Matt, Leo, Alan1, Steve, Little Mike4, Carlos3, Adam
A history of violence.
I’ve only been involved in a few acts of physical violence in my lifetime (I don’t include the odd punch and slap between my siblings). I was probably nine for my first perpetration of aggression upon a stranger. Primary school. Playground tussle with a childish jerk. Back in those days I knew nothing of Karate Kid or Rope-a-Soap, so fighting like a girl was the preferred modus operandi (i.e. hair-pulling).
When I was ten, my friend and I were walking home from school, when we were confronted by one of the more under-privileged, ill-educated members of our peerage. A ‘Hatcher’. My friend told me to run home, and like a coward I did, whilst he took a possible bullet of a beating for me.
The next significant act of violence will be familiar to anyone who knows me – early 20s – whilst at work, I ran under and smashed over a three-way ladder, as someone stood at its top. Gravity and the grace of God fought hard for him to live or die, but a broken arm, a fractured arm and an emptying of bowels were the only consequences of my vicarious liability personal injury claim.
The most recent act of violence forced upon me was on Wednesday night. Towards the end of the first half against The Elite, a match they were winning 9-1 at the time, I was minding my own business collecting the ball from our corner. Clearly I had been singled out as the best Molly player, and marked out for special treatment. Treatment came in the form of an unprovoked nowhere-near-the-ball challenge that smashed my fragile body against the side wall and into a heap on the ground.
I know how to take a fall. I have martial arts training. Orange belt. So when one takes a fall, you do so to minimise the impact, allow the opportunity to roll with it, and get back into a fighting stance. It helps greatly for maximum effect to shoulder barge the side wall as you’re falling, so the bang of the wham is good n’ loud.
Whilst I wasn’t so bothered about the shit challenge, the ref took umbrage at the gross act of mindless violence, and was all set to sin bin the Elite perp for four minutes, except he refused to give his name to the ref, and used enough colourful language to fully stock Mr Magorium’s Wankerful Cuntorium.
As a side-note, this was the same ref in a previous match, that had thought my outburst of “you fucking idiot” directed at myself for passing the ball high, was directed at him as he blew for the foul. A trigger-happy twitcher or an unsung moral crusader?
So the red card ensued, and the offender defiantly left, remembering to take his car keys out of his mate’s bag; and what looked like shit creek without a paddle had a turning point. We had now been given a paddle.
Unfortunately shit creek tends to be one long straight, with no turnings. As the Gaffer and the Cheerleader have already in more eloquent terms put it, we ended up drowning in the stuff, and getting beaten 16-8, despite playing against four men, despite always supposedly having an extra man in space.
So it leaves me with nothing else to say, but thank our Portuguese superstar, Carlos for the footballing education, his command of the English language strong enough to shout “press, press” as the match descended into farce. So embarrassed at how we could possibly lose, our ringer winger wasn’t sticking around in this country to find out, getting on the next available flight out.
I’ve only been involved in a few acts of physical violence in my lifetime (I don’t include the odd punch and slap between my siblings). I was probably nine for my first perpetration of aggression upon a stranger. Primary school. Playground tussle with a childish jerk. Back in those days I knew nothing of Karate Kid or Rope-a-Soap, so fighting like a girl was the preferred modus operandi (i.e. hair-pulling).
When I was ten, my friend and I were walking home from school, when we were confronted by one of the more under-privileged, ill-educated members of our peerage. A ‘Hatcher’. My friend told me to run home, and like a coward I did, whilst he took a possible bullet of a beating for me.
The next significant act of violence will be familiar to anyone who knows me – early 20s – whilst at work, I ran under and smashed over a three-way ladder, as someone stood at its top. Gravity and the grace of God fought hard for him to live or die, but a broken arm, a fractured arm and an emptying of bowels were the only consequences of my vicarious liability personal injury claim.
The most recent act of violence forced upon me was on Wednesday night. Towards the end of the first half against The Elite, a match they were winning 9-1 at the time, I was minding my own business collecting the ball from our corner. Clearly I had been singled out as the best Molly player, and marked out for special treatment. Treatment came in the form of an unprovoked nowhere-near-the-ball challenge that smashed my fragile body against the side wall and into a heap on the ground.
I know how to take a fall. I have martial arts training. Orange belt. So when one takes a fall, you do so to minimise the impact, allow the opportunity to roll with it, and get back into a fighting stance. It helps greatly for maximum effect to shoulder barge the side wall as you’re falling, so the bang of the wham is good n’ loud.
Whilst I wasn’t so bothered about the shit challenge, the ref took umbrage at the gross act of mindless violence, and was all set to sin bin the Elite perp for four minutes, except he refused to give his name to the ref, and used enough colourful language to fully stock Mr Magorium’s Wankerful Cuntorium.
As a side-note, this was the same ref in a previous match, that had thought my outburst of “you fucking idiot” directed at myself for passing the ball high, was directed at him as he blew for the foul. A trigger-happy twitcher or an unsung moral crusader?
So the red card ensued, and the offender defiantly left, remembering to take his car keys out of his mate’s bag; and what looked like shit creek without a paddle had a turning point. We had now been given a paddle.
Unfortunately shit creek tends to be one long straight, with no turnings. As the Gaffer and the Cheerleader have already in more eloquent terms put it, we ended up drowning in the stuff, and getting beaten 16-8, despite playing against four men, despite always supposedly having an extra man in space.
So it leaves me with nothing else to say, but thank our Portuguese superstar, Carlos for the footballing education, his command of the English language strong enough to shout “press, press” as the match descended into farce. So embarrassed at how we could possibly lose, our ringer winger wasn’t sticking around in this country to find out, getting on the next available flight out.
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