The minor saints: I was hoping a few of them might be congregated around the end of a celestial continental breakfast buffet table this morning, willing to hear all manner of requests for intercession while they ate their croissants and jam; I couldn't help but send a prayer up: Wokingham & Emmbrook were due to play Reeves Rangers, a team they lost 14-3 and 8-0 to last season. What was more, Connor Mulvaney - he of 59 goals in 24 games last season - was off with the Beavers.
So please, we’re not expecting to latch on to an apostle, a Catherine of Siena or a Francis of Assisi, but maybe this kind of footballing prayer could be considered as AOB by, say, a random group trying to get at the Nutella: Pope Leo the Third, maybe, Deodatus of Nevers, Conrad of Constance, Stephen Harding, Thomas Becket, Edward the Confessor, Margaret of Watford, Maccaroni of Galliati, Ravanelli of Perugia, Pogatetz of Graz, Ugo Ehiogu of West Bromwich, Jonathan Greening, Stuart Downing, Mark Schwarzer, Gareth Southgate: someone help us. Fling a bit of the south wind to Woodley. Make us to wade through the river, dry-shod.
Thankfully, we also had material, human presence of the highest order. Linda Heppolette had struck forth from her Windsor home to be here, armed with formidable purple Asics running shoes, an attentive eye for detail and, supremely: grandmaternal love with the promise of a restorative Sports Direct/McDonald’s trip afterwards; a foray into Bracknell.
Perhaps it was Reeves Rangers who had contacted the angels: a second into the game, their striker ran through the Wokingham defence with the nonchalance of Adelaide of Italy savouring a sliver of Lady Baltimore Cake at the inaugural Winnersh Triangle Arts Festival, somewhere in another time.
Our goalkeeper played as if suffering the after effects of a bad afternoon on the Pepto-Bismol, as though a dodgy consignment of the stuff had compounded the stomach issue it was designed to relieve. The mind was elsewhere when it needed to work in harmony with the body; in the first half, the keeper's role resembled that of a supermarket alcohol superintendent at checkouts manned by teenagers: always summoned, never in command.
Maybe the saints were distracted, or stuck with a ponderous volunteer at the latte maker as they lined up for coffee. Either way, we needed some thoughts to be sent further up the chain of reference because things were rapidly going from bad to worse, interspersed with glorious skill from Evan.
He could outwit any of their players with Cruyff turns, graceful rotations, a sudden step to one side to throw the striker off balance, and mazy dribbles down the wing. There were few outlets in the final third, however, and only an irregular rhythm in the passing. As a mixed team, Wokingham fare well but were sometimes outmuscled here by the brute force of the boys. Evan fought back with some crunching tackles and tussled with them continually: a real turnaround from his more reserved approach last season.
The teams faced each other at close quarters as the second half was about to start, and a disagreement ensued, with Evan at the forefront. It was one of those moments in any crowded setting when the quality of the air seems to change. ‘Ref, you need to get a grip here: it’s going to kick off!’ I shouted. He took this as his cue to blow the whistle for the game to restart. Tensions were now diluted in space, rather concentrated in a brawl, but they bubbled away and boiled over nonetheless as the game descended into a string of niggly lunges and opprobrium.
It was scrappy: the Wokingham players were vocal and combative as they sought to limit the deficit, but the Reeves parents were gracious in victory, applauding Evan as he emerged from a thunderous tackle into the boards beneath them. He was unscathed, fortunately, in contrast to a friend who told me last night that after one tackle back near the Millennium ‘there was a period of five months when I only left the sofa to change the peas.’
In the chaos, I could only cast my mind back to the silence of yesterday’s library lesson with Year 8. Choosing my moment, I broke the spell and spoke up: ‘Has anyone in here heard of Vincenzo Montella?’ Croissant silence. No-one. I did the Montella Aeroplane Dance (L’Aeroplanino), confusing them further. Sometimes there are moments of incomprehension like this, and we might as well accept it. Iris had one this morning when, after she was sick for most of the night, I perhaps left her to play rather too long on the iPad. Eventually she approached me in tears: ‘It’s gone outcharging daddy. It’s gone sleep.’
Well, Wokingham had ‘gone outcharging’, that’s for sure. As the game reached its disordered conclusion they were left with the satisfaction and marks of having stemmed the tide, limiting the damage to 10-1. Yes, it was punishing, but as we lined the Autoroute du Nord side of The Stade de France, Woodley, and listened to the warm closing words of Coaches Michael and Peter, all I could feel was pride in Evan’s attitude and determination, and gratitude for the opportunity to witness it.
Wilderspool Causeway 
Leave a reply to Mam Cancel reply