vs. Ali-Jazeera FC 03/09/08 21:15 (7:3)

LOST 9-8
Matt, Leo1, Steve1, Alan1, Adam1, Robbie, Gareth4

Having received some fair but stinging criticism from our resident cheerleader that my last couple of reports have been somewhat negative, and a sad reflection of our performances, I am determined to put a more positive spin on things this time. To be honest, the boys have given me so much material's worth to take the mickey this week, that Minnie's going to be very sore in the morning.

The evening had started pleasantly enough. Steve regaled us with stories of how he loves hearing stories of people defecating on each other in the woods. Deviancy remained the topic, the conversation turning to the Xmas staff party and Robbie's overly keen confirmation he would be there. With a cartoon character costume theme, suggestions for characters that the Turk could come as included Toad Of Toad Hall, Obelix, a funhouse squashed mirror version of Desperate Dan, and Silas Greenback. Then the first major shock of the evening occurred, requiring double takes from those fortunate enough to see this Hailey’s Comet-like event. Matt strode into the bar wearing a blue shirt. {gasp}

Matt had LIED TO HIS FIANCEE that he wouldn't play in goal with his possibly fractured thumb and had left his house wearing his blue shirt of shame to PERPETUATE THE LIE TO HIS FIANCEE. He must have told her that he was only going to play for literally two minutes, because any longer and she would've sussed that HE WAS LYING TO HER. And had she any idea of what and where this blog is in the interweb cyber-space, she would know that MATT LIED TO HIS FIANCEE.

The gaffer without his grey keeper's shirt on is like a haggis without skin, but his wearing of a blue football top was the most surreal sight you ever did see. Except that there were more shirt-related shocks to come.

Whilst Matt got down to his skimpies in the bar to slip on his regulation goalkeeping attire, I repressed those mouth-watering images (the way your mouth waters just before you throw up), to recall similar soothing scenes of schoolgirls changing into cool clothes in the washrooms of Degrassi Junior High. Matt had also come prepared with a performance enhancing super gel for his little fat digit. Forgoing filling his gloves with ACME nuts and bolts, the gaffer lubed up and padded out his right thumb in the hope of making it through at least the first half without flinching. Like dipping a pork sausage into lard.

It was confirmed by Steve and Alan, that Nathan's injury last week was worse than first feared. A pitch side amputation of his left foot by Goals' expert first aid team, resulted in Nathan driving back to Newbury entirely in first gear, because he couldn't operate the clutch. Nathan's foot has started it's own Myspace page, and already has an average 9.7 rating on Hot Or Not?

With Big Mike and Little Mike taking drugs, having it large, and listening to shitcore music in Ibiza, it was a pleasant surprise to actually have a seven-man squad available, with both Adam and Robbie making welcome returns to the team. Gareth had also returned from his weak knee week away, again with his touchline totty in tow, thus dispelling those pervading Yoko rumours. It already puts her in the enviable position of going on to win the most caps for a Mollyette, overtaking Steve’s wife, and Don’s ex-wife/ex-fiancée/current wife (so many, they all blur into one).

Just as pleasant a comeback was the return of our mascot Don. When opposing teams speak of The Molly Maguires, they whisper in hushed reverent fear of the 'old Geordie man who tells us off'. His active encouragement from the sidelines has been sorely missed; his verbal sparring still hirarious; and his positive vibes radiated through the team. Gushing with a soppy tale of his new joint personalised number plate that proclaims CJ X DJ = L0V, you couldn't help but be soaked in that Love Actually feeling.

It was Adam who provided the further shirt shenanigans, late again (not a shock) wearing a red shirt (major shock), and this threw up all sorts of interesting slanderous scenarios. Perhaps, he'd been caught short again with his cross-dressing antics at his girlfriend’s, and had left his pale blue/grey t-shirt aboard the family yacht. Perhaps, he's been moonlighting in another sport that requires lumbering around and hitting things (probably Real Tennis). Perhaps, three weeks on from his last appearance, he'd forgotten what colour we play in. Or, perhaps, he was pretending to be our ringer.

Now if you type in Ali Jazeera and Molly Maguires into Google - top fucking entry! That’s right, this match report is the first entry on the behemoth that is Google. I’ve finally made it. Of course, type in Molly Maguires on its own, and you can’t find this blog under the crap of Irish pubs and coal miners. Anyway Jazeera were our opposition; fresh unknown opponents, with that rarely seen commodity in their midst – an ethnic minority.

Hopes were reasonably high that we’d actually put in at least a half-decent performance, boosted by Gareth’s refreshed return to vertical calorie-burning and a back-line born and bred to defend. Whether we could actually win would be down to how well the rest of the team supported Gareth in attack, and whether Matt could cope with the hard fingering of balls.

So what actually happened during the match? (This is where the report gets dull). Well for a start, Alan turned in one of his finer performances, gee’ed (or jeered) on by Leo, who demanded less procrastinating on the ball, and more two-touch bang-whallop action. And it worked. Less was Alan running into the corners without a viable outlet surrounded by defenders, then he was sharply drawing in his marker and releasing the ball quicker to a team-mate, or goal-wards, allowing time to re-group as the pressure remained on the opposition.

Steve was getting away with as many shimmies as he could, linking up extremely well in the midfield, and forming a useful if unorthodox partnership with Gareth, which produced a sublime goal for Steve’s banana-shaped right foot. His old geezer status was also giving us some sort of tactical edge, a dampening effect on the fouls he was committing, when he was deliberately kicking out at the opposing strikers, or blatantly touching the ball as it bounced above and in the keeper’s area.

Leo was doing a better job of staying in contact with the rest of the team, with virtually no worthless goal-hanging, instead banging home a long range effort from Gareth’s kick-off that the cheeky ref labelled an ‘overhit pass’. He revelled in the freedom of being a defensive midfield, with the full knowledge that Adam and Robbie were always in close proximity. And even those two dumplings managed to get forward to shoot, Adam sweetly side-footing home our last goal of the game from a wall-rebound, Robbie less successfully putting his one effort wide.

Gareth enjoyed his now customary spat with an opposing player, as the shoving and barging on the left wing developed into over-dramatics, and Don’s protests that the Jazeera aggressor should be ejected from the field of play were met with a typical ‘come onto the pitch’ response. “I cud have youse,” retorted the Geordie hard-man, with typical unfazement.

The intent of our passing was crisp, but the outcome wasn’t always accurate, frequently unforced errors being not so much intercepted, as simply received. And whilst Matt’s throwing was again looking less than smart without Nathan’s deft touch to receive, his shot-blocking was this week high priority and satisfactorily delivered. It may have been just my sight, but Matt seemed to be catching or batting away balls right on the edge of his D more so than ever, and his handling showed no signs of his thumb being as worthless as one stuck up his arse.

Half-time had finished 6-4, with a badly timed collapse toward the end, allowing the team with a terrorism propaganda name (the added ‘i’ is for ignorant) to start the second half ahead. It was obvious what we needed to do, as Gareth dished out the tactical advice, and that was to contain and control he who the Molly mascot refers to as the black Ronaldo (that’s the black olive-skinned Ronaldo, as opposed to the black black Ronaldo).

For whilst the rest of the opposition could produce some serious heavy duty shooting, their main frontman, through whom nearly every attack went, was causing us no end of grief. The little blitter was like a gnat in your spacesuit, sand in your v-j. He had good close control, and had the pace to shift himself and the ball into space, bouncing around like a demented Yoda, frequently getting into one-on-ones against Matt, with a re-count needed as to whom came out on top.

That’s not to say he didn’t have weaknesses that will need to be exploited to the full next time. The bugger couldn’t stay on his feet. His centre of gravity was shifting the earth closer to the sun, and he either fell over because his little legs couldn’t keep up with his torso, or admittedly we were hustling him over. Not difficult, but like hacking down Gary Coleman, with a baseball bat to the ankles. Winning those direct free-kicks against us on the outskirts of our D, his presence constantly put us in danger, with even Leo ending up on his ass, trying to block him, and Robbie ending up on what must have felt like several backsides as well.

The first trick is to get to the second ball – one defender to square up to him, and the second to steal away the shift or pass which he will inevitably make. He’s a conventional front-man – he doesn’t run forty yards straight at you, he picks it up from a standing start, and tries to pass through you, or crab walk into an angle. The second trick is to keep the ball - once he loses it, he’s first to try to win it back, and often did. Like the Molly’s star player, he too was called Leo. Which actually makes it two Leo’s that Leo has now played against. What a great name. Leo.

Whilst it felt like much worse, we actually did them over in the second half to reduce the final deficit to just 9-8, with Gareth again producing an all round goal-scoring display of blurry swerve, and Alan bunting home a well-deserved goal of his own.

What was perhaps the most surprising thing about this match was that it was actually quite enjoyable to play. There was a strong team ethic, we never felt out of the contest, it wasn’t a nasty moany encounter (for the most part), and Don provided more laughs than the Katy Brand show.

So with Matt surviving a full match without major damage to his thumb*, expertly convincing his team-mates that he made all his saves with his left hand, could he survive the interrogation when he got home? I don't have any confirmed sightings yet, that prior to leaving, Matt urinated on his blue shirt to give it that authentic "I've been running for forty minutes" smell, before slipping it back on. And whether Steve was behind a tree, watching.

* The sports bar collaboration with Leo’s toe and Nathan’s foot will just have to wait.