Leo, Robbie, Alan, James, Gareth, Nathan, Jason
We interrupt this match report, for an important message.
URGENT APPEAL: MISSING PERSON
Matthew Sharratt. Age: late 20s - early 30s. Identifiable features: Ginger hair and stubble, answers to the name of Matt The (Fat) Cat.
On Thursday 18th February 2010, Matthew was last seen captaining and goal-tending for his five-a-side football team, The Molly Maguires. Matthew has had a long and distinguished career as the Molly's goalkeeper, and has an attendance record second to none. He has no social commitments on a Thursday evening that prevent his playing, and the only occasions he fails to attend are for reasons of holidays abroad. He has always communicated such plans in advance.
On Thursday 25th February 2010, Matthew failed to show for his team. His team-mates were not unduly concerned at this stage, despite no acceptable reason for his absence being provided. However he then failed to show again the following week on Thursday 4th March 2010, and the alarm was subsequently raised. We have reason to believe that Matthew has not left the country but is being held hostage in his own home. He may be under duress, coerced into manual labour. He may be attached to a ball and chain. We would urge all persons to be vigilant, and look under the thumb, to see if he is there.
You know how you're making cocktails, and you mix some abstract, exciting and complementary flavoured liquids together, with plenty of alcoholic kick, and you pour it into the glass, have a sip, and think this is fucking yummy. But yet you can't leave it alone. Perfection isn't enough. It just needs one more thing, and some pillock puts a glazed cherry on a stick into the concoction. And it's ruined. It looks like snail excretion, and tastes like dog farts. Last week's line-up was the smooth flavour. Robbie was the cherry on a stick.
We had problems in that first half that weren't easily rectifiable. Having six outfield players, and doing the two men off n' on every five minutes, inevitably led to a lack of attacking continuity, that saw nothing like the sublime pass and movement of last week's display. At the back, Robbie showed more rust than the Titanic, poking panic passes to the opposition or into dead space, whilst getting twisted like a twizzler by a cohesive frontline. The opposition frequently played it to the holding up midfield man, to lay off passes to wingers, free to hit raking crossfield shots, or bring the ball back inside. Our tracking back was less than adequate, but crucially we lacked several other things.
Defending the edge of the D was poor, and allowed rebounds and spillages, or Leo being forced out of position, to be gobbled up by unmarked vultures. Although if everyone had as heavy a touch as Alan, that's probably just as well. King of the own goal (even Leo concedes defeat for that title) Alan thumped home a back pass, cleverly disguised as a rocket-assisted smash into the net, and then tried something similar later in the match, but used his less powerful shot (normally reserved for the oppo's end) to allow Leo a hand on it.
We also lost the 50-50 balls in midfield. The amount of moves that broke down as we attempted to play through them was unfortunate, and they made every turnover count, either forcing the excellent shot-stopping Leo into action, or else bringing a screeching halt to our own momentum. It was a combination of luck, harder tackling, or just sheer desire, that saw them easily conquer and flag the midfield third.
We ended the first half 7-1 down, with Robbie missing the anticipatory acceleration to compensate for the lack of tactical know-how, as he was frequently faced down by two ball runners. Still doesn't explain why he was so often in the opposition's half - perhaps he got spun around.
None of our attacking options can hold themselves up with any cred, only showing flashes of brilliance, but too frequently smashing shots into the back wall, and curling away. Only Nathan really did the necessary damage - on many occasions picking the ball with back to goal, riding the nipping feet, before crabbing his way across the pitch's width, turning and whalloping shots in for barnstorming solo efforts. Their keeper was a big loud mouthed old man, but we could never get him isolated enough to shock him into pooing his pants.
Leo's throwouts were less effective this time. His wavelength constantly being jammed, his throwouts rarely reached a player's feet, and even efforts to throw slightly to the side of a player, weren't met with any movement toward. They defended up our arses, and afforded us little space to play and spray. They compressed the field when we tried to play the ball out short from our own half, depriving us of build-up play to pull them apart, and balls into their corner always found their way back to their keeper, easing the pressure on them.
A final result of 13-6 is hardly shameful, but honestly it's difficult to remember any of our good stuff for all the tripe that fogs the memory. At least it put down shotgun early any notion that a line-up with individually skilled forward players can win any match for the Mollys, when what you really need is a calm midfield enforcer like Steve putting his foot in, and someone to babysit Robbie, when he crawls out of his playpen. We still need that finely-tuned balance of can-doers, hard-triers and did-your-besters.
Pint glass. Quarter pint of stout. Quarter of Fanta. Quarter of gin. Quarter of Benylin. Stir well. Then the cherry on top won't look so ridiculous.
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