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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