There isn’t the virtual acreage to cover today’s events in full, so like a man or woman condemned to do their weekly shop at the basket checkout (Harry Enfield’s ‘Here’s another 10 items or less, here’s another 10 items or less, here’s another 10 items or less), I’ll try to cover what I can and make economies where possible.
Friday evening was spent discussing pipes which are visible from the M1. Apparently, ‘when you spend 2 years of your life on the M1, you run out of things to speculate about.’ Nevertheless, there is a ‘Purple Pipes Online Forum’ on which people do precisely that, bantering about plumbing anomalies and the significance of colour. Marginal trivia, perhaps, but who could honestly demean those who make it their business to seriously consider the infrastructure of this country, to split the infinitive of a journey to the Lake District?
So Burghfield Reds arrived from the West Country in all their village finery: a blue kit, head to foot. I’m not sure what the significance of this is. Cardiff are called the Bluebirds and played in red for a few years, but that decision had a nationalistic thrust to it which I’m not sure Burghfield share.
The village member who corralled his team into the Estadio da Luz did so public spiritedly, railing his charges in with a squint and some amiable stubble. With the game underway, Evan played as a Libero, a deep lying defender who outwitted the Burghfield attack with nonchalant vision. Lead wolf Connor Mulvaney was on the bench, the Soccer Roster was in full rotation and Jack Parry punished witlessness, firing us into a 2-0 lead early doors.
Soon, the Kaiser was on and two near-identical goals were scored from outrageous angles, yet Burghfield rallied. They scored from a goal kick and an unholy mess in the goalmouth as Amelia back-peddled, mis-coordinating her feet as she tumbled backwards into the goal: she was later to score after a brilliant doppelpass on the konter, liaising with cousin Connor the Kaiser to devastating effect. Yes!
So at half-time, it was quite literally 4-3.
The bestubbled veteran of Burghfield mewed his team together with hope: hope, pride, optimism, self-awareness and more than a smattering of mental health. His assistant was less scrutable: a bald-headed fellow with correct carriage.
Evan was back on the pitch. We were cooped in a rectangle of self-expression. Too many einwurfs (the throw-in, scourge of junior 5-a-side) and so much good play to warm the senior Mulvaney cockles: dragbacks, passing, Cruyff turns, tackles and goals. No elfmeters; limited foul play.
The zweite halfte was less of a football festival, though my highlight was ‘in this moment’ as Pellegrini would say. Evan picked up the ball deep and spied a chasm in the Burghfield mandeckung.
‘Run Evan, Go!’ He was on the ball, never mind the danger, cut loose, bearing down on Burghfield and their goalkeeper: ‘Shoot! GOAL!’ 8-3. Vindication, gegners crushed, a Bombenschuss on the Bolzplatz .
A phenomenal win for Wokingham against our favourite Mannschaft from the countryside.
We were euphoric Satsumas and they, of course, were Burghfield Reds: blue.
Wilderspool Causeway 