Leo, Steve 3, Robbie, Gareth 4, Nathan 5, Alan 4
WON 7-16
The text message was sent at about five minutes before the scheduled kick-off last night, and whilst most of the Mollys had torn themselves away from another funeral for our national game, with Beckham as guest of honour, Adam was having difficulties. Examining the cell phone evidence without a forensic expert, might lead to misinterpretation, but the general team consensus was that our very own ‘Goldenballs’ was engaged in that pastime commonly referred to as cross-dressing, and had misplaced his heels.
Such role-reversal was also prevalent in our speculation of where exactly Matt and Mike had disappeared to for the evening. Perhaps wary of the low turnout for one of his previous (leaving) dos [I attended, and it’s the benchmark from which I can’t refuse others. The man who comes to take away the confidential waste is having a farewell drink at Junk, you say? I’m there!], the email invites to join Matt on his hen night must’ve got lost in cyberspace (also known as Don’s Inbox). But I bet Donnay Jeff was there.
So with our gaffer celebrating his final days before servitude (and our former self-proclaimed man of the match making similar plans for his self-proclaimed event of the year), it was left to the Swiss army knife of the team, Leo, to step off the plane from JFK Airport, wade through a blaze of Beatles-like mania, and rescue a team short of sure hands. I’m here to kill your monster (I saw Beowulf on the plane).
Thankfully Adam’s drivel excuse absence, but admittedly kind sentiments, and Matt’s night at margaritaville, proved to have absolutely no detrimental impact on the game against the denizens of the bottom of the table. In fact, with the lummox highly likely to have added to his tally tonight, and Robbie turning down the opportunity to sink a penalty, when we were two goals up, and latterly hitting the post, Leo still has a chance to get himself out of this ‘can’t shoot for shit’ stigma he seems to have carved into himself.
The crusade would have to wait. With Robbie operating as primary defender in front of Leo; Alan working the left channel, with the same nostalgic memory as when television only had two channels; Steve defending the centre, and providing the midfield hub; Nathan invading the opposition keeper’s personal space, and Gareth doing his free-for-all sandbox running, this author was never doubting the victorious outcome.
The game itself had the usual packed ingredients in a victory of this size. We played at a level that allowed us a comfortable victory without any real exertion, although the way Robbie kept bending over to touch his toes, I wasn’t clear if he was breathing heavy, or offering himself. The offer was declined.
We put ourselves three nil up before Nathan even stepped onto the pitch, with Leo barely enough time to shout abuse at the lack of defenders on the edge of the area (that would come later), and Gareth even having the audacity to strike the keeper from the penalty spot.
6-2 up at half-time, and not before some lunatic tramp had shouted something about the Frogs being 1-0 up from a penalty in a thick accent that may have been Scottish or something just as ‘simple’, the Mollys hit the nitrous oxide in the second half with complete disregard for the back bumper breaking off and CGI-flying into the camera.
And whilst the first half had a semblance of order about it, the second half was just relentless attacks from both sides, with both teams throwing off the shackles because there was no way they could lose, or no way they could win. The individual Molly performances were pretty much mirrored in both halves, except the space afforded to the attack just meant a higher back line, and Leo was left in a quantum of solace to test his diving skills against two or three opposition strikers at a time.
Leo holds onto shots like he holds onto slippery dicks – he doesn’t (and hasn’t tried). But his parrying style was more than adequate against some very lightweight cushioned shooting from the opposition. No long range belters, the opposition loved to try and dig out that extra yard for the close range shot, and when not frequently blocked by whomever happened to be in the defensive area at that time by sheer coincidence, Leo has happy to chuck himself around. Of course, every keeper gets a couple of clangers, including a parry out straight onto the oppo’s feet, and a miscalculated judgement of dipping body shots, but he accepts no responsibility for Robbie’s own goal.
There had been a discussion between Steve, Robbie and Leo before the match about just that subject, and prophetically Robbie truly delivered his minus one goal for the season. Clearly jealous that everyone was getting on the score sheet but him, Robbie hammered a back pass wide beyond Leo’s despairing dive, that was so ferocious that not even Matt would’ve got to the ball as it rebounded out of the net, let alone in.
Nathan was having his usual tease with the keeper, one minute hammering a shot straight down his throat, the next dinking it round him with smackass aplomb, and also had the usual amount of efforts from impossible winged angles that rose high and wide, as he tried to emulate his hero Kanu from back in the day.
One minute Alan’s complaining that he hasn’t got on the scoresheet, the next he’s opening a can of whup-ass, raking in a quartet of goals, whilst having the seeming disability of wearing what I presume were winkle pickers, the way some of his shots were failing to stay ground-bound. Did we have the ball intercepted in midfield? That was probably Alan’s fault, with the risk-taking crab sideways cross-field pass that flashed before the keeper’s eyes, that against more ruthless teams would get punished, as The Principal attempted to contort his body into impossible positions to get over the ball, with purchase.
Steve took the second penalty that was again cheaply given away, to complete the second hat-trick of his Molly career, and cap a performance of true thinking man’s brilliance. Ladies and gentleman, I present the new Midfield General.
Gareth did what he normally does – either loitering on the right wing, dropping deep to face up the opposition, or ragging down the left wing, with drag backs and all that other posy shit. Frankly, the kid is a constant blur, impossible to focus on, and just does what he does best, with unfettered licence.
The only final comment I really need to pass is mention of the bizarre passing sequence that happened in the second half between the Molly outfield, like the points on a ‘W’ and back again, including a cheeky back-heel, that was possession of the football, bordering on showboating, the likes of which left me almost gob-smacked by its temerity. Of course we then lost the ball, but it was the thought that counts.
A good solid victory against lesser opposition that may as well be basked in, whilst the sun is still shining, and we’re making hay, because the battles get tougher from here on in. With Mike soon to up sticks for newer pastures, the loss of another reliable squad member is a blow, but Alan’s consistent reporting for duties, holds us in good stead, as does Robbie’s more frequent appearances after dark. Now where are my gawd damn shooting boots?
Such role-reversal was also prevalent in our speculation of where exactly Matt and Mike had disappeared to for the evening. Perhaps wary of the low turnout for one of his previous (leaving) dos [I attended, and it’s the benchmark from which I can’t refuse others. The man who comes to take away the confidential waste is having a farewell drink at Junk, you say? I’m there!], the email invites to join Matt on his hen night must’ve got lost in cyberspace (also known as Don’s Inbox). But I bet Donnay Jeff was there.
So with our gaffer celebrating his final days before servitude (and our former self-proclaimed man of the match making similar plans for his self-proclaimed event of the year), it was left to the Swiss army knife of the team, Leo, to step off the plane from JFK Airport, wade through a blaze of Beatles-like mania, and rescue a team short of sure hands. I’m here to kill your monster (I saw Beowulf on the plane).
Thankfully Adam’s drivel excuse absence, but admittedly kind sentiments, and Matt’s night at margaritaville, proved to have absolutely no detrimental impact on the game against the denizens of the bottom of the table. In fact, with the lummox highly likely to have added to his tally tonight, and Robbie turning down the opportunity to sink a penalty, when we were two goals up, and latterly hitting the post, Leo still has a chance to get himself out of this ‘can’t shoot for shit’ stigma he seems to have carved into himself.
The crusade would have to wait. With Robbie operating as primary defender in front of Leo; Alan working the left channel, with the same nostalgic memory as when television only had two channels; Steve defending the centre, and providing the midfield hub; Nathan invading the opposition keeper’s personal space, and Gareth doing his free-for-all sandbox running, this author was never doubting the victorious outcome.
The game itself had the usual packed ingredients in a victory of this size. We played at a level that allowed us a comfortable victory without any real exertion, although the way Robbie kept bending over to touch his toes, I wasn’t clear if he was breathing heavy, or offering himself. The offer was declined.
We put ourselves three nil up before Nathan even stepped onto the pitch, with Leo barely enough time to shout abuse at the lack of defenders on the edge of the area (that would come later), and Gareth even having the audacity to strike the keeper from the penalty spot.
6-2 up at half-time, and not before some lunatic tramp had shouted something about the Frogs being 1-0 up from a penalty in a thick accent that may have been Scottish or something just as ‘simple’, the Mollys hit the nitrous oxide in the second half with complete disregard for the back bumper breaking off and CGI-flying into the camera.
And whilst the first half had a semblance of order about it, the second half was just relentless attacks from both sides, with both teams throwing off the shackles because there was no way they could lose, or no way they could win. The individual Molly performances were pretty much mirrored in both halves, except the space afforded to the attack just meant a higher back line, and Leo was left in a quantum of solace to test his diving skills against two or three opposition strikers at a time.
Leo holds onto shots like he holds onto slippery dicks – he doesn’t (and hasn’t tried). But his parrying style was more than adequate against some very lightweight cushioned shooting from the opposition. No long range belters, the opposition loved to try and dig out that extra yard for the close range shot, and when not frequently blocked by whomever happened to be in the defensive area at that time by sheer coincidence, Leo has happy to chuck himself around. Of course, every keeper gets a couple of clangers, including a parry out straight onto the oppo’s feet, and a miscalculated judgement of dipping body shots, but he accepts no responsibility for Robbie’s own goal.
There had been a discussion between Steve, Robbie and Leo before the match about just that subject, and prophetically Robbie truly delivered his minus one goal for the season. Clearly jealous that everyone was getting on the score sheet but him, Robbie hammered a back pass wide beyond Leo’s despairing dive, that was so ferocious that not even Matt would’ve got to the ball as it rebounded out of the net, let alone in.
Nathan was having his usual tease with the keeper, one minute hammering a shot straight down his throat, the next dinking it round him with smackass aplomb, and also had the usual amount of efforts from impossible winged angles that rose high and wide, as he tried to emulate his hero Kanu from back in the day.
One minute Alan’s complaining that he hasn’t got on the scoresheet, the next he’s opening a can of whup-ass, raking in a quartet of goals, whilst having the seeming disability of wearing what I presume were winkle pickers, the way some of his shots were failing to stay ground-bound. Did we have the ball intercepted in midfield? That was probably Alan’s fault, with the risk-taking crab sideways cross-field pass that flashed before the keeper’s eyes, that against more ruthless teams would get punished, as The Principal attempted to contort his body into impossible positions to get over the ball, with purchase.
Steve took the second penalty that was again cheaply given away, to complete the second hat-trick of his Molly career, and cap a performance of true thinking man’s brilliance. Ladies and gentleman, I present the new Midfield General.
Gareth did what he normally does – either loitering on the right wing, dropping deep to face up the opposition, or ragging down the left wing, with drag backs and all that other posy shit. Frankly, the kid is a constant blur, impossible to focus on, and just does what he does best, with unfettered licence.
The only final comment I really need to pass is mention of the bizarre passing sequence that happened in the second half between the Molly outfield, like the points on a ‘W’ and back again, including a cheeky back-heel, that was possession of the football, bordering on showboating, the likes of which left me almost gob-smacked by its temerity. Of course we then lost the ball, but it was the thought that counts.
A good solid victory against lesser opposition that may as well be basked in, whilst the sun is still shining, and we’re making hay, because the battles get tougher from here on in. With Mike soon to up sticks for newer pastures, the loss of another reliable squad member is a blow, but Alan’s consistent reporting for duties, holds us in good stead, as does Robbie’s more frequent appearances after dark. Now where are my gawd damn shooting boots?
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