Wilderspool Causeway

When we arrived for the pre-season tournament at Chestnut Park, not a soul was to be seen. People later mentioned faltering Sat Navs, with someone having been led to Sindlesham, another to Bracknell and another to a state of isolation laced with profanities at the Peugeot garage on Molly Millar’s Lane.

The problem for us, on the Saturday we arrived, is that the mini tournament was not scheduled to occur until the following day. This was a shame, as our pre-match preparation was absolutely spot on. Evan had successfully put his socks and shin pads on within half an hour of being asked. I even had breakfast waiting for him as he came down the stairs; I had successfully descended the stairs myself, having fallen down them the night before (leading to ‘policeman’s heel’ and a pulled calf). Inhaler puffs were taken at the optimum time before performance. Hydration and snacks were taken care of, and a calm atmosphere of joyful anticipation was created to calm Evan’s onions before the first non-existent game of the day and a consolatory round of mini golf at Jock’s Lane.

In contrast, preparation for the actual ‘Tournoi de Wokingham’ – on Sunday August 20th rather than Saturday August 19th – could not conceivably have been worse. At approximately 23:30 the night before, Evan was atop Josh Newport’s shoulders, belting out the ‘DER DE DER DE’ part of Paul Simon’s ‘You Can Call Me Al’ on a fully thronged dance floor  at Lewis and Georgie’s wedding reception. Running around like a maniac in Sunningdale as the day changes – life at its finest, but no way to gather energy. All of this is by way of explaining why the dew soaked ground was trodden in such strange ways the following morning.

Wokingham Rangers 2  Wokingham & Emmbrook Oranges 0

During the wedding service, Evan turned to me and said ‘Do we have to do this first?’ By ‘first’, he was referring to the hoops to jump through before the reception. The ceremony was nothing more than a sacramental bridge to the disco. There was little genuine understanding, perhaps, of the idea of blessing a sacred union. ‘I’ve got a new uncle now’ was his sadly misguided interpretation. The following morning, the game started but Evan didn’t. Or he did, but with nowhere near the force and influence he’s capable of exerting. ‘Are you tired, Evan?’ asked Coach Peter. I can’t remember him ever having admitted to being tired – he just passes out when necessary. Yes, he replied. ‘Do you want to be substituted, Evan?’ That too.                                                                                                                                                                                   ‘

So after a couple of elegant tiki taka style passes, he was off. The rest of the team did quite well on the whole, but succumbed to two identical defensive errors by a space cadet who will remain unnamed if not undescribed. The whole game was a lackadaisical, self-limiting exercise in pointless nonchalance.

Wokingham Sumas 4 Wokingham & Emmbrook Oranges 1 (Mulvaney)

This was a game which resulted in a deceptive scoreline; we were level pegging for much of the game, with Evan coming close to putting us ahead with a volley from a corner (just over the bar) and Connor tearing around to good effect despite a lack of immunity to the rustiness affecting them all. We also had a new player whose dad – 6 foot 10 veteran of the Molly Millar’s Sat Nav debacle and profanities attendant thereof – must have wondered quite what the point of living was as the Oranges struggled for the faintest sense of rhythm or cohesion despite occasional suggestions of quality.

As well as helping Hayden to settle, we were missing Xanthoulis to a holiday in Greece, a terrier on the pitch whose questionable attitude’s double edged: his complete disregard for teammates extends to the opposition, for whom a special contempt is reserved. We sorely missed his wanton madness and were left only to loosely canonise him as a loose cannon, as it were, in his absence.

Ultimately, the flock were condemned to retreat to higher ground, ‘flood waters rising and Canaan bound.’ Not an ideal pre-season, but ‘c’est la vie’ as my Physics teacher Malcolm Surridge would say in his odd, deep nasal Welsh tones.

At Jock’s Lane, after Saturday’s non-existent tournament and prior to Sunday’s actual, badly prepared for one.