What a bizarre game against the shoulderclappers of Wokingham & Emmbrook Rangers. Coach Michael was about as organised as Britain’s response to Brexit, arriving without goalie gloves or the teamsheet. While he rushed back through the drizzle to get it, the ref said ‘In positions please!’ I had no choice but to select the team myself. Mark Sexton arrived late, but seemed altogether absent. Why oh why did I put him in goal?
We started with broadly the same line-up which was so unyielding last week. After 5 minutes, Michael arrived with his typically exaggerated view of the players’ fungibility. He rang the changes. Thanasie was taken off and collapsed in tears. Ciara entered the fray in her beanie hat. Josh was put on – except Josh wasn’t actually there, having omitted to arrive for the game. Amelia was thrown on instead. Confusion reigned.
I had been drafted in as garb monitor and henchperson – I tried to keep tearful Thanasie mollified, but he started making strangled, high pitched noises like an injured lupus cub. On the pitch, things weren’t much better. With Mark ‘gone’ (it would be an insult to space cadets to put him in the same category), when Rangers started taking shots, it was a disaster. Goals started flying in like seagulls at break time. At half-time it was 8-0.
For the team talk, I expected to take a back seat; the rotation policy has become a shibboleth – we’ve sort of been neutered by a spreadsheet. However, my perception of Michael as one of life’s great indifferentists (imagine Ringo Starr’s voice, amped up to 10 and pierced with a knitting needle: ‘Win or lose it doesn’t really matter: well played’) was ill-founded. He was not a happy bunny. He went absolutely Carragher: ‘We need to turn up here! You’re not doing anything we learnt in training and you’re not playing anything like you played last week.’ In a surprising gesture, seeing as I was there last week in Michael’s absence, he then said: ‘Now Alex, what have you got to say to them?’
Newly unsilenced, I was taken aback and my mind went blank. This was an opportunity to earn Michael’s trust after our confrontation a few weeks ago. So here goes: ‘Jack, you’re wandering around like a godwit. Now get your head on. Mark, I don’t know what to say to you. That was disgusting out there today. Amelia, this is football: you’ve been flailing aound like you’re drowning in the Limpopo. Now screw your head on. Evan, clean your teeth.’ No. What we really gave them was a clear reminder of the simple things they did so well last week: keeping their shape, passing, tackling back and taking their chances in the final third.
The second half was a completely different proposition: anyone could have told them they just needed to wake up. Evan was now up front and began to turn on the style, gammoning up their defence something proper and firing into the corner to pull a goal back. Rangers were not content to drift into the West Woodley doldrums, though. They had their own objectives to work towards and would do so, picking through the rubble of the opposition train wreck with scant regard for the casualties. They even sent their keeper up for corners, despite being 10 goals up. Crack shot Connor Mulvaney waited on the sidelines, patient and watchful in our brand new club jacket. His hat-trick in the last part of the game meant we won the second half 5-4.
There was absolutely no sugar coating from Michael after the game. “In the first half we weren’t very good. We were…” “Rubbish!” said Ciara. “Well yes, in a word. Crikey, I feel like a proper manager here!” He sounded like it, too, and it was heartening to hear of the strengths of the second half after the absolute trout and zugzwang of the first.
n.b. Mark had a good second half, bless him: compos mentis, fiery and skilful.
Wilderspool Causeway 