops, and hollahs, adorning nicknames like Scagg, Twat and Cocksucker. They played with a passion and pace that we couldn’t live with, and it was only Matt’s superb keeping skills that saw the Mollys trail by just 6 goals to 2 at the end of the first half.
Second half was much, much worse. Every shot fired by the opposition was hitting the target, Matt not getting this kind of workout since he was last on top. And for every acrobatic save he pulled off, another he let slip past him with all the conviction of a Kelvin Davis, another would just be the kind of unstoppable scorcher that Robbie can’t even dream of, with an own goal from Mark’s breeze block first touch rounding off a disappointing sequence. The ferocity of the opposition’s shots meant Matt just couldn’t hold onto the ball, parrying it out, and back in open play, where tired legs were desperately trying to scramble the ball back into the D’s safety.
Robbie continued to whinge like it was somehow the Molly’s attackers’ fault that he showed too much space to the oncoming strikers. Had Gareth scored our four goals, I very much doubt Robbie would be blaming him for his off night, that could not have been better rounded off than a petulant throw of his boots into our goalmouth.
With Matt getting a much needed rest playing in the outfield for the last few minutes, and Mark taking over picking the ball out of the net duties, the match reached it’s nadir. A new low for The Molly Maguires, since their misconceived stint in the top league at the team’s inception.
Goal Scorers: Leo 4
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Robbie 5, Gareth 5, Adam 5, Mark 5
MOTM: Leo
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