Wednesday, 27 August 2008
vs. Ajax Treesdown 27/08/08 20:30 (7:2)
LOST 16-2
M*tt, L*o, St*ve1, Al*n, Little M*ke1, N*than
“Two bodies have I. Though both joined in one. The stiller I stand. The faster I run.”
I would have personally preferred something like “Headsoff” or “Floor Cleaner”, but who am I to criticise the dearth of imaginative names. Yet if there was any reason to believe that The Molly Maguires had reached their nadir last week, that reason was suffocated under the cannon fodder corpses of tonight’s match.
When there are times like these, you wish that one of the old boys would finally reveal that he hasn’t been telling us the truth, is actually a secret millionaire, was looking for a worthwhile charitable cause. And found it in us.
When an opposition player asks you if your keeper has a twin brother who can play for them even whilst the gaffer’s letting in 16 goals, and we barely trouble them with two, you just know you’re having a bad day.
When your primary striker is, an emo-fringed 14 year old who can’t track back, and can’t beat two defenders (I’m bemoaning the attempt, not the failure), supported by a middle-aged winger who can run the whole length of the pitch, lose it without getting a shot off, and then has to run back the entire length of the pitch to prevent the counter-strike, goals are going to be as hard to come by, as watching a Madonna nude scene is hard to cum by.
When your primary defender is unable to hold his position at the heart of defence, because he deludingly thinks he can impact the forward threat, supported by a brittle-boned mad-dog whose free-kicks are so slow that the tide has time to come in and go out again, then goals are going to be conceded with the same regularity afforded by a Senokot laced prune juice.
When one of your more skilled players comes onto the pitch, with the warm-up equivalent of a Thai massage, lasts barely two minutes, and then hobbles off with a foot injury that sees him charged just 50p for his contribution, then the balance of the team is more shot away, then the creative genius who green-lit that sick Orangina ad with bikini-wearing giraffes.
With our season now two games into the swing, we’re coming across like the Derby County of this league, and with a severely limited number of available players, like the genepool in Cornwall, we may as well be starting with a minus 22 points for our financial iwrongularities. There’s no Baby Bentleys to be sold off in this team, just a damaged rickshaw, a sunken battleship, a deflated Zorb ball and a Cortina on bricks.
When the highlight of the evening amounts to watching the match before, being played out 4-a-side, the ref having sent off two players for presumably kicking each other, like donkeys kick asses (this metaphor works on at least two levels); when the highlight of the match is the ref (again) having an argument with the Treesdown player about not retreating from a free-kick; when the goal of the match is a superb central through ball from the youngest Molly to the oldest, who then creates half a yard of space to curl into the bottom corner; when these are the most interesting things to write about, then I am really scraping the bottom of the barrel, like using this cliché is scraping the bottom of the barrel.
With our front line hardly troubling Treesdown’s keeper with any shots memorable, and I should know - I’m trying, the possession was nine-tenths theirs. When our defence were not blocking and deflecting shots like pinball flippers; when we weren’t fouling them as they bounced the ball from one foot to another as they dashed past us; when we weren’t trying to cushion and trap balls that pinged off us over regulation height; when we weren’t running into dead ends and getting stranded; well that’s when our keeper was getting busy with the fizzy.
Balls cracked at him from distance were slipping past him; shots from the edge of the D were being wonderfully saved, but an injury to his thumb (amazingly not from removing it from a Christmas plum pie) saw him resort to a denied tactic of trying to save with his legs. A tactic not seen so badly used since the days of Gareth’s mate, and Charlesworth before him. With an injury list that also included a bruised toe, sore ribs, battered pride and general sweating, the end of the match was a blessed euthanasiam relief. A worse defeat ranking easily top five. With battles off the pitch to get enough players to battle on the pitch, this season already has a turgid feel about it. Michael Stipe and netball have a lot to answer for.
Look at that. A whole match report, and not a single player’s name mentioned. The same anonymity afforded to child-age killers.
M*tt, L*o, St*ve1, Al*n, Little M*ke1, N*than
“Two bodies have I. Though both joined in one. The stiller I stand. The faster I run.”
I would have personally preferred something like “Headsoff” or “Floor Cleaner”, but who am I to criticise the dearth of imaginative names. Yet if there was any reason to believe that The Molly Maguires had reached their nadir last week, that reason was suffocated under the cannon fodder corpses of tonight’s match.
When there are times like these, you wish that one of the old boys would finally reveal that he hasn’t been telling us the truth, is actually a secret millionaire, was looking for a worthwhile charitable cause. And found it in us.
When an opposition player asks you if your keeper has a twin brother who can play for them even whilst the gaffer’s letting in 16 goals, and we barely trouble them with two, you just know you’re having a bad day.
When your primary striker is, an emo-fringed 14 year old who can’t track back, and can’t beat two defenders (I’m bemoaning the attempt, not the failure), supported by a middle-aged winger who can run the whole length of the pitch, lose it without getting a shot off, and then has to run back the entire length of the pitch to prevent the counter-strike, goals are going to be as hard to come by, as watching a Madonna nude scene is hard to cum by.
When your primary defender is unable to hold his position at the heart of defence, because he deludingly thinks he can impact the forward threat, supported by a brittle-boned mad-dog whose free-kicks are so slow that the tide has time to come in and go out again, then goals are going to be conceded with the same regularity afforded by a Senokot laced prune juice.
When one of your more skilled players comes onto the pitch, with the warm-up equivalent of a Thai massage, lasts barely two minutes, and then hobbles off with a foot injury that sees him charged just 50p for his contribution, then the balance of the team is more shot away, then the creative genius who green-lit that sick Orangina ad with bikini-wearing giraffes.
With our season now two games into the swing, we’re coming across like the Derby County of this league, and with a severely limited number of available players, like the genepool in Cornwall, we may as well be starting with a minus 22 points for our financial iwrongularities. There’s no Baby Bentleys to be sold off in this team, just a damaged rickshaw, a sunken battleship, a deflated Zorb ball and a Cortina on bricks.
When the highlight of the evening amounts to watching the match before, being played out 4-a-side, the ref having sent off two players for presumably kicking each other, like donkeys kick asses (this metaphor works on at least two levels); when the highlight of the match is the ref (again) having an argument with the Treesdown player about not retreating from a free-kick; when the goal of the match is a superb central through ball from the youngest Molly to the oldest, who then creates half a yard of space to curl into the bottom corner; when these are the most interesting things to write about, then I am really scraping the bottom of the barrel, like using this cliché is scraping the bottom of the barrel.
With our front line hardly troubling Treesdown’s keeper with any shots memorable, and I should know - I’m trying, the possession was nine-tenths theirs. When our defence were not blocking and deflecting shots like pinball flippers; when we weren’t fouling them as they bounced the ball from one foot to another as they dashed past us; when we weren’t trying to cushion and trap balls that pinged off us over regulation height; when we weren’t running into dead ends and getting stranded; well that’s when our keeper was getting busy with the fizzy.
Balls cracked at him from distance were slipping past him; shots from the edge of the D were being wonderfully saved, but an injury to his thumb (amazingly not from removing it from a Christmas plum pie) saw him resort to a denied tactic of trying to save with his legs. A tactic not seen so badly used since the days of Gareth’s mate, and Charlesworth before him. With an injury list that also included a bruised toe, sore ribs, battered pride and general sweating, the end of the match was a blessed euthanasiam relief. A worse defeat ranking easily top five. With battles off the pitch to get enough players to battle on the pitch, this season already has a turgid feel about it. Michael Stipe and netball have a lot to answer for.
Look at that. A whole match report, and not a single player’s name mentioned. The same anonymity afforded to child-age killers.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
vs. Testwood FC 20/08/08 20:30 (7:1)
LOST 13-5
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan1, Mike1, Gareth3
"Hello! Hello! It's good to be back. It's good to be back"
Looking back through this blog, I note a distinct lack of reports written about our matches against Testwood FC. I aim to correct that anomaly with this report, at the expense of all other reports, incomplete or unstarted. Testwood FC have long been our nemesis, in the way Roystone Rangers used to be, this being the fourth season we’ve been together in electric dreams. One win in seven is a record only Derby County would be envious of and such defeatist agony would be bearable if they were a much better side than us. They are not. Why else are we still playing with each other longer than a Britney Spears marriage?
The evening had started pleasantly enough, as Gareth had brought the personification of his “In A Relationship” Facebook status as touchline totty, trumping Steve’s claims that our promotion to the Championship meant he was now married to a WAG. The old man had returned from tending to his allotment, cultivating his veggies to look like boobs and willies. Alan had flown back from America, balder than usual, and with Mike also in situ, the team had the engine of a Turbo Terrific 09. It also had its unreliability.
With Goals announcing a match fee price hike by £1.25 from 1st September, it doesn’t require a fresh on the market Carol Vorderman to do the math, on how Goals are going to re-coop the extra £10 from our reduced registration fee. It’s this kind of money grabbing bullshit that sees the company losing customers hand over fist over head over ass, which is no mean feat when the first aforementioned three are stuck up the last. The Molly’s signature on the decree nisi is freshly wet.
The match itself started with ominous portent as Matt fumbled a weak-ass shot off his slippery grip into our goal, and Mike at the other end, sliced the ball with the same finesse afforded to a doner kebab, whilst an empty net gaped open. With a formation that owed everything to hassle, harry, cash and carry, the deep lying line-up conceded the bulk of possession in the hope of counter-attacks, lucky breaks, and long-range punts.
Initial endeavours proved useful, if hardly exacting. Gareth having to thrust his way through markers, with only intermittent success; Alan bounding up and down the wings with nowhere to go; Steve playing dangerously sophisticated short balls in front of the D and Mike forever trying give and go one-twos. With Leo barely bouncing a few feet from the front door of Matt’s club, it was soak up siege and then strike out speed.
Like all good comedy ensembles, Testwood FC have some notable characters - the Italian named Mario or Romeo, with all the close quarters control of a melting ice lolly on a stick; the blonde Beckham wannabe ‘Stix’ (not unlike our brunette Beckham wannabe) with a devastating turn of pace and dribbling skills of a six month old baby force fed lemons; the guy who looks like he’s president of some computer club; and the wanker (who may or may not be one of the above) who smashed Gareth into the wall, with the same ‘going for the ball’ excuse, that Joey Barton used to explain how he tackles by punching team-mates in the face. Repeatedly.
Narrowly avoiding what was a stick-on sin-binning for making Gareth look like a girl in front of his girl, the Testwood player got a stern telling off and a ‘no more’ warning from the referee, that seemed to pull the sting from the 'aggressive team' bug, if not squash it into a pulpy smear.
Without a holding player up front (no names – his ego’s big enough), the Mollys were forced to pass and play, run through channels, and attempt to play through an over-crowded midfield, in which we had no foothold. Playing face-up to the ball allowed a better covering of their attacks, but limited our own ability to press any number advantage home. The opposition played the ball from the back, and always had an overlappingly frequent option. They drove through us down the centre, switched to the wings, then back down the middle for central strikes at Matt. The fact we came out of the first half just 5-3 down was quite remarkable.
Second half was a downward spiral. We barely whimpered as they gutted us inside and out. Tiredness saw us dropping deep, without the forward-motion skills to make space for ourselves. With lack of discipline creeping in, and our shape getting more ragged than Winehouse’s face, danger was all around Matt’s ground zero, and the press for goals left him exposed, and that’s not a sight anyone should endure.
At the other end, it was probably safer in the air, despite the burning engines, loss of cabin pressure, and Mike and Leo’s high off-target shooting. Indeed, with the lynchpin abandoning his defensive duties in pursuit of the golden glory, it merely encouraged Matt to perform outrageously awful long-throw outs that never made it past the first man, let alone the second. If world news has taught us anything recently, its that Asians know how to repel dirty invaders looking for paedomatic immunity, so an exact metaphorical comparison can be drawn to this match. Leo leaving the job to a couple of old janitors is asking for any old weirdo to sneak past.
This was an utterly heartbreaking defeat; heartbreaking like England’s continued capitulation to the hands of mediocrity, heartbreaking like Jade Goody’s cancer (black, I bet), heartbreaking like a broken Love Heart. I end this report now, because I haven’t managed that for a while.
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan1, Mike1, Gareth3
"Hello! Hello! It's good to be back. It's good to be back"
Looking back through this blog, I note a distinct lack of reports written about our matches against Testwood FC. I aim to correct that anomaly with this report, at the expense of all other reports, incomplete or unstarted. Testwood FC have long been our nemesis, in the way Roystone Rangers used to be, this being the fourth season we’ve been together in electric dreams. One win in seven is a record only Derby County would be envious of and such defeatist agony would be bearable if they were a much better side than us. They are not. Why else are we still playing with each other longer than a Britney Spears marriage?
The evening had started pleasantly enough, as Gareth had brought the personification of his “In A Relationship” Facebook status as touchline totty, trumping Steve’s claims that our promotion to the Championship meant he was now married to a WAG. The old man had returned from tending to his allotment, cultivating his veggies to look like boobs and willies. Alan had flown back from America, balder than usual, and with Mike also in situ, the team had the engine of a Turbo Terrific 09. It also had its unreliability.
With Goals announcing a match fee price hike by £1.25 from 1st September, it doesn’t require a fresh on the market Carol Vorderman to do the math, on how Goals are going to re-coop the extra £10 from our reduced registration fee. It’s this kind of money grabbing bullshit that sees the company losing customers hand over fist over head over ass, which is no mean feat when the first aforementioned three are stuck up the last. The Molly’s signature on the decree nisi is freshly wet.
The match itself started with ominous portent as Matt fumbled a weak-ass shot off his slippery grip into our goal, and Mike at the other end, sliced the ball with the same finesse afforded to a doner kebab, whilst an empty net gaped open. With a formation that owed everything to hassle, harry, cash and carry, the deep lying line-up conceded the bulk of possession in the hope of counter-attacks, lucky breaks, and long-range punts.
Initial endeavours proved useful, if hardly exacting. Gareth having to thrust his way through markers, with only intermittent success; Alan bounding up and down the wings with nowhere to go; Steve playing dangerously sophisticated short balls in front of the D and Mike forever trying give and go one-twos. With Leo barely bouncing a few feet from the front door of Matt’s club, it was soak up siege and then strike out speed.
Like all good comedy ensembles, Testwood FC have some notable characters - the Italian named Mario or Romeo, with all the close quarters control of a melting ice lolly on a stick; the blonde Beckham wannabe ‘Stix’ (not unlike our brunette Beckham wannabe) with a devastating turn of pace and dribbling skills of a six month old baby force fed lemons; the guy who looks like he’s president of some computer club; and the wanker (who may or may not be one of the above) who smashed Gareth into the wall, with the same ‘going for the ball’ excuse, that Joey Barton used to explain how he tackles by punching team-mates in the face. Repeatedly.
Narrowly avoiding what was a stick-on sin-binning for making Gareth look like a girl in front of his girl, the Testwood player got a stern telling off and a ‘no more’ warning from the referee, that seemed to pull the sting from the 'aggressive team' bug, if not squash it into a pulpy smear.
Without a holding player up front (no names – his ego’s big enough), the Mollys were forced to pass and play, run through channels, and attempt to play through an over-crowded midfield, in which we had no foothold. Playing face-up to the ball allowed a better covering of their attacks, but limited our own ability to press any number advantage home. The opposition played the ball from the back, and always had an overlappingly frequent option. They drove through us down the centre, switched to the wings, then back down the middle for central strikes at Matt. The fact we came out of the first half just 5-3 down was quite remarkable.
Second half was a downward spiral. We barely whimpered as they gutted us inside and out. Tiredness saw us dropping deep, without the forward-motion skills to make space for ourselves. With lack of discipline creeping in, and our shape getting more ragged than Winehouse’s face, danger was all around Matt’s ground zero, and the press for goals left him exposed, and that’s not a sight anyone should endure.
At the other end, it was probably safer in the air, despite the burning engines, loss of cabin pressure, and Mike and Leo’s high off-target shooting. Indeed, with the lynchpin abandoning his defensive duties in pursuit of the golden glory, it merely encouraged Matt to perform outrageously awful long-throw outs that never made it past the first man, let alone the second. If world news has taught us anything recently, its that Asians know how to repel dirty invaders looking for paedomatic immunity, so an exact metaphorical comparison can be drawn to this match. Leo leaving the job to a couple of old janitors is asking for any old weirdo to sneak past.
This was an utterly heartbreaking defeat; heartbreaking like England’s continued capitulation to the hands of mediocrity, heartbreaking like Jade Goody’s cancer (black, I bet), heartbreaking like a broken Love Heart. I end this report now, because I haven’t managed that for a while.
Aw, shit, I forgot. As a postscript, with the bar empty, and the England match over, I bore witness to the gross sight of Alan scoffing down some stale left over sandwiches and nibbles from the buffet tray. Which says all you need to know about Mrs Skinner's cooking.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
The Entertainers 6/8/08 8.30pm (6-9)
WON 12-9
Matt, Leo2, Steve, Mike, Adam, Gareth5, Nathan5
If The Molly Maguires were mythic beauty they’d launch a thousand ships; if they were a prolific porn star, they’d suck a thousand dicks.
It’s been almost as long as Barry George’s incarceration (prison sure can change a man - whatever happened to the gold chains and that cockney accent??) but the Mollys’ inner stalker is finally free, executing opposition with high calibre abandon. A spate of superb performances have resulted in a number of impressive victories, as the team have developed into a fighting unit to rival a poor-man’s Gurkhas. There’s consistency, confidence and prolificacy where once there was inconsistency, unconfidence and antilificacy.
Last week was all smoke and mirrors; a glorified magic trick that was nothing but a pencil through the eye. We’d go into the lead, Testwood FC would equalise; we went ahead, they’d pin us back; until eventually we sent one of them to the hospital and they sent one of us to the morgue. A tortoise cheap trick saw Testwood FC score first at 7-7, and from there, the Mollys were chasing dust. That particular vendetta shall remain slow-roasting on the back-burner for now.
Off the pitch, Matt was courting new footballing mistresses, weighing up options of shifting The Molly Maguires franchise down the road to Eastleigh. And like all transfers, the main motivating factor is money. Cheaper fees, supposed better atmosphere (both in terms of people and air), and closer to the motorway for our regular road warriors. Still, our loyalty might stick it another season, and avoid the risk of being a hanging effigy of hatred, like a smarmy ‘Soul Glow’ Portuguese mercenary.
Tonight was an opportunity for the Mollys to do their only double of the season, over The Entertainers. An unchanged team from last week, and six players the same as the last three matches reflected a forced consistency of line-up with a squad only nine strong this season. With familiarity, however, breeds content. And the team is showing hints of a telepathic understanding akin to Mekon. A line-up that allows Nathan to hold the front line, Gareth to receive balls deep, Leo to patrol the rim, Steve to conduct from the middle, and beefy workhouses Adam and Mike to run themselves ragged.
If anyone failed to notice the less than antagonising atmosphere, he was probably discovering polygamy in his Geordie hometown. Was it really a coincidence that this was a less than hostile tense affair without our resident cheerleader around, or did we really shut the opposition up into submission with our scintillating skill?
We started fast and bright, Leo smashing the team’s first two goals in setting up his own second shots with rebounds off the wall and the keeper’s gloves, even caving in on himself (cue Transforming sound) to hit home goal number two with his left peg.
We always stayed one or two goals ahead in the first half, let The Entertainers come at us, and then counter-attacked them. Simple and effective. Like castration. We chased them into the corners, forcing them to hit and hope passes off the back wall and through the D. For once, however, we always seemed to be there or thereabouts, a nudge of a toe here, a body block there. Our close quarter defending was exceptional, and the team defended en mass, enveloping the opposition like the blob.
Gareth has adopted the left back position as the easiest outlet for Matt’s throw outs, allowing him space to run goalwards at his marker, and into the vast open countryside beyond him. Having the Duracell bunny as an extra defender puts more foundation into the back-line, but gives him braveheart freedom to run forward whilst a team-mate falls in behind him. The Entertainers seemed unable to defend on the back foot.
Their ringer (apparently there’s a vending machine in the foyer, next to the Coke one, which dispenses them), another flash harry dressed in red, was showing some subtle skills that saw him pirouette his way through the entire Molly outfield before a calm finish into Matt’s near post. Kindly old Steve had coaxed information from him that he hadn’t played in a year, but looked nothing of the sort. The real worry is how Steve managed to coerce such tactical knowledge without a bag of sweets and a wound down window.
The opposition would frequently play the ball down the wings, but the receiver seemed incapable of doing anything productive with it with speed; which merely allowed the Mollys to drop into position like four coloured plastic discs in a row. Goal side and impromptu switching between zonal and man-marking saw the Mollys very much in control.
Matt should’ve pissed into a plastic cup at the end of the match because no-one drops that big that fast to the ground without some performance-enhancers. Still getting lazily caught out with long range efforts when blinded by the Terracotta rows of defenders in front of him, Matt was nevertheless putting on a supreme display of strong handed dive saving when one-on-one, that kept the Mollys ahead.
Mike challenged Gareth for the most pitch miles covered as he ran lengths and breadths chasing down the opposition, but was nowhere near the same page when the shooting was called to account. Too much fluffy insteps, and not enough ruthless hoofing, Mike showed all the pirouetting turning skills of a one-legged hippo on ice. Mike doth protested too much about “not being able to score in a brothel” which suggested he’d tried previously, but my brain swells with the whole ‘proving a negative’ theory, so I’ll leave you with cliché Mike’s ‘lack of shooting boots’ excuse instead.
With Alan away preparing his Saints team for the start of the Championship campaign (seriously, have another look and listen), Adam has ably stepped into his shoes with tight t-shirt and tight marking, stomping around, throwing his shoulders about like Cloverfield, and neatly popping up in all areas of the pitch like lesions. His shooting boots are also missing.
Half-time had the Mollys about 6-4 ahead. Matt was proclaiming that ‘he wouldn’t change a thing’ as a tear jerked in his eye; which was a real u-turn from his pre-match assessment that we were in dire relegation worries, despite being third in the table. Matt’s neither a half-empty nor half-full kind of guy. Nothing around him stays half-full or half-empty. On the other end of the emotional spectrum Nathan was “nervous” that we were ahead; the post-traumatic stress disorder of too many second half collapses clearly affecting him; Deal Or No Deal material he is not.
The second half tactics would remain largely unchanged from the first. The back line dropped in and out of last man like a combination lock, and the front line linked up like slappers on F*c*book.
The first four minutes of the second half were pure Knox gold. Nathan and Gareth cutting swathes through a non-existent Entertainers back-line (well, okay it existed, but it had no belief; so “I Think, Therefore I Am” did not apply). The shooting was crunchy and smooth, and hit the target every time, rattling the keeper’s right hand corner after corner after corner. Nathan must’ve bagged a hat-trick in less time it takes to heat a Feasters chicken burger. This was The Entertainers’ four minute warning, a singer’s saggy cleavage replaced by our own perky front two. Gareth sealed another superb display with a absolute peach of a long range dipping half-volley, like a whipping Agassi passing shot.
We were getting the tactics absolutely right. We were (sub)consciously subbing when the opposition had the ball, to prevent their fast free kicks and throw-outs. And we were subbing with a better regularity – Nathan complaining of not enough rest time was an unexpected confession (he must’ve eaten a whole packet of fags before he came out). We ourselves were reaping rewards with quick free-kicks, throwing the opposition on their arse, and presenting shooting chances. Except for Steve. He too was missing his shooting boots. Hmm, I wonder if there's a vending machine that dispenses shooting boots?
A couple of unforced errors, including Leo and Matt getting diddled by a cheeky back-heel, did little to curb our enthusiasm, and the distance we’d established in those first few minutes held good to the end, the match finishing 12-9 to the Molly blues. Pretty much cemented into third with the final game to go, the real test of how far this team have come will no doubt be cruelly exposed for the emperor’s new clothes, next week.
Until then, if The Molly Maguires were a Hollywood madam, they’d turn a thousand tricks; if they were female genitalia they’d deserve a thousand licks.
Matt, Leo2, Steve, Mike, Adam, Gareth5, Nathan5
If The Molly Maguires were mythic beauty they’d launch a thousand ships; if they were a prolific porn star, they’d suck a thousand dicks.
It’s been almost as long as Barry George’s incarceration (prison sure can change a man - whatever happened to the gold chains and that cockney accent??) but the Mollys’ inner stalker is finally free, executing opposition with high calibre abandon. A spate of superb performances have resulted in a number of impressive victories, as the team have developed into a fighting unit to rival a poor-man’s Gurkhas. There’s consistency, confidence and prolificacy where once there was inconsistency, unconfidence and antilificacy.
Last week was all smoke and mirrors; a glorified magic trick that was nothing but a pencil through the eye. We’d go into the lead, Testwood FC would equalise; we went ahead, they’d pin us back; until eventually we sent one of them to the hospital and they sent one of us to the morgue. A tortoise cheap trick saw Testwood FC score first at 7-7, and from there, the Mollys were chasing dust. That particular vendetta shall remain slow-roasting on the back-burner for now.
Off the pitch, Matt was courting new footballing mistresses, weighing up options of shifting The Molly Maguires franchise down the road to Eastleigh. And like all transfers, the main motivating factor is money. Cheaper fees, supposed better atmosphere (both in terms of people and air), and closer to the motorway for our regular road warriors. Still, our loyalty might stick it another season, and avoid the risk of being a hanging effigy of hatred, like a smarmy ‘Soul Glow’ Portuguese mercenary.
Tonight was an opportunity for the Mollys to do their only double of the season, over The Entertainers. An unchanged team from last week, and six players the same as the last three matches reflected a forced consistency of line-up with a squad only nine strong this season. With familiarity, however, breeds content. And the team is showing hints of a telepathic understanding akin to Mekon. A line-up that allows Nathan to hold the front line, Gareth to receive balls deep, Leo to patrol the rim, Steve to conduct from the middle, and beefy workhouses Adam and Mike to run themselves ragged.
If anyone failed to notice the less than antagonising atmosphere, he was probably discovering polygamy in his Geordie hometown. Was it really a coincidence that this was a less than hostile tense affair without our resident cheerleader around, or did we really shut the opposition up into submission with our scintillating skill?
We started fast and bright, Leo smashing the team’s first two goals in setting up his own second shots with rebounds off the wall and the keeper’s gloves, even caving in on himself (cue Transforming sound) to hit home goal number two with his left peg.
We always stayed one or two goals ahead in the first half, let The Entertainers come at us, and then counter-attacked them. Simple and effective. Like castration. We chased them into the corners, forcing them to hit and hope passes off the back wall and through the D. For once, however, we always seemed to be there or thereabouts, a nudge of a toe here, a body block there. Our close quarter defending was exceptional, and the team defended en mass, enveloping the opposition like the blob.
Gareth has adopted the left back position as the easiest outlet for Matt’s throw outs, allowing him space to run goalwards at his marker, and into the vast open countryside beyond him. Having the Duracell bunny as an extra defender puts more foundation into the back-line, but gives him braveheart freedom to run forward whilst a team-mate falls in behind him. The Entertainers seemed unable to defend on the back foot.
Their ringer (apparently there’s a vending machine in the foyer, next to the Coke one, which dispenses them), another flash harry dressed in red, was showing some subtle skills that saw him pirouette his way through the entire Molly outfield before a calm finish into Matt’s near post. Kindly old Steve had coaxed information from him that he hadn’t played in a year, but looked nothing of the sort. The real worry is how Steve managed to coerce such tactical knowledge without a bag of sweets and a wound down window.
The opposition would frequently play the ball down the wings, but the receiver seemed incapable of doing anything productive with it with speed; which merely allowed the Mollys to drop into position like four coloured plastic discs in a row. Goal side and impromptu switching between zonal and man-marking saw the Mollys very much in control.
Matt should’ve pissed into a plastic cup at the end of the match because no-one drops that big that fast to the ground without some performance-enhancers. Still getting lazily caught out with long range efforts when blinded by the Terracotta rows of defenders in front of him, Matt was nevertheless putting on a supreme display of strong handed dive saving when one-on-one, that kept the Mollys ahead.
Mike challenged Gareth for the most pitch miles covered as he ran lengths and breadths chasing down the opposition, but was nowhere near the same page when the shooting was called to account. Too much fluffy insteps, and not enough ruthless hoofing, Mike showed all the pirouetting turning skills of a one-legged hippo on ice. Mike doth protested too much about “not being able to score in a brothel” which suggested he’d tried previously, but my brain swells with the whole ‘proving a negative’ theory, so I’ll leave you with cliché Mike’s ‘lack of shooting boots’ excuse instead.
With Alan away preparing his Saints team for the start of the Championship campaign (seriously, have another look and listen), Adam has ably stepped into his shoes with tight t-shirt and tight marking, stomping around, throwing his shoulders about like Cloverfield, and neatly popping up in all areas of the pitch like lesions. His shooting boots are also missing.
Half-time had the Mollys about 6-4 ahead. Matt was proclaiming that ‘he wouldn’t change a thing’ as a tear jerked in his eye; which was a real u-turn from his pre-match assessment that we were in dire relegation worries, despite being third in the table. Matt’s neither a half-empty nor half-full kind of guy. Nothing around him stays half-full or half-empty. On the other end of the emotional spectrum Nathan was “nervous” that we were ahead; the post-traumatic stress disorder of too many second half collapses clearly affecting him; Deal Or No Deal material he is not.
The second half tactics would remain largely unchanged from the first. The back line dropped in and out of last man like a combination lock, and the front line linked up like slappers on F*c*book.
The first four minutes of the second half were pure Knox gold. Nathan and Gareth cutting swathes through a non-existent Entertainers back-line (well, okay it existed, but it had no belief; so “I Think, Therefore I Am” did not apply). The shooting was crunchy and smooth, and hit the target every time, rattling the keeper’s right hand corner after corner after corner. Nathan must’ve bagged a hat-trick in less time it takes to heat a Feasters chicken burger. This was The Entertainers’ four minute warning, a singer’s saggy cleavage replaced by our own perky front two. Gareth sealed another superb display with a absolute peach of a long range dipping half-volley, like a whipping Agassi passing shot.
We were getting the tactics absolutely right. We were (sub)consciously subbing when the opposition had the ball, to prevent their fast free kicks and throw-outs. And we were subbing with a better regularity – Nathan complaining of not enough rest time was an unexpected confession (he must’ve eaten a whole packet of fags before he came out). We ourselves were reaping rewards with quick free-kicks, throwing the opposition on their arse, and presenting shooting chances. Except for Steve. He too was missing his shooting boots. Hmm, I wonder if there's a vending machine that dispenses shooting boots?
A couple of unforced errors, including Leo and Matt getting diddled by a cheeky back-heel, did little to curb our enthusiasm, and the distance we’d established in those first few minutes held good to the end, the match finishing 12-9 to the Molly blues. Pretty much cemented into third with the final game to go, the real test of how far this team have come will no doubt be cruelly exposed for the emperor’s new clothes, next week.
Until then, if The Molly Maguires were a Hollywood madam, they’d turn a thousand tricks; if they were female genitalia they’d deserve a thousand licks.
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