(n.b. due to the closeness of the game, the score has been withheld until the end. Evan’s post match interview is also there, so Route 1 here would be to skip. Route 2 will take you through the whole game/ build-up).
What is Twyford? As Assistant Manager for this game, part of my brief was to gauge the temperature of the village, to assess the culture and philosophy of its residents. The only way I know to determine this is to visit the chapel of Our Lady Astride the Crossroads and read the inscriptions on the green sacramental token bins therein. Only then can you gain a flavour of who or what abides in the orbit of Twyford, Central Berkshire’s ring doughnut, the centre of which is an absence, a crossroads. This week there is an appeal for the veterans of this floating world to be granted sufficient means ‘to visit Eastbourne or Weymouth.’ A rival bid is for a group who would like ‘maybe the odd Bingo night’, but my vote went to the Charvil Whatever who wanted to do their thing strictly within the realm of Charvil. So the question remains: what is Twyford?
Perhaps we’ll never find an answer. We do, however, know that an extremely irritating and single-minded nightmare of a human being lives there. Readers of previous reports may remember a lady who turned out in support of ‘Harrison’ when these teams last met. She was here again and in full, shameless voice: ‘Grapple with him, Harrison! Put your foot in there! Get her in a headlock! Pull her plaits off!’ From the dugout on the opposite side of the pitch I could hear her shrieking exhortations from the first minute to the last. To make matters worse, following a neat finish from Connor to put us in the lead, Harrison scored their first goal, taking it past three players before blasting it into the corner. Evan, starting up front, got into some excellent positions and had a few near misses before the game swung with seemingly terminal force in Twyford’s favour. Evan, now in goal, decided to pass the ball out to Amelia who miscued spectacularly, looping the ball back over Evan’s head and into the goal.
Twyford then scored another before half-time, this time through the oddly named ‘Andrew’. I’m not knocking the moniker in itself, but you do seldom hear it nowadays. Not many people introduce Baby Andy to the world. Does this signal yet another bewildering cultural difference between Wokingham and Twyford? I wouldn’t be surprised if Twyford’s ‘Evie quotient’ is also down somewhat in relation to other places, perhaps accounting for just 80% of girls’ names there as opposed to 95% elsewhere?
The second half was a nightmare and I was a jittery mess throughout, partly to do with an excess of filter coffee and partly because Coach Michael made me participate in the warm-up, running up and down and lifting my knees high in the air while wearing jeans and boots. Ridiculous. Harrison’s mum’s report would have identified her double, I’m sure, wondering who the prick in the warm-up was and why he paced up and down the touchline yelling nonsense all game. It’s because it was so painful. We battered them in terms of possession, territory and attacking thrust, but just could not finish.
Amelia played excellently in terms of her positioning as lone striker, carving out several opportunities for herself by finding space – it’s just that she narrowly missed every one of them. Connor Mulvaney was nullified by a detail their coach seemed to have put on him and it was impossible to find a breakthrough until, that is, we were awarded a penalty after a handball in the box. Coach Michael decided that Evan was the man for this, but he was jostled no end by envious teammates. Michael called out that he’d chosen Evan and that the decision was final. The ref said ‘Right, enough of this. Can the penalty taker put their hand up?’ Four hands shot up. Eventually, Evan had a clear run at the ball, the whistle sounded and he curled it high and to the left of the keeper and into the net.
So it was now 3-2 and we continued to exert relentless pressure, but Twyford’s defence was excellent. It looked like it was just one of those games; all that was left was a search for inner humanity, the resolve to walk past Harrison’s mum with one’s head down, mute. But that wouldn’t be necessary. Just as all hope appeared to be lost, and with about 30 seconds left, the ball fell to Mark Sexton who pelted it, lofting the ball high into the net, Steven Gerrard style. I couldn’t restrain myself from running onto the pitch and joining the celebrations, morphing the delirium into yelled instructions for the last seconds, shifting the indefatigable Jack Parry into defence for the final moments, during which they won a free kick. A goalmouth scramble ensued, as did my final injunction: ‘Just hoof it!’ Coach Michael was unimpressed: ‘Alex – ”Just hoof it?” – you can’t say that.’ Point taken, Michael.
After the game, Evan was interviewed about his penalty taking style and approach:
Interviewer: So tell me, Evan, did you decide where to place the ball for your penalty?
Evan: No, I just hit it.
Interviewer: That’s fine, I suppose, as long as you don’t hit it straight at the keeper!
Evan (concerned, sympathetic look on his face) : No, I wouldn’t have done that because he was wearing hearing aids.
The most considerate penalty taker of all time? That accolade probably goes to Robbie Fowler who deliberately missed a penalty he deemed to have been awarded unfairly. The most counterproductive hearing aid in the History of Twyford? The village’s most punishing humanitarian episode? We may never know.
Twford Comets 3 Wokingham and Emmbrook 3 (Mulvaney, Saynor pen. Sexton)
Wilderspool Causeway 