In possibly the shortest short-term loan in the history of football (10 minutes), Evan began today’s game in the light orange of Tilehurst. I call him Evan, anyway.
His new coaches wouldn’t budge from their own interpretation: ‘Play out wide, Kevin. Get wider – really wide. No, even wider. Right out on the touchline. Good skills! Great goal, Kevin: well done!’ With his third or fourth touch of the game, Evan delivered the unthinkable by tackling Jack, sidestepping Thanasie and scoring against his own club. As an assistant Wokingham coach, I could neither celebrate nor quite conceal my admiration.
“We’ll have him back now”, shouted Peter.
“We could keep him if you like? We’ll put him on the bench?”
“No, we’ll have him back.”
Loan over. Evan’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he went first to Wokingham’s bench, then on to the pitch to replace an injured player and then in goal – all in one half of the game.
A commentator summarising Evan’s involvement in the game would surely not have been any more coherent than Harry Enfield’s Les the Barman and his demented revisionist horse racing commentary: ‘That’s my wife, horse, Red Rum, Maureen, Misty Buff, Mint Sunrise…ooh, it’s way out ahead, third, right at the back…come on boy, Yes! Well, who’d have thought it? My horse winning, er, coming second, third, er…shot in the paddock.’
The collapse was total. Centre Skills were able to move the ball like it was Lurpak Spreadable and the pitch was a slice of toast, buttered evenly and to its farthest reaches. Rarely did they concede a throw-in or lose the ball to a legal tackle. One of their diminutive forwards moved the ball as if it were a moon tethered by gravity or simply an extension of his shoe. He was regularly ungovernable, drawing fouls and intemperate lunges all over the pitch. As a result, they scored two direct free-kicks and one penalty before half-time, leaving the score 6-0 and our early donation of Evan/Kevin impossible to justify.
The second half was much better as Connor responded to his dad’s injunction to ‘find your engine’ by scoring with a fantastic left-footed strike after a driving run down the wing. Evan hurled a ball across the box, Rory Delap style, which Thanasie despatched clinically at close range. Ultimately, though, moments of coherence were about as common as a Dusky Thrush, and the Tilehurst coaches offered us the dubious privilege of playing with an extra player to countermand their superiority: “That’s taking the piss, that is. We’ve still got our dignity”, reflected a Wokingham parent afterwards.
So, a bizarre and punishing game edged towards its conclusion and the idea of a consolatory trip to Reading slowly formed in my mind, along with visions of a milkshake for Evan in the no-longer-so-smelly-alley of Union Street. Wrongly, though – as consistent with the unpredictability of the day – I assumed Oreo would be a shoo-in as his chosen flavour and looked forward to some intermittent sips. In the event, though, Evan opted for – of all things – a milkshake based on the McVitie’s Gold Bar.
Walking beneath cross-hatched sunbeams along Kennet Side, rechristened the ‘Pigeon Line’ by Evan in recognition of the roof of Queen’s Road car park, Evan asked if I’d rather be a monk or a lawyer. My initial response was ‘Monk, because it’s quieter.’ On the way home, there was even some interesting light above Lower Earley and some elevation, contrary to its name, from which peach melba clouds were visible over Loddon Valley Police Station.
Wilderspool Causeway 