Lost 10-13
12.Mark 3.Don 4.Steve (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 9.Gareth
“Na-Na-Na – that dat don’t kill me, can only make me stronger. I need you to hurry up now, ‘cause I can’t wait much longer. I know I got to be right now, ‘cause I can’t get much wronger”
Wow, for me that was certainly an interesting and informative week.
On Monday, the ten-pin bowling league team I play for, posted the necessary victory in the final match of the season to cement second place in an 18-team league, and with it all the kudos, and prize fund money that goes with it. On Tuesday, sixteen random women were forced to share the space directly in front of them, with me, for four whole minutes. On Friday, a small handful of the Mollys squad, and erstwhile colleagues, descended on the 2007 Southampton Beer Festival for an afternoon of supping on dirty ale and Magners cider. And I’ve still got a Sunday barbeque to attend with work-equivalent people, so the conversation’s gonna be brilliant, and I’m hoping for a ride on my neighbour’s giant train set.
References to some of the above events may be dropped like it’s hot, into the following match report, so if it appears I’ve gone off on a sharper tangent than usual, you’ll get why.
Of course, on Wednesday, this match took place. A superb highlight of the week. With Matt, tanning away on some Med island, pretty as a beached whale at Great Yarmouth, vice-gaffa Steve’s enthusiasm for football, infectiously managed to gather a handful of players together, despite Nathan and Nobby seemingly lost in the land of false dreams and forgotten hope. Looking at the line-up above, you’ve got to wonder why this wasn’t a huge rout of plague-like proportions.
How did we score double figures without Nathan and Jon? How did we concede only 13 goals with a defence aged 100yrs added on top of that? Could Leo afford to shoulder the blame of another defeat whilst playing in attack? Could a six man squad really survive the painful 40 minute fitness test? Would Dean’s spongy ankle excuse buckle under close scrutiny? Would Gareth be able to contain his frustration at having to go it alone up front? How can Mark shamefully wear a keeper’s jersey with two left feet, two left hands, and an inability to dive?
Steve bucked tradition to start from the outset, and never saw unfit to leave the pitch as he put together a brilliant display of motivating leadership, selfless endeavour and tactical smarts to inspire this rag-tag band of players, who couldn’t give much shit about watching Beckham and co. aspiring to be idolatry gods, by exacting Eurovision revenge.
With the referee being Jess, there were high hopes that at least the contest would be called fair, and it was. Defeat not laid at the feet of bad refereeing decisions, nor the people who couldn’t turn out, just simply a couple of avoidable mistakes that got punished. Another case of another team, that next time, we have the ability to beat.
With Mark and Gareth having brought some girlfriends (presumably theirs) to watch them in action, their performances were going to be the ones to watch. The thin line between impressing and trying too hard, was about to be walked, crossed, hassled, weakly thrown and incapable of being held. Not since the last time Don brought one of his Merry Wives have the Mollys had touchline totty. Caution of course, for those players who actually saw them, because the operative words of ‘touch’ and ‘tot’ with these girls would get you a long stretch in the big house.
Some suspect keeper warming up would only hint at Mark’s preference to use his feet to save shots, rather than to bend his knees and catch the ball; his decision to stretch his legs across, rather than dive to the other side of the goal; his choice to throw the ball straight down the centre to the opposition without even a polite shout to Manon. Mark’s full first cap in goal was respectable without being brilliant, but when a team’s begging for keepers, then one shouldn’t be churlish when we get volunteers for that sharp end of the wedge.
At least Mark’s inability to hold onto the ball, paled into insignificance to Adam’s inability to hold a commemorative terrorism pint glass. Having earlier on Friday, made one faux pas, by initially choosing a half-tankard to sip beer from, Adam undoes all his good recovery work, by drop shattering his subsequent man-sized glass later that eve, all over a park pavement. Dead squirrels on your conscience be.
Gareth, on the other hand, had a quite frankly barnstorming match, with the most destructive, energetic, powerhouse display of running, tracking back, shooting and tackling, and a second half performance of sheer zenith. Someone got laid that night.
His father, meanwhile, continues to defy expectations. I would have serious concerns about my own dad just jogging to the front door to collect the latest Which? magazine, but Don challenges grandpa prejudices every time he steps off that pitch alive after a match, let alone the sheer guts and energy it takes to even bother to walk onto it. Any praise would be pretty worthless if Don doesn’t continue to contribute to the side, but again did so with another TNA tag-team belting assured display alongside Steve that allowed the more youthful runners the chance to attempt a fight back against the stacked odds. Odds that would prove tougher than the perilous con of the “Every 1s A Winner” beer fest tombola, that professional complainer Gerry, of all people, managed to beat.
For the opening gambit of the first half, the Mollys took it cagey, with a slow dawning that this was our lot, and no reinforcements were coming. Two complete different tactical approaches to the match from the two teams. The Sniffers were all-out attack merchants utilising their pace to run beyond the ball, and pick-up the pass on the wings. The ball was played short from the keeper, passed into a more central position, from which runners on either wing would pick up the pass. This was calculated one touch football that the Mollys would have to zonal mark, and let the ball come to them.
The Mollys played with a mostly flat back two, with Leo or Dean and Gareth providing the pace on the flanks. They were trying to turn over the ball in central length positions and counter-act a less than impressive short-stack of a keeper, and on a couple of occasions it worked. Leo breaking clear of the last man, with head down thrashes into the corner for a quick brace. Gareth grabbed himself a goal too, before the whistle blew us into a half-time 6-3 down. We’d been exposed defenceless on the D a couple of times, and Mark had gifted them at least one turkey, but we certainly weren’t being outclassed
Steve had pushed himself to the brink of physical oblivion, playing with style that recalled the very best hardmen defenders of yore - tumbling over his opposite number to stop them running away, sneaking in a cheeky handball or two, and falling down under the weight of challenges. Steve was certainly more down than a certain cockney wide-boy and his name checking of the NWA (not the Neo-White Alliance nor the Neighbourhood Watch Association). A solid encouraging team-talk looked to reinforce our positive play, and to really let rip at the piss-weak keeper - until it became clear that they’d just changed their keeper into someone an extra two feet taller. Perversely this actually encouraged the Mollys to shoot freely at a clear second choice keeper.
Second half saw the Mollys come out fighting - Dean played like his usual super smooth ice-chilled self, yet with the added vigourance of a man on day release, Leo shouted vocal encouragement and insults, pacing the left wing, and Gareth literally chased down every last ball, every last man, in a manic whirlwind of frenetic energy.
A brilliant spell in the second half saw the Mollys tear the Sniffers a new orifice, Gareth at the pinnacle of the attack was finally lashing in the goal shots – including a brilliant poach, shifting the ball beyond his marker, and curving it into the bottom corner, and a brilliant steal aka ‘turnover’ as a lazy back heel from their centre kick, was jumped on and whalloped into goal, as the Mollys pulled it level to 9-9. The spell probably lasted about four minutes, just about the same right amount to judge a woman’s attractiveness based on their huge chin, independent eyes, crow’s feet, love of Maroon 5, or being a self-appointed maths geek.
At least one error by Leo, clever as curry popcorn, having to drop deep to pick up the ball from the keeper’s throwout, and getting robbed and immediately punished, saw the opposition finally make enough of a lead to pull away, as the team finally finished beardless, with a 10-13 loss. Of course, now that I’ve come to the end of this report, Sunday has long since gone, and the promised ride on the garden miniature railway, won’t materialise for at least another two decades. Somehow in light of the last week, I’m strangely not disappointed by either result. Take the victories when you can, however small.
Goals scorers: Leo 3, Gareth 6, Steve 1
Match Ratings: Mark 7, Don 8, Steve 8, Leo 7, Dean 7, Gareth 10
Wow, for me that was certainly an interesting and informative week.
On Monday, the ten-pin bowling league team I play for, posted the necessary victory in the final match of the season to cement second place in an 18-team league, and with it all the kudos, and prize fund money that goes with it. On Tuesday, sixteen random women were forced to share the space directly in front of them, with me, for four whole minutes. On Friday, a small handful of the Mollys squad, and erstwhile colleagues, descended on the 2007 Southampton Beer Festival for an afternoon of supping on dirty ale and Magners cider. And I’ve still got a Sunday barbeque to attend with work-equivalent people, so the conversation’s gonna be brilliant, and I’m hoping for a ride on my neighbour’s giant train set.
References to some of the above events may be dropped like it’s hot, into the following match report, so if it appears I’ve gone off on a sharper tangent than usual, you’ll get why.
Of course, on Wednesday, this match took place. A superb highlight of the week. With Matt, tanning away on some Med island, pretty as a beached whale at Great Yarmouth, vice-gaffa Steve’s enthusiasm for football, infectiously managed to gather a handful of players together, despite Nathan and Nobby seemingly lost in the land of false dreams and forgotten hope. Looking at the line-up above, you’ve got to wonder why this wasn’t a huge rout of plague-like proportions.
How did we score double figures without Nathan and Jon? How did we concede only 13 goals with a defence aged 100yrs added on top of that? Could Leo afford to shoulder the blame of another defeat whilst playing in attack? Could a six man squad really survive the painful 40 minute fitness test? Would Dean’s spongy ankle excuse buckle under close scrutiny? Would Gareth be able to contain his frustration at having to go it alone up front? How can Mark shamefully wear a keeper’s jersey with two left feet, two left hands, and an inability to dive?
Steve bucked tradition to start from the outset, and never saw unfit to leave the pitch as he put together a brilliant display of motivating leadership, selfless endeavour and tactical smarts to inspire this rag-tag band of players, who couldn’t give much shit about watching Beckham and co. aspiring to be idolatry gods, by exacting Eurovision revenge.
With the referee being Jess, there were high hopes that at least the contest would be called fair, and it was. Defeat not laid at the feet of bad refereeing decisions, nor the people who couldn’t turn out, just simply a couple of avoidable mistakes that got punished. Another case of another team, that next time, we have the ability to beat.
With Mark and Gareth having brought some girlfriends (presumably theirs) to watch them in action, their performances were going to be the ones to watch. The thin line between impressing and trying too hard, was about to be walked, crossed, hassled, weakly thrown and incapable of being held. Not since the last time Don brought one of his Merry Wives have the Mollys had touchline totty. Caution of course, for those players who actually saw them, because the operative words of ‘touch’ and ‘tot’ with these girls would get you a long stretch in the big house.
Some suspect keeper warming up would only hint at Mark’s preference to use his feet to save shots, rather than to bend his knees and catch the ball; his decision to stretch his legs across, rather than dive to the other side of the goal; his choice to throw the ball straight down the centre to the opposition without even a polite shout to Manon. Mark’s full first cap in goal was respectable without being brilliant, but when a team’s begging for keepers, then one shouldn’t be churlish when we get volunteers for that sharp end of the wedge.
At least Mark’s inability to hold onto the ball, paled into insignificance to Adam’s inability to hold a commemorative terrorism pint glass. Having earlier on Friday, made one faux pas, by initially choosing a half-tankard to sip beer from, Adam undoes all his good recovery work, by drop shattering his subsequent man-sized glass later that eve, all over a park pavement. Dead squirrels on your conscience be.
Gareth, on the other hand, had a quite frankly barnstorming match, with the most destructive, energetic, powerhouse display of running, tracking back, shooting and tackling, and a second half performance of sheer zenith. Someone got laid that night.
His father, meanwhile, continues to defy expectations. I would have serious concerns about my own dad just jogging to the front door to collect the latest Which? magazine, but Don challenges grandpa prejudices every time he steps off that pitch alive after a match, let alone the sheer guts and energy it takes to even bother to walk onto it. Any praise would be pretty worthless if Don doesn’t continue to contribute to the side, but again did so with another TNA tag-team belting assured display alongside Steve that allowed the more youthful runners the chance to attempt a fight back against the stacked odds. Odds that would prove tougher than the perilous con of the “Every 1s A Winner” beer fest tombola, that professional complainer Gerry, of all people, managed to beat.
For the opening gambit of the first half, the Mollys took it cagey, with a slow dawning that this was our lot, and no reinforcements were coming. Two complete different tactical approaches to the match from the two teams. The Sniffers were all-out attack merchants utilising their pace to run beyond the ball, and pick-up the pass on the wings. The ball was played short from the keeper, passed into a more central position, from which runners on either wing would pick up the pass. This was calculated one touch football that the Mollys would have to zonal mark, and let the ball come to them.
The Mollys played with a mostly flat back two, with Leo or Dean and Gareth providing the pace on the flanks. They were trying to turn over the ball in central length positions and counter-act a less than impressive short-stack of a keeper, and on a couple of occasions it worked. Leo breaking clear of the last man, with head down thrashes into the corner for a quick brace. Gareth grabbed himself a goal too, before the whistle blew us into a half-time 6-3 down. We’d been exposed defenceless on the D a couple of times, and Mark had gifted them at least one turkey, but we certainly weren’t being outclassed
Steve had pushed himself to the brink of physical oblivion, playing with style that recalled the very best hardmen defenders of yore - tumbling over his opposite number to stop them running away, sneaking in a cheeky handball or two, and falling down under the weight of challenges. Steve was certainly more down than a certain cockney wide-boy and his name checking of the NWA (not the Neo-White Alliance nor the Neighbourhood Watch Association). A solid encouraging team-talk looked to reinforce our positive play, and to really let rip at the piss-weak keeper - until it became clear that they’d just changed their keeper into someone an extra two feet taller. Perversely this actually encouraged the Mollys to shoot freely at a clear second choice keeper.
Second half saw the Mollys come out fighting - Dean played like his usual super smooth ice-chilled self, yet with the added vigourance of a man on day release, Leo shouted vocal encouragement and insults, pacing the left wing, and Gareth literally chased down every last ball, every last man, in a manic whirlwind of frenetic energy.
A brilliant spell in the second half saw the Mollys tear the Sniffers a new orifice, Gareth at the pinnacle of the attack was finally lashing in the goal shots – including a brilliant poach, shifting the ball beyond his marker, and curving it into the bottom corner, and a brilliant steal aka ‘turnover’ as a lazy back heel from their centre kick, was jumped on and whalloped into goal, as the Mollys pulled it level to 9-9. The spell probably lasted about four minutes, just about the same right amount to judge a woman’s attractiveness based on their huge chin, independent eyes, crow’s feet, love of Maroon 5, or being a self-appointed maths geek.
At least one error by Leo, clever as curry popcorn, having to drop deep to pick up the ball from the keeper’s throwout, and getting robbed and immediately punished, saw the opposition finally make enough of a lead to pull away, as the team finally finished beardless, with a 10-13 loss. Of course, now that I’ve come to the end of this report, Sunday has long since gone, and the promised ride on the garden miniature railway, won’t materialise for at least another two decades. Somehow in light of the last week, I’m strangely not disappointed by either result. Take the victories when you can, however small.
Goals scorers: Leo 3, Gareth 6, Steve 1
Match Ratings: Mark 7, Don 8, Steve 8, Leo 7, Dean 7, Gareth 10
MOTM: Gareth
No comments:
Post a Comment