An Omnishambles. So much so that Coach Michael decided to keep the Player of the Match wristband because ‘None of yous deserved it.’ All the parents agreed.
The ref was mentally gone, which didn’t help, but let’s rewind a bit first: before the game, we were buoyant. Granted, we hadn’t trained or played since December 17th, but we were up against a newly formed team who seemed raw as a flesh wound when we saw them gadding about on the Maiden Erlegh astro-turf in training last year.
New year, old choruses. Before the game, we asserted our identity and whipped out all the old classics courtesy of Oasis, Take That and The Buggles.
‘And all the roads we have to walk are winding/And all the goals that Evan scores are blinding/There are many ways Amelia will try to out-skill you on her own goal liiiine/But maybe, we’ll get the ball to Mulvaney/And after all, you’re my Coach Michaaaael.’
‘And now we understand the supernova scene/Oh-a-oh/Connor Mulvaney/Oh-a-oh/He’s called Thanasie/Oh-a-oh/We’ve got Jack Parry/Wokingham put the Caversham cars/ In the Thames Water reservoir/Ciara scored and we went one up/WHOA! A-oh-oh-oh.’
‘NEVER forget where you’ve come here from/NEVER forget the A329 (M)/SOMEDAY soon this will all be arable again/(It will be arable again!)’
Exercising the lungs is a cathartic way to start the new year. Most of us were deeply ill in various ways over Christmas, and arrived in Woodley by oblivious avenues: Woodlands, Beechwood, Western. The sky was a reassuringly nondescript grey and therefore wouldn’t mock us. As mentioned, the ref was mentally gone. Apparently he had a shocker in his previous game which sent him into a vortex of self reproach and indecision from which he would not be extricated. You know you’ve had a difficult game when the managers stop remonstrating and start counselling, as Michael did for the whole of half-time.
The players, too, were mentally unfurnished and physically uncoordinated, seemingly still under a cloud of holiday amnesia. I read a paragraph recently about a piano teacher called Edwin Fischer. Apparently he was ‘an inspiring teacher who led two generations of pianists away from the piano and back to themselves.’ But wasn’t he supposed to be a piano teacher? Wasn’t this an offence against the Trade Descriptions Act (1968)?
Maybe this is similar to Coach Michael’s attitude to the ref: ‘Listen son, don’t worry about it. Just forget about the effing reffing. It doesn’t matter. Close your mind to opinions from outside and only open it up again when you’re ready and to people you know and trust. You’ll get there, mate.’
Coach Peter, a former semi-pro striker with an excellent goalscoring record, has a similar attitude. ‘At this age, it isn’t really about the football. It’s about their social development. If they want to pursue football, they will.’ I love that, but when a football match is in progress, it’s really hard not to think about football. Hard for me, at least, but obviously not for the players. If I had 2p for every time I’d heard the phrase ‘away with the fairies’ since September 2015, I’d bother to go to Sainsbury’s to cash them in.
The mistakes in the first half were too many to itemise. As a taster, think of penalties given away, own goals conceded, fouls committed, balls uncontrolled, brains unutilised, attitudes questionable and players careering around like their feet were permanently fixed to the gas pedals of unsteerable dodgems. Hopefully you get the idea.
Perhaps it’s best to concentrate on the good bits. From a corner, Evan engineered a bit of space outside the box and scored with a brilliant strike into the left corner. Connor scored with a nonchalant swipe of his left foot to fool the keeper from three yards out. We huffed and puffed on the foothills of good play, but ultimately were undermined by the litany of errors listed above. At half-time, the score was 5-2, the match was lost and the ref commenced his counselling session. Peter augmented the encouraging words he could muster with some merited jabs of the finger.
The second half was better, but could hardly have been worse. We were left with some ruminative tunes to see the time out: ‘I wish today could be tomorrow/The night is dark/It just brings sorrow, let it wait.’ There was a flurry of pressure towards the end, with Connor scoring two in a minute, but ultimately we were left with Michael’s chastening words, and a twinkle in his eye as he said: ‘None of yous deserve the Player of the Match wristband this week. If you play like that next week in the cup, you’ll be out. So I’m going to keep it and give it to two of you next week when you play how we’ve learnt to.’
Wilderspool Causeway 