‘We didn’t lose this game; we simply ran out of time.’ I firmly believe that. In fact, I wonder if something strange was afoot, to be honest. Before the game, Evan said ‘My friend Sophie’s got millions of money. Her dad works for someone who runs his fingers under spoons and bends them.’
OK, we all know who that is. And where resides the Chief Spoon Bender? About half a mile from Woodley. The ball simply would not cross the line: Connor hit the post 3 times, Evan had 2 stunning free kicks (honestly, one of them drew gasps from all watching) cruelly denied and several other shots unaccountably drifted wide. When Woodley scored with their first shot, everyone was shocked. They played Route 1, agricultural Peter Kay style football. Two of their players had the build and demeanour of young Peter Kays. They humped it upfield and hoped for a favourable bounce, which they invariably got. At half-time it was 6-0. I know: you might think my vision’s jaundiced and I agree it could be, but it just seemed inexplicable.
What’s more important, a chaplain or a groundsman? I’m not sure. God won’t cut the grass for you, no matter how many prayers you shoot up. But if you have a personal problem, would you rather speak to a chaplain, a gardener, both or neither? Or are we saying here that chaplains and gardeners need to work collaboratively? Or are they ok in parallel?
Eventually, the scoreline began to reflect the balance of play. The second half was 4-2 to Wokingham, but again could have been far more. I was disillusioned with things by then and went to queue for a bacon roll: £2.60 and overlooking the Maracana. You may not believe me, but they tried to cook the bacon (never been a problem before) and it just wouldn’t cook. 10-15 minutes later, still not cooked, I got my money back while others collected their perfectly done burgers and hotdogs. The server decided to make a phone call about the bacon.
The game ended 8-4, and I’m sure we would have caught them if it was 10 minutes longer. We left baconless, scanning the puddles. ‘Have a look at that one. Look me in the eyes and tell me it isn’t tidal.’
‘What are you boys talking about?’
‘Oh, just like the tides and that. The numinous in the mundane and all that shit.’
Canada geese crossed Bathurst Road – purposefully and in formation – and the spell was broken.
Wilderspool Causeway 
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