Wilderspool Causeway

Three stalwarts of Wokingham – hair of white and grey attesting to a fair few trips around the sun – stood in the doorway of The Queen’s Head with a King Charles Spaniel and conversation seemingly determined by their adult children: ‘Well mine’s got whooping cough!’ offered one. I happened to know that the son in question has held cultic services on his mother’s lawn at god-forsaken hours of the morning. ‘Whooping cough? That’s something infants get. Are you sure?’ enquired the spaniel owner in a gently mocking tone. Whooping cough seems somehow incongruous with  the powers of darkness. Not sure why. Misguided though the coughing visionary may be, though,  sometimes you have to at least acknowledge the effort. They’ve done something rather than nothing.

A bit like Mr Brown in the song Next  Door Neighbour: ‘I wonder what became of him. They say he chucked the tele through the window. He went berserk and jacked whole world in. Although he may he have hit rock bottom, he went out with a bang and so he is not forgotten.’

So it is with Reeves Rangers. They  make a point, however unpalatable it may be. Their managers’ jackets are straight out of 1992 and so is their unkempt appearance and football. They make Gerry  Francis (‘What I said to them at half-time would be unprintable on the radio’) and Dave Bassett (‘We need to weigh up the pros and cons and put them in chronological order’) seem almost coherent and progressive.

It’s no exaggeration to say that every time the Reeves Rangers goalkeeper got the ball in the first half, he had a shot on goal. This despite a league directive which makes it compulsory for the opposition to retreat to the halfway line so the defence can play fluent football from the back. When a defender got the ball, the bestubbled gaffers went with ‘Have a crack, son’ instead of helping them to develop actual football skills such as passing and finding space. It was so infuriating to be around that I retreated to the Goals Centre foyer, which has the anonymous yet strangely comforting vibe of an ocean liner, to buy a bacon roll and a latte.

In so doing, I missed Evan’s first decisive contribution of the game since entering the fray after half-time: a goal from the edge of the box after a scramble following a corner, according to Andrew ‘vegan do it’ Parry, my preferred ally behind the green fence. I was disappointed with myself, but also replenished.

As the second half wore on, the Reeves Rangers managers even began to make the eponymous hero of Mike Bassett: England Manager seem enlightened when he named Ron Benson and Tony Hedges in the England squad: ‘Tony Hedges, York City? I didn’t pick him…And who’s this clown? Ron Benson, Plymouth Argyle?’                                                         ‘Look, Mike, they were on the list of players that you gave me!’                                               Mike: [holding up the cigarette box he wrote the squad list on]’Oh, come on, love! Show me where it says “Benson and Hedges” on that.’

As the match unravelled, we at times countered fire with fire, but at other times countered fire with that most redundant of redundant skills, the ‘rainbow flick’. It’s a hopelessly complicated manoeuvre which if successful results only in sending the ball into a loop in the air and an indeterminate, random fate as it drops. Still, it was amusing to see football stretch to these ideological extremes. Route 1 v Route What the hell are you trying to do there?

Connor was frustrated by some capable goalkeeping and Evan scored again, knocking the ball behind his left leg to create space and then finishing with a determined left footed prod into the corner. Even the Reeves managers, to give them their due, applauded our better efforts and stuck to wry smiles when faced with our none-too-veiled criticisms from the sidelines. Their agricultural tactics were within the laws of the game. Legal parameters and the consequences of breaching them are all that matters to some, it seems.

Perhaps Mike Bassett wasn’t as ignorant as we assumed either. He openly challenged England’s endemic drinking culture, after all,  when star player Kevin Tonkinson was found somewhat over the limit at the wheel. ’88 bloody milligrams! You go on the piss all day and you’ve ballooned out like the Pillsbury Doughboy! You’ve really let me down this time Tonka and f*** the apology. You could go to jail for this! What sort of system am I going to play then? Three across the middle and one in bloody Pentonville?’

This was a game between the pragmatists and the idealists. I’m still wondering where the balance should be.