‘See the canyons broken by cloud.
See the tuna fleet clearing the sea out.
See the Bedouin fires at night.
See Woodley Precinct at first light.’
Yet according to Bono it’s still possible to perceive a beautiful day. And why wouldn’t he? It’s not as if he’s a salaryman who commutes to Bracknell’s Southern Industrial Area, inner city Nagoya or Vodaphone on the outskirts of Newbury. Last week – 6-0 down at half-time – it didn’t seem so easy to adopt his perspective.
Wokingham & Emmbrook didn’t need a change of tactics so much as a total revolution of mind and body, as per my favourite overheard line from The Archers: ‘Julie doesn’t need a mentor; she needs a brain transplant.’
For most of us, if we’re honest about it, the options for change seem sadly limited. This is perhaps best encapsulated by Yoga Magazine’s current promise of ‘healing and evolving through subtle breathwork.’ Is that all that can be hoped for? A bit of deft breathing? It’s no mean feat, perhaps. Maybe you can change your vibe, but nothing of seismic importance in the world around.
That said, in Wales last week we decided to deviate significantly from the script written by the FA and endorsed by most coaches. West Wales is as good a place as any to shatter pretension. ‘Fair play’, as an end in itself, would have to go on the back burner for a while. There are other qualities that can’t be found in a coaching manual, and it was essential to cultivate them forthwith.
In the last few matches Evan’s carefree spirit seemed to have evaporated, in stark contrast to early September when – late for the first game of the season and having missed the warm up entirely – Evan strolled onto the pitch, McManaman locks flowing, and nonchalantly swept the ball into the corner with one of his first touches.
It was time for some Chumbawamba parenting (I get knocked down, but I get up again, are they ever gonna keep me down?). I would play tough and put my boot in while observing a notional line between realistic contact and the potential for harm. He would go to ground and concede goals, yet ultimately win, only to complain – sometimes through tears – that I shouldn’t have played my best. Coach Peter also took Evan out with Connor for a separate training session, complete with cones and goals. He’s never content to rest on the premise that what will be will be.
Evan’s goal today was straight off the training ground; Connor was poised over the free-kick, noticed that Evan had withdrawn to the edge of the box and passed the ball beautifully into his path: ‘Look, look, he’s going to shoot!’ I couldn’t keep it in. Evan curled it into the left corner and the keeper got a touch but couldn’t stop it.
Scoring a goal is one of those experiences which tends to clarify and minimise all preceding time. Your regrets shrivel to nothing when the ball hits the back of the net; all time is funnelled into that point. It’s similar in principle, though obviously of lesser magnitude, to having a child. Whether it’s an unfortunate situation on Unthank Road in 2002 or a regrettable interlude in Shepherd’s Bush 2009: forget it. The comment made to you outside Wokingham Bowling Alley: it doesn’t matter anymore. The look that dry cleaning operative gave you: irrelevant. All those unorthodox or unfortunate moments led, however indirectly, to the present.
And If something unwelcome still slips through the net, as it probably will, then at least you can fall back on some concentrated breathwork or even – as advertised by Jason Oslar – book some hacking or lunging lessons on the bridlepaths of Barkham.
Wilderspool Causeway 