Wilderspool Causeway

As the Caversham Trents commenced their groggy amble from the minibus which had delivered them from their base near the Nottingham Holme Sluices,  it was difficult to perceive in them any traces of the violent Royalists who trashed Wokingham back in the 1640s. They had a short blonde boy with glasses – who seemed too clever to be a Cavalier – and a lad called Roman who thought he could mouth off all over the place because he had a silly haircut and an aggressive dad. So, a garish little jabberer and a Hogwarts extra would be leading the line for this northern outfit who were otherwise well pruned.

Before the game, Evan quizzed me about Francesco Totti: ‘What – he’s 40 and he plays modern day football? Is he super-good? I wish you could do that. Why don’t you go on an exit trial?’ Life is an exit trial, I tried to say (whatever that is), but the topics were changing now with bewildering rapidity: ‘When I go to America with James, we’re going to go for two months. We’re going to watch the Copa America.’ What? This sounds like a Post A-Level trip, saved up for by a summer temping behind the cufflink counter, rather than the strategems of  7-Year-Olds. ‘Can I come with you?’ Mooning about in South America with Evan and James: sounds like a contrast to Winnersh.

The Caversham manager (one heck of a unit) stood imposingly in loose shorts and a hoodie, like a militant localist surfer on a beach full of tourists. Perhaps the shorts were there to hide a case of Winchester Goose, or were simply a statement that he and his assistant couldn’t care less if we thought them slubberdegullions; they will be who they are without reference to style or opinion. In this climate of free thought and expression, the players and managers thrived whereas the spectators were subject to an FA gagging clause which I would fall foul of later in the game.

Soon after the match started, the Royalists took the lead; we were fairly well-drilled after a training session which emphasised a set shape and passing pattern, while they were inevitably more cavalier, exploiting moments when our rhythm faltered. A few moments later, Evan played a long pass through to Jack who managed to control the ball and fire it into the corner. Then, a superb goal from Evan. When I later asked him which was his favourite goal of the season, he said ‘today’s because I thunderdrummed it into the goal.’ Great description.

Frustratingly, the game deteriorated while tensions along the Rua Joao De Freitas Branco side of the ground rose. Just before half-time, Evan was hacked in midfield and the Trents scored. The accepted wisdom is that parents should be quiet and trust the decisions of the ref. Behind the green railings, we may as well have been Lord Craven, away in Bohemia while his house was confiscated and turned into a prison for the king. But he was still able to raise 50k on his friend’s behalf and send it back to Caversham. As parents, one metre away from the action, we could do and say nothing to express what we thought.

With two minutes to go, Evan was alone in defence with two attackers bearing down on him. I could see what was going to happen, and as Evan attempted a Maradona to get past them, I yelled ‘No!!’ and one of the Trents nicked the ball away and slotted it past the ‘keeper to win the game. I wandered away from the railings with my eyes closed, then turned around, walked back and opened them to see Coach Michael’s face in front of mine and all the parents in silence: ‘he was allowed to try that skill. It doesn’t matter that he lost the ball and it doesn’t matter that we conceded a goal.’