Month: December 2015

Caversham Trents 0 Wokingham and Emmbrook 11 (eleven) Mulvaney 3, Saynor 3, Dance 2, Zanthoulis 1, Parry 1, Hood (og)

N.B. If planning to read this, you might want to make yourself comfortable as it’s an end of year extended edit.

Vanilla latte lid crisis averted, we arrived at Woodley Goals Centre for yet another battle of North v South, but this time with a difference: the Trents not only claim Caversham and North Reading as their own, but also vast swathes of the Midlands, stretching from Biddulph Moor in Staffordshire to the six towns of the Potteries and through the Nottingham Home Sluices to the fringes of Scunthorpe and the North Sea. Not only does this team claim an outrageous geographical area, but also a literary prestige derived from the words of Henry Hotspur in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1: ‘See how this river comes me cranking in, and cuts me from the best of all my land a huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I’ll have the current in this place damm’d up; and here the smug and silver Trent shall run in a new channel, fair and evenly; it shall not wind with such a deep indent, to rob me of so rich a bottom here.’

Perhaps the weight of history and culture acted as an albatross around their necks, for the Trents failed to orchestrate anything of meaning or coherence in the opening exchanges of the game, thwarted by Wokingham’s high pressing style and that low, brooding Woodley sky. They had the haircuts; they had the boots. They had half the country implicated in their name. But did they have the wherewithal to resist Mulvaney, Mulvaney, Dance, Saynor, Sexton, Parry, Xanthoulis and Butler (those future Berkshire lawyers)? They looked about as comfortable as Paul Trott opening up for George Osborne at the Conservative Party Conference, or sharing a pint with Nigel Farage at the Duke of Wellington. The first half was all but lost to meaninglessness as the ref seemed to drift about in a parallel dimension, gesturing aimlessly and struggling to elicit sound from his central implement, no matter how hard he blew.

The signs were good, however, for this was a game selected by Gags for attendance and it seemed unlikely that he would fail to weave his observational magic. Which game did he pick as his first Fulham match of the season? Fulham 4 QPR 0. Which game did mere mortals such as myself pick? A draw against Cardiff. Risk, table tennis, Monopoly, Scrabble, Pictionary, Snakes and Ladders, Tiddlywinks? Not gonna happen. The Divine Comedy summed it up nicely: ‘Can you beat your dad at chess? It’s harder than you think. Sit him down at Christmas, turn the TV off, give him lots of chocolates and a drink and he might give you a match and when you’ve been duly dispatched he will laugh Ha ha ha And you’ll say, “one more game.”

My explanation of how well Evan played last week was superfluous. Gags would have worked it out before the opening credits had faded and so, with a sense of predetermined fortune, the first significant moment in the game was Evan seizing upon a loose ball, controlling it with one touch and slamming it into the corner: 1-0. ‘I see what you mean’, said Gags.

After that, we were riding the Severn bore while they were drifting into the Humber. Josh Dance went steaming into challenges all over the pitch, bending the game to his will and scoring 2 before half time. Mulvaney added a delicate left-footed effort and the score was 4-0 at the break. Wokingham and Emmbrook had never kept a clean sheet for an entire half before. With a 4 goal lead, Coach Michael might have been forgiven for easing up on the teamtalk a little bit: no way. He was on their level, pointing, gesticulating and sweeping his hand back and forth as if he was Rafa Benitez calling his children in from the sea.

With Wokingham on the front foot again, they were soon awarded a free kick. Please Evan, do your stuff with Gags and Joe here. With a nonchalant movement of the arm, he waved Mark Sexton away and began his measured approach to the ball, hitting it with verve above the height of the bar before watching it dip into the top corner for an outstanding goal: 5-0. The intensity remained. Jack Parry, fresh from spells in goal and on the bench, ran diagonally past two players and was shoved slightly before slotting in an excellent goal. Rather than succumbing to euphoria, however, he ran the length of the pitch to the parents congregated behind the opposite goal and with a manic look yelled ‘Dad, that boy’s a FOULER! He pulled my shirt!’ As Joe noted, this is a boy whose life is clearly orientated towards higher purposes: those of justice in the game along with all the nobler qualities open to human aspiration. We salute him for that.

Despite the goals continuing to flow, there was a tragic moment in the game. Right near the end, Amelia Mulvaney burst through and shot; the keeper saved it but the ball hit the post and rolled back across the line, appearing- to Amelia- to cross it. She ran to Coach Michael, her dad, throwing herself into his arms in celebration. The goal, however, was disallowed and Amelia was broken for that moment: cue more waterworks than the River Trent could contain. After the game, with Caversham packed back off to the Potteries, a special moment was enjoyed by all. Connor and Amelia crossed hands to receive a joint share in the Man of the Match wristband in what was a fitting end to an excellent performance and a brilliant way to sign off for the Christmas break.

Westwood Wanderers Colts U7s 8 Wokingham and Emmbrook U7s 5 (Mulvaney 2, Saynor 2, Sexton)

Rehabilitation almost complete, I was back in the dugout as assistant manager for the visit of Westwood Wanderers to the Maracana. With everyone at a low ebb, it’s heartening to see signs of life where possible. As Neil Hannon crooned: ‘If you’re wondering why this tired old world sometimes seems brand new: it’s you.’ As we took to the field, it wasn’t long before events took their usual turn towards the bizarre, lifting the spirits. A somewhat weakened line-up began the game but defended with passion and effort; still, it wasn’t long before the Woodland Folk scored their first goal, adding 3 more in the ensuing 5 minutes with Mulvaney and Saynor bench bound.

The source of the oddness, to be frank, was the referee. The lads who turn out to officiate on these cold mornings deserve a lot of credit, but this was the kind of chap who when asked to remove a pen from their pencil case (in a school, for example), looks at you as if you’re probably addressing them in Hindi and are to be pitied. In a complete world of his own, he made wrong call after wrong call, missed several clear fouls and sometimes didn’t bother to give throw-ins at all. I was reminded of a line from The Archers this week: ‘Jane doesn’t need a mentor. She needs a brain transplant.’

With Mulvaney back on the pitch, things soon improved for the Satsumas as the Woodlanders’ direct and combative players struggled to legislate for the skill of Connor, who scored one himself and opened up the space for Mark Sexton to add another. The half time team talk centred on various clothing alterations and instructions from Coach Peter for Evan along the lines of a child friendly ‘Don’t piss about with it, son; control it, use your skill if you need to and shoot.’ 5 minutes in, the ball was put through to Evan and just inside their half, he knocked it slightly to the right and then hammered it across the goal to make the score 4:3.

Unfortunately, Westwood Glen then scored two very good goals themselves before a ludicrous ‘sleeve stoppage.’ Somehow, a Woodlander contrived to get their hand stuck within their sleeve, and it wouldn’t emerge from the typically and logically designed hand liberation gap. Do you imagine that the ref was able to offer much support with this? I thought not. Watching them wobble about trying to get the hand through made you wonder exactly what had become of man at this stage of our process.

Controlling the pace of the game with this sleeve business, Wanderers then managed to score again and the noise level really grew. As we sought to issue instructions to the players, I was reminded of trying to teach after each day’s break time Seagull Festival. There really are a lot of seagulls in Winnersh at times.
‘Where the hell did all these seagulls come from?’
‘Maybe they were bussed in from Brighton, sir.’
Pity the next driver if that was the case. And what would have happened when they stopped at the services? Would they have been allowed out to stretch their wings?

With the game pretty much out of sight, Evan managed to score from a corner, curling it in with the help of some dodgy goalkeeping. He was rewarded with the ‘Skill Trophy’ (awarded by Peter, of course), while I gave the Man of the Match wristband to Mark Sexton. However, we did both admit afterwards that our minds had gone a bit iffy when giving these things out. I might criticise the ref, but I think a little bit of responsibility can cause the mind to go weird, honestly. Before the game, Evan said ‘I want to live in Manchester because there’s not much wars there and I already understand their language.’ Not sure a conurbation straddling Lancashire and Cheshire was the place to do it, but it was definitely time to go and sleep this life off for a bit.