Sometimes the present seems far too thin a slice of reality; haunted by the past and paralysed by the future, you grip any available railing or local object – a jar of mayonnaise, for example, or a spanner – and stand motionlessly, trying to coax the moment into being while the ‘years disappear like the bubbles in my beer.’
Today, Wokingham began like bats with faulty sonar. Two own goals and four silly deflections later, the score was 6-0 at half time. We had no subs, which didn’t help, with Thanasie in Greece and Jack out with a black eye. I’m not sure if bats can be off colour, or experience periods of existential uncertainty, but Wokingham seemed shadows of their former selves, like a soft drinks brand which has finally relinquished any lingering association with the fruit which gave rise to its name, and is now named after a colour instead – Lucozade ‘orange’, for example.
A monumental effort was needed now. Coaches Michael and Peter gathered them close and in Evan’s words ‘told us to get to the ball first and to not be shy of having the ball. They told us to get into space and start passing.’
Cue the revival. Mark puffed his chest out and played with the fire of a misjudged enchilada. An Italian parent began shouting ‘Quattro, Quattro, Quattro, Quattro, Quattro’ as our number 4 Connor Mulvaney went into full spaghetti heat map mode, covering every putatively carcinogenic, globuliferous inch of 4G AstroTurf as he propelled us into attack.
Ciara executed an audacious nutmeg: the nutmeg of consolation. Evan played according to the range and manifesto of a short Dimitar Berbatov, not quite defending with due diligence but lofting a first time effort from distance which dipped under the bar only to be saved.
Amelia then, in the words of an onlooker, ‘rose like a tin of salmon’ to score at the far post, prompting that most unfortunate of stoppages: the ‘cry break.’
The Woodley defender who lost track of Amelia collapsed to the floor in a parody of grief. Their manager stood there with his arms folded, scowling like a disaffected mechanic on the forecourt of a big dealer as the player’s mum entered the fray, consolingly yet frustratingly, and the game slipped away like pea-inflected water through a colander.
Wilderspool Causeway 
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