Some mid-season stats to kick off proceedings here, followed by the inevitable reflections on routes across the Thames and forgotten gloves etc.
Played 15 Won 6 Drawn 1 Lost 8 Goals Scored: 61 Goals Conceded: 84
Goals scored: Mulvaney: 25 Saynor: 13 Parry: 8 Sexton: 6 Dance: 5 Xanthoulis: 2 Butler: 1 A. Mulvaney: 1
We seem to be locked into a never-ending battle with our neighbours from north of the border. Why are we playing Caversham again? Twyford Comets are in our league, but we’ve played them only once. Perhaps they’ve dissipated into the sky and are only visible at the ‘year’s midnight’ when ‘the sun is spent, and now his flasks/send forth light squibs/no constant rays’ and ‘the whole world’s sap is sunk.’ That could be Evan’s analysis, anyway. Looking up into a Crowthorne sky last Sunday, he said ‘Look, it’s Twyford! I know that because there’s still some detail in the clouds.’
Twyford, twylight – whatever. Coaches Peter and Michael were in Prague and London respectively, so before Connor, Amelia, Evan and I could even begin to contemplate the mists rolling in off the Loddon, we first had to find our way out of Woosehill. Which way do you turn when there are anonymous brown buildings in every direction? Citizens of Lower Earley have faced this crisis of being for the entire duration of their tenancy or period of home ownership. Woosehill is no different. All roads curl at disappointing angles and you’re left with blind decisions, invariably leading you to either the right road in the wrong direction or the wrong road in the right direction, merging with a network of cul-de-sacs to confound even the most traffic-aware satnav, rendering it lost as a hospital corridor pacer looking for a ward that doesn’t exist or a bus to a time they’ve long since left.
‘In 200 yards, turn right but bear left. Do a U-turn and take the ramp. Continue for one mile, descending on the elevated section of the carriageway. At the roundabout, take the seventh exit and head back from whence you came.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Amelia, understandably. It’s best to turn off all the voices at this stage. You’re doing a U-turn, but only because there’s nowhere else to go. It reminds me of heading for Accrington but ending up in Henley, doing a ten-point turn on an irrelevant country lane after the fire brigade had shut the town down.
While we were aiming to cross the Loddon on Sandford Lane, Caversham had a few bridges to choose from to traverse the ‘dirty old river’: Reading, Caversham, Sonning and if they’re really desperate – Whitchurch. In this weather, they would surely be reminded of Spike Milligan: ‘Let us look at the River Thames/ One of England’s watery gems/ Oily brown, greasy, muddy/ Looking foul, and smells of cruddy/ The conservancy say they’re cleaning it/ So why is it the colour of shit?’
Leaving all this shit behind, we weren’t exactly liberated. The manager has to remember: goalie gloves, goalie kit, footballs, Christmas cards for the team, notebook, pen, crumpled squad rotation diagram, Connor and Amelia’s apples and biscuits, Evan’s drink, inhaler, club jacket, fleece and shin pads, the skills trophy, the man of the match wristband, how to be civil and the if-all-else-fails fundamentals: wallet, keys and phone.
It’s always so convoluted; we had long deviated from Heron’s Shortest Path, but perhaps it’s best not to overreact or compare. Maybe Caversham had their own shinpad crises to contend with, their own over-beveraged parents or bumpy mornings to put up with. Perhaps they couldn’t find their inhalers, either. Maybe they were stuck in Waitrose car park (after stopping for a coffee but forgetting their MyWaitrose card) or behind a laggard on Peppard Road. Our under preparation wouldn’t equate to over preparation on their part.
On the way, Connor (he of 25 goals in 15 games) decided to float an idea my way: ‘Alex, do you think I could maybe play for three quarters of the game instead of half today?’ As you can imagine, I was not entirely unsympathetic to his perspective. ‘Connor, I’m not entirely unsympathetic to your perspective here mate. Erm, let me think about it.’ If there was any glitch in the memo, Connor would play for the duration.
In professional football, you can expect fines for pretty much anything, including newspapers in the medical room. Imagine the levy for missing two games running, without notice. This unnamed player deserves a Christmas bonus though, for good as he is, he gave me license to torch the spreadsheet and ditch the rotation. It really was foggy. After a minute or two, we conceded our customary soft early goal after the ball sort of ricocheted off their striker and rolled in at 2mph. We’re so used to this, we just accept it as incompetence tax and move on. Soon we had a corner and scored from an unusual source: the ball fell to Ciara on the edge of the box and she wellied it for all she was worth: 1-1. Evan was out of the picture this stage, digitally revolved and carrying a knee injury sustained in training.
Thanasie Xanthoulis – another rare and temperamental source – popped up with the second goal before Connor opened his account on the stroke of half-time. I had been nicknamed ‘Big Sam’ (preferably for a degree of tactical brutalism rather than mere size, I guess) but in truth there wasn’t much of a tubthumping message I could give them at the break, other than to keep doing what they were doing: it will lead to the same results.
Evan tried to play in the second half, but limped off tearfully after only a few minutes. He wasn’t able to get back and defend, but we needed him to. It stayed 3-1 until fairly late in the second half, when Evan decided to re-enter the fray as a striker, minimising the possibility of stress on the knee. He soon picked up the ball opportunistically on the edge of the box and made the score 4-1, but it wasn’t comfortable. Caversham had a young Maldini at the back, a wise and nonchalant player who could easily play a telling ball to unlock our historical sieve of a defence. With 3 minutes to go, we were 4-3 up and anything could have happened. Thankfully, Evan fired the ball into the left corner with the outside of his right foot and Connor added another to make the final score 6-3 to the Satsumas. Amelia won the Skills Trophy for some fantastic flourishes, consistently outwitting her opponents who seemed to carry a degree of complacency in their assumption that they could take the ball from her at will.
On the way home, things took a philosohpical turn. Connor’s idea was to play ‘Would you Rather’, and he opened up with: ‘Would you rather be a bin or a window?’ This seemed weird, but also a great question. You’d naturally gravitate to the window side of the equation, perhaps, but quickly remember that a window can be cracked or smashed whereas a bin is routinely emptied of its rubbish and can be cleaned with anti-bacterial wipes.
Texts referred to: A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day by John Donne
Father Thames by Spike Milligan
Wilderspool Causeway 