Wilderspool Causeway

Wokingham & Emmbrook Oranges’ performances are usually as predictable as the reports delivered by bleary-eyed traffic correspondents on a Saturday morning: ‘Expect delays in and around Floyd Road prior to Charlton Atheltic’s game this afternoon. Traffic is also likely to be slow on the North Circular as the day unfolds. Lots of comings and goings at Heathrow Airport today, so avoid the area if you want to. As for other parts of the country, the M6 through Birmingham is looking like it’s ready for traffic and it’s advisable to avoid the pedestrianised areas of Manchester if you’re travelling by car this afternoon.  Back ‘in town’, Brentford Fountain Leisure Centre remains inaccessible from the Chiswick Flyover other than to particularly skilled parcourt practitioners…’

In Wokingham’s case, the ebb and flow of the game is characterised by the concession of at least one early goal followed by either a successful or unsuccessful revival. Having watched 70 games or so, I can’t recall one in which the team faded away in the second half; they tend to start the game having already faded away, gradually mobilising as the first half progresses. As I happened to be caretaker manager for the game, perhaps I have to look inwards and take stock. Coach Peter had given me carte blanche to dispense with his rotational wisdom and form the team and tactics in my own image, a permission made easier to accept given the fact that we had no substitutes because they were away in North Wales.

I therefore decided to loosen up the Christmas tree a bit, allowing players to attack or defend as they saw fit rather than to feel they have to keep doggedly to their shape. I felt a bit like Mark Hughes taking Dickson Etuhu for a walk in the Great Park, ambling up to the Copper Horse and climbing on the stones at the base to show him horizons he couldn’t see from down in the centre of the town. I didn’t mind if they were defensive players: they could get forward when we were in possession, as long as they got back when needed. The left and right midfielders had free rein to get up and down as they saw fit – the right to roam: our lone striker had to chase and press, giving no time or space to the Purley defence. With Evan at right-back, and free to get forward, he scored two goals, one of which was a free-kick and the other resulted from a hitherto unauthorised run forward in which he sidestepped a defender and smashed the ball on the half volley into the top corner. The adrenaline from the goal helped him attack and defend in equal measure. At 2-0 up, it was possible to feel like a whelk-stall owner in a ‘high demand for whelks’ area.

At half-time, though, one of our best midfielders had a monumental, unforeseeable breakdown. He screamed, collapsing under the force of his sobs because he hadn’t scored a goal. To make matters worse, he was due to be goalkeeper in the second half. The Purley manager, meanwhile, must have been giving it the full Pacino: ‘I made every wrong choice a middle aged man can make. I uh…pissed away all my money, believe it or not. I chased off anyone who has ever loved me. And lately, I can’t even stand the face I see in the mirror…We are in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And we can stay  here and get the shit kicked out of us or we can fight our way back into the light. We can climb out of hell. We can CLAW with our fingernails…I CAN’T DO IT FOR YOU. I’m too old…’

Anyway, in the second half Purley blew us out of the water completely, shattering the efforts of the first half as we finally let go of the semblance of shape I’d encouraged them to keep at arms length in the first place. I could make excuses: the unexpected wobbly, the tiredness of a team which played at a high tempo with no subs to rely on, the ruthlessness of the opposition’s physical long-ball game, the inability of our players to adapt to new instructions. A famous bank collapsed due to unauthorised trading on the Osaka Securities Exchange; we lost it due to unauthorised defending in Woodford Park.

I was willing the team to get back on the front foot and not sit too deep once we’d conceded. Unfortunately, the players’ logic was ‘Can’t you see? We’ve just conceded! We need to defend!’ In the final analysis, I couldn’t get a clear message through to the players from half-time onwards and they therefore lacked direction. I’d go abroad and coach, but Woodley Interpol would track me down. I felt like a novitiate tyre fitter in the absence of  Chris ‘the saviour’ Edmunds, Wokingham’s finest, who would one day return to find the locking wheel nut, apply the sealant and fit the tyre. As Clive, Mark’s uncle, said at the end: ‘Come back Michael: all is forgiven.’

P.S. Evan then played for Wokingham Cougars in their cup match. I was so disillusioned that I didn’t watch, returning only near the end of the game to find out that Evan had scored the Cougars’ only goal against Caversham Trents and the game was heading for penalties. He then scored in the penalty shoot-out, but alas: the Trents won.