Wilderspool Causeway

With our games usually confined to central Berkshire and the immediate environs of Reading, we had never faced a team from this far east. OK, we’re not talking Frinton-on-Sea or the Yellow Sea, but the mediocre, self-deluded, nothing town of Maidenhead where according to John Betjeman you ‘talk of sports and makes of cars in various bogus Tudor bars and daren’t look up and see the stars, but belch instead.’

Maidenhead Boys & Girls FC – in breach of the 1968 Trade Descriptions Act Section 7(i) by virtue of the final seven letters of their name – lined up in luminous yellow shirts and shorts and socks in all the colours of the rainbow.

One of their managers rambled fruitlessly up and down the touchline in a constant loop, as if in thrall to an invisible chicane, whereas the other stood impassively in regulation Adidas, an anti-social chaperone who had the bearing of a surly tribal elder or stubborn herdsman rather than a football coach. Is there any point in acting like an unapproachable witch doctor when you look like Phil Tufnell and you’re standing in a wide-open field in Woodley? Aloof, sour-faced crabbiness is perfect for ignoring your neighbours and fellow dog walkers in Maidenhead, but does little to galvanise 9-year-olds to play good football – and so it proved.

I didn’t particularly warm to this Maidenhead team, perhaps coloured by the most unsavoury incident witnessed at this level so far. Though a disorganised rabble, most of their lads were determined and tried hard within the boundaries of moral acceptability. They tended to occupy the central zone of the pitch, retreating in numbers as Wokingham passed the ball progressively through the midfield; Evan played with skill and composure, winning the man of the match award for his incisive passing and calm on the ball. Maidenhead’s combative attitude yielded several free-kicks, one of which was converted with a superb left-footed curling drive by Josh Dance whose slow motion caterpillar celebration perhaps only served to make a combustible moment more likely.

It arrived at the end when Amelia Mulvaney, who had previously scored with a clinical strike into the corner, was delivered an uppercut by a little thug she’d just dispossessed and outwitted. This was in clear sight of the ref, who explained afterwards that ‘no matter how sinister the incident, all we can do is ask the manager to sub them off.’ The Maidenhead managers reacted by subbing the boy immediately so as to prevent a scene, but didn’t issue a single word of reproach to the little git as he laughed his way to the sidelines.

Thankfully, incidents of this type are rare and perhaps that’s why there are no mechanisms in place to deal with them. We won’t ignore it, though, and we won’t forgive the town, the ‘Royal Borough’ it’s part of, the bizarre management of the team, the local council or even the lad himself – not for a very long time, if at all, even though it’s Sunday. It reminds me of Bart’s famous phrase when he and Lisa were locked inside a church and Lisa sank to her knees in prayer: ‘Lisa, this is neither the time nor the place.’