Report on club website – champions!
Written by me, uploaded by Coach Pete
https://www.wefc.club/news/u13-rangers-v-winnersh-barbarians-2703962.html
Category: Uncategorized
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Three Triolets
Clun
Clun is the quietest place in England
if you can also quieten your mind.You’ll never see it around the headland;
Clun is the quietest place in England.Though you’re kicking up a stretch of sand,
there is a bench and park no-one can find.Clun is the quietest place in England
if you can also quieten your mind.Two Jabs
Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after
high points and low lights, whatever you’ve seen.Buoyed up by syrups, compounds and laughter;
Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after.Against any danger, always a grafter;
you sense what’s coming, a long time since green.Two jabs or two jags, the illness comes after
high points and low lights, whatever you’ve seen.The Old Theologian
Says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile:
‘Here are ten thousand words to add to the Lord’s.’If a person says ‘Walk with me’, go one extra mile
says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile.On Zoom with the bookshelves, home life on trial,
he could only get over a few broken chords.Says the old theologian, kind eyes, slight smile:
‘Here are ten thousand words to add to the Lord’s.’
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Notes from Bryanstone Quay
On this southern shoreline, weathered signs
are falsely worn above a film of sand,
surfboards and designer clothing brands.On rocks off the quay, close to the deep,
spot the line of the horizon, Smuggler’s Cove,
fulmars in restive dives off the sternof Carpe Diem alone in its rust
in the wind above a herring army.
Voices on the breeze call nightlyinto nothing but air
and far co-ordinates of memory.Do transmigrating souls mix with the wind
in fixed gazes of fishermen?You won’t find the smoking solitary man
or his flat-coated retriever in the old hotel.
This new century does admin on the recent past.It watches itself talking through touchscreen glass,
hoping for you to ‘hit the like’ and subscribe –
hoping for some more thumbs up.
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Holy Land, Instagram
Wind-ruffled oaks in common grasses;
a castle that stands in swathes of time.
Do we need these places so we feel small and free
disappearing ripples on a constant sea?Venture across soft grass and concomitant nettles,
interloper on royal grounds, taught to show reverence.A Quaker would never bow, except to divine energy,
cumulonimbi piling up over a sequoia treeline
seen from a town centre car-park top.Lost in the National Trust’s gold and green
insipid Crown Estate heraldry, you forgive great men
foibles, would rather they were private.Isolated villages, Great Park council properties;
You’re a child with inferiority signposted daily
in ancient stone, drawbridges, Range Rovers.A prince marries in a Christian church,
hears a standard gospel message: the family smirks.These ancient oaks, Mildmay plantings,
are so much less derisive. Yes, lose yourself,
your ego, self-importance, conceited dreams
of greatness: lose it in great rivers,
unknown nebulae, at just a glimpse
of someone who stands apart through learning
or instinct; lose yourself before a farmer
who humbly read the weather, a taxi driver
who baffled with all the London streets,
a player who created time when others snatched.Never lose yourself to fortifications,
a curated garden, some farcical sage green
punt at prestige, falsely weathered wood
or new authentic signage, those people
who filter the Holy Land through Instagram:
‘Here’s a picture of me wading through the Jordan,
beyond the profane; here’s one by the holy sepulchre,
hope I got the lighting right and you see me
in Jesus’ footsteps. I’m wearing a hoodie &
a cowboy hat as per the megachurch uniform
so young people can relate to me.
Hope you can ignore the salary,
but look at the followers, the reach,
and who I’ve saved from hellfire –
hope you’ll forgive me.’
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Whiteknights FC 1 Wokingham & Emmbrook Rangers 2 (Webb, Mulvaney) BYDL Division 1, Prospect Park
From the first Berkshire Youth Development League game (throwback here: https://wilderspoolcauseway.com/2015/09/12/woodleyzebras11we2/) where there was a ‘raw blend of hairstyles, philosophies and haircuts on the Wokingham side’ to the last, today at Prospect Park, there have been huge changes to the profile of the team – with only Evan and Connor remaining from that first game – but not so much to its identity. They still obdurately play the ball out from the back, along the floor. This has led to too many perilous defensive situations to recount, as time and time again the full backs find themselves under huge pressure when receiving the ball – but, unsurprisingly, they have therefore learned to deal with the ball under pressure. Other teams may launch the ball through the air, but have players who remain uncomfortable with the ball on the ground, which isn’t ideal when the game is called ‘football.’ As Brian Clough said: ‘If God had wanted us to play football in the clouds, he’d have put grass up there.’
Wokingham also still prioritise skill and quality of play over the final score. They therefore adhere to the current F.A. guidance that players should be encouraged to take risks, make mistakes, be creative and have time on the ball. This is because historically there was/is a cultural problem in the U.K. which means that individual expression is automatically deemed selfish – in the 80’s if you had the ball at your feet for more than two seconds you would be screamed at by teammates and supporters alike to ‘get rid of it’. In my own case, the parents were best described as resembling the cast of Only Fools and Horses: one of them was even a T.V. racing pundit – so much like Boycie it was unbelievable – who would run across the pitch with his long coat and big cigar to shout at the manager or ref at any moment he needed some emotional release – the others would just shout random stuff like ‘Oi!’ and ‘Are you listening to me?’ and ‘Get Out!’ (We played a high line – so high that the defence were screamed at if they weren’t on the halfway line at all times). If you don’t have the ball, though, you can’t become very good at the game, obviously, and that is ultimately why so many other countries with similar populations have far, far surpassed England; they don’t attach any stigma to the football – they see the ball itself as a good thing and treat it accordingly.
It’s only in recent years that the F.A. have woken up to this and changed their official policies to value creativity. They’ve seen that allowing a bullying culture means that a load of thugs make it as professionals, but they then can’t deal with other national teams who are much larger part footballer and much lesser part thug. This new culture only permeates grass roots football though, if managers – i.e. parents who grew up playing in the 70’s and 80’s when you were just supposed to launch the ball anywhere and mainly fight physical rather than footballing battles – can have the vision to drop their egos, take a long term view and not worry about the scores of individual games.
This is easier said the done, but Evan’s team have been blessed with brilliant coaches, Pete Mulvaney being the constant presence over 6 years; he shows unbelievable attention to detail – but they are not the details that most people typically value. If you ask him the final score at the end of the game or who we were playing against (or even, to be honest, where we are) he will genuinely have to rack his brains to remember and will invariably get it slightly wrong – he just doesn’t remember those details. If you ask him about a particular player, though, it’s a completely different story – he will be able to give a nuanced and detailed account of how they played, picking up on all kinds of subtleties the other viewers would not have seen. He will also then project forward as to exactly how he sees that player developing, and the positions they will be taking up in 6 months, a year or even 2 or 3 years later. Despite being a prolific goalscorer himself, he doesn’t especially privilege the scoring of a goal over any other skill, and at the end of the game might give a goal the same billing as a run someone made, a position taken up, a thoughtful pass or even an intention gone awry.
To be fair to the manager, it can be quite tricky to get a grip on the identity of opponents in this league. There are 10 teams in the division, and many are named after recognisable places such as Calcot or Pangbourne, but some have names which are harder to grasp like ‘Centre Skills’ – this one is confusing; does it mean they practise skills at a centre? If so, where is the centre? Or are the skills performed in the centre of the pitch? What are the skills? The name kind of functions in an abstract way like North West Pangs of Conscience FC or Adjacent Tendonitis-on-Loddon. And Whitenights, surely, is an Estate Agents – would their supporters arrive in suits between Saturday morning viewings to see how their little leaflet droppers were doing?
They train, predictably, at the Whiteknights campus of The University of Reading – but where do they come from? What’s the vibe? Regardless of the total mystery surrounding them, they played in quite a straightforward style – well organised, nothing too flashy and lots of prodding and probing down the flanks for little reward until their centre forward managed a fantastic lob from outside the box just before half time. Wokingham generally had more of the ball but were a bit too impulsive; they needed to calm down, lift their heads up and adopt a different perspective on life, but they did come back into the game well in the second half, culminating in Connor scoring an excellent left-footed volley from a corner to win the game after he and Evan entered the fray having taking their turns on the bench in the first half. Evan took a while to settle, but then found his customary range of passing and particularly helped in quick transitions from defence to attack. This was a good game and a fitting end to the BYDL era with Connor scoring the final goal after Evan scored the first, 6 years ago. The team also secured 3rd place and now probably face dispiriting trips to places like Colnbrook for 11-a-side games next season.
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Caversham Arrows U7s 3 Wokingham and Emmbrook U7s 4 (Mulvaney 3, Bridgeman o.g.)
Huddled in the swirly-carpeted foyer of Woodley Goals Centre, we were introduced to a new concept: mid-season relegation. Apparently, it’s called ‘streamlining.’ As this was explained, the general decor reminded me of fruitless Stena Sealink trips to Boulogne and an encroaching sense of dread took me back to the ‘deck of infirmity’ of the Portsmouth to St. Malo crossing of ’99.
So as a result of ‘streamlining’, ‘restructuring’ and ‘appeasing the Knights of Malta’, we were scheduled to face the Caversham Arrows team who beat us 8-4 in the cup last week. Instead of a warm up, coaches Michael and Peter opted for a ‘stay warm’, enjoining the team not to take to Woodley’s bleak landscape until the very last minute in the hope that thawing out would not be the theme of the opening minutes. It was worth a try, but one player was late and started the game frozen in her beanie hat, allowing Caversham to score within 1.3 seconds of the game. They soon scored again and the pattern of general ineptitude punctuated by redundant flair looked set to culminate in another defeat.
Caversham crossed one of the bridges this morning with a sense of optimism tinged with a gentle bout of the Rumsfelds: they knew that they didn’t know how Wokingham would gift them them the game, but they knew that it would happen. We were left with a Scouse sense of community, Costa Coffee and a touch of the vapours. The parents of both sets of players stood throughout in atmosphere of brotherly love. Even the inevitable songs which ‘dig out’ the portly element of the crowd were characterised by a concern for public health rather than a need to ridicule:’You’ll have to cut back on the sweeties, YOU’VE GOT TYPE 2 DIABETES’ was one that stood out, a line taken from Gaz Brookfield’s ‘Diabetes Blues.’
Thankfully the madness was soon augmented by the force and passion of Connor Mulvaney, who pulled a goal back before being unceremoniously withdrawn from the game. Sensing blood, Caversham turned the screw but Evan and the defence coped brilliantly until an unstoppable shot made the score 3-1 to the Arrows at the break.
The beginning of the second half was delayed by Darth Vader. The ref blew his whistle and Coach Michael, in full on Scouse, shouted ‘Sorry ref, I shoulda seen tha’ and attempted to remove Evan’s Star Wars hoodie from him. This was difficult as Evan isn’t prone to the realisation that something is happening which has a direct and immediate relevance to him, and in standard fashion he didn’t really raise his arms or generally roll with Michael’s efforts to alter garment plans.
Eventually the game was under way again and with Connor now in goal, it was difficult to see how poacher Evan would get the service to score. Caversham didn’t really have a chance of beating Connor in goal, and when he was released the team were able to lay siege to the reds’ goal for the final 10 minutes. The Arrows defended stoutly, however, but just as there were audible murmurings among their parents about the ref needing to blow his whistle and Waitrose probably filling up by now, their whole deck of cards collapsed. Firstly, Connor lashed a corner across the face of the goal, causing the ball to deflect off a defender and hit the back of the net: 3-3. Then, the industrious and clever Jack Parry saw a shot canon off the underside of the crossbar and onto the line. We would definitely settle for a point now, but with almost the last kick of the game, Mulvaney broke free and thumped it into the corner for a win, sending the Wokingham and Emmbrook congregation into raptures:
EMMBROOK, AMORE, STORIA DI UN GRANDE AMORE
Emmbrook, tale of a great love
BIANCO CHE ABBRACCIA IL NERO
White that embraces the black
TORO CHI SI ALZA DAVVERO PER TE
Bull that really stands up for you
PORTACI DOVE VUOI
Take us wherever you want.
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AFC Whitchurch 0 Wokingham & Emmbrook 12 (Ralph, Mulvaney, Long 2, Ferguson-Newlove 2, Harris 4, Smith, Saynor) BYDL Cup Round 1
The current price to cross the river between Pangbourne and Whitchurch is 60p; if it was down to me I would increase this to 80p immediately and then gauge if further increases would be viable. Cars shouldn’t be on the road so much these days anyway – if you’re local and want to walk or cycle into Oxfordshire or Berkshire, you can do so for free. Also, forget all the bollocks spoken about ‘leadership’; the dream job is to sit in the hut at the entrance to a car park or toll booth, reading, drinking coffee and chatting to drivers or pedestrians now and then if they feel like it.
Whitchurch villagers will have crossed the bridge at around 8:15 this morning as part of their very short journey to Prospect Park in Tilehurst. The club obviously have a very strict Covid-19 protocol, with parents required to wear masks and space themselves out across the length of the pitch. The referee had forgotten to arrive for the game so a large, gruff man wearing a pink Man Utd shirt and a ‘Southcote Colts’ jacket came over to give each team a pre-match speech and announce that he would be reffing the game. I’m not sure who he was affiliated with or where he came from exactly but he was there and sometimes that’s what’s important. He refereed in a very laid-back yet authoritative way. He had already taken a bit of grief from a couple of parents due to his shirt, and this helped to establish a relaxed tone to the game – a sort of negative charge. Fair play to him for being so relaxed and friendly, whoever he was.
Within a few moments of the game starting, Mason Ralph side-stepped a defender and clipped the ball into the top left corner. A goal from Connor Mulvaney soon followed, but Whitchurch began to fight back, prodding and probing in midfield to try to cultivate a meaningful rhythm to their play, but it didn’t work. Evan was on the bench in this half, as was Hayden Harris, who in a nonchalant and surly (yet ultimately well meaning) manner would convert four chances in the second half. Meanwhile, Whitchurch tried to salvage some hope and purpose from proceedings. ‘Where the fuck’s he come from?’ They had a really quick player who would suddenly emerge to scupper an attack, sprinting across the pitch in an effort, perhaps, to compensate for one or two of his less dynamic teammates. This showed great fortitude, and it should be emphasised that a scoreline of 12-0, while convincing, is also deceptive. There were aspects of Whitchurch’s play which militated against an even more devastating outcome, and these should be viewed with respect. A ten minute period in youth football can include 5 or 6 goals, perhaps as emotions become difficult to corral.
In the second half the surging waters of Wokingham’s attack – like the Thames governed by an unaccountable, thrusting and inexorable westward tide, or the Emmbrook abandoning the parameters of nature to shatter misconceived notions of its scale and potential destructiveness – collapsed the lingering dam of Whitchurch’s resistance, leading to a deluge of goals: liquid football. Hayden finished chance after chance, Kian Smith scored an absolute thunderbolt and with almost the last kick of the game, Evan curled a free-kick just inside the left post. It was great to see him score a free kick, as this is a strength he wasn’t able to develop at Bracknell last year because young Ronnie had priority.
As for Whitchurch, they could ponder, cogitate, move magnets around a magnetic board or hold a glass island post-mortem, tip tapping away on an ipad or tablet to try to impose some retrospective meaning on what transpired. Or they could find answers from a deeper source than the mind’s rationality, but how should they go about this? I wish them true success in their ongoing footballing pilgrimage.
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Caversham Trents Golds 1 Wokingham & Emmbrook Rangers 3 (Ralph 2, Webb)
‘They didn’t know where they were going, but there knew where they were wasn’t it.’ Wandering around Prospect Park, having dropped Evan off to walk with a friend, I did 3000 steps before eventually finding the pitch in a slight depression screened off by trees. The drive in to the park was very dodgy for a start, somehow resulting in being funnelled into a car boot sale. I could have displayed some unsaleable or fairly dubious items: Fulham shirts, empty Lucozade bottles, half-used ointments and grammar guides. I might as well have done, because the next half an hour was a passage of futility which brought me close to tears, to be honest. I checked the text directions: ‘From the main car park, follow the path down.’ This was a problem – which way? And how does the massive car boot sale car park relate to the main car park? ‘You will see a pitch on the right.’ On the right of where? ‘Go across the pitch.’ Well, the refs were checking studs and watches, communal prayers and team talks were over and the games were about to kick off…walking across a pitch could have incurred a fine or complaint to the league authorities from the taciturn of Tilehurst or the addled of Andover or whatever variety of the half dead were there. ‘Behind the trees there is another pitch’ – trees in every direction. ‘It’s fairly hidden from the path’…
The only strategy I could think of, as I knew we were supposed to be on Pitch 1, was to quickly ask a referee or volunteer if they knew where I needed to go. The first one said ‘Nightmare ennit. This is Pitch 1, I’m sure.’ I walked over to a guy beside the next pitch: ‘This is Pitch 1 mate – definitely.’ Options were limited now. I stopped pacing around and just accepted I’d have to go back to the car boot sale and maybe salvage something from there. Ambling along, I had one last scan of the park and realised there was actually only one significant path that ran through it and that the bigger portion of the park was indeed to the right of this path, though almost all of the pitches were to the left. Way over to the right was a significant group of oak trees and, just behind, a flash of orange. The game was obviously in progress, and I’d taken 35 minutes to locate it from the car park.
This was the first league game of the season and officially the first competitive game the team have ever played; they would now be playing for points and league positions, whereas in previous years league tables and records were only kept by the odd anorak parent. Caversham, a historic site of Christian pilgrimage and some well tended parks and gardens, as recognised as recently as 1770 in Thomas Whately’s Observations on Modern Gardening, is traditionally a place of Royalist sensibilities whereas Wokingham, attacked by Reading during the civil war, is generally Republican. I think it would be a mistake, though, to see today’s game as a recapitulation of that conflict. In fact, the parents were very quiet indeed – there were certainly no political or militaristic cries from those who crossed the river from Caversham or the flatlands from Wokingham to arrive in a field in Tilehurst at 8:30 am on a Saturday morning.
Instead, there seemed to be a quietly supportive energy surrounding the pitch. There was no-one shouting ‘Listen to the talk’, ‘You’re a muppet, lino’ or ‘We’ve gone quiet ent we boys’ – in fact, there was almost an other-wordly sense of calm. Games seem to alternate like that. Sometimes it feels like there’s something major brewing, as in the scene from Mike Bassett, England Manager when the England and Ireland teams arrive in an airport terminal building at the same time, and sometimes it feels like the brewing equipment just isn’t there. This was definitely in the latter category – Wokingham & Emmbrook played with a kind of nonchalance and assuredness on the ball, as if the voids in the pinball machine had been sealed for them by the Central Berkshire football gods, or something. Nearly everything they did worked, and nearly everything Caversham did faltered, but just slightly. It would seem almost unfair to single any Wokingham players out, but I would say that Kian Smith, returning after a season with the district team, dictated the tempo of the game brilliantly from defence, passing intelligently and driving forward with pace to catalyse attacks. Mason Ralph was also very lively up front, and without wishing to seem biased, new signings Harvey and Evan (both Fulham fans) linked up excellently in midfield before being substituted by spreadsheet at half-time. The coach recognised afterwards that the duo’s composure and range of passing were greatly missed in the second half and that he would have to think about re-evaluating the squad rotation policy in future weeks. That said, there were some excellent players on the bench, such as the marauding Connor Mulvaney, so perhaps equal game time for all is still the fairest compromise?
With two early goals from Mason Ralph, the game was seemingly over before it had really begun, though it has to be noted that defensively – midfield included – the team are far from a parked bus, with several recovery challenges suggesting that on a different day they may have been punished for hesitation and an element of sloppiness. Goalkeeper Leo Standing, though not quite the size and stature of Manuel Neuer, made some excellent saves and would have been a worthy man of the match if it wasn’t for young Ralph up front.
Overall, pre-match futility seemed to dissipate in the warmth of Tilehurst – and then again over toasties on the sun terrace opposite architectural salvage and an empty car park at the Costa del Showcase.
First half: Standing, Doyle, Uwannah, Newman, Smith, Saynor, Kimpton, Ralph, Ferguson-Newlove Subs: Mulvaney, Jackman, Webb
Second half: Standing, Doyle, Uwannah, Mulvaney, Jackman, Smith, Ralph, Ferguson-Newlove, Webb Subs: Kimpton, Saynor, Newman
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Wokingham & Emmbrook Oranges 1 Wokingham & Emmbrook Rangers 1 (Harris)
The first friendly of the season was way up at the top of Woosehill. If you read ‘History of the Ashridge Exchange’, a convoluted document describing the genesis of the A329(M), you will realise that the Woosehill Estate became the biggest cul-de-sac in Europe due to council refusal to allow traffic to flow to the precious roads surrounding it, such as Reading (too urban) and Barkham (too rural). The false promise of an interchange was the basis for development; If people want to live in Woosehill, they should be content to be marooned and semi-isolated from long-standing Wokingham residents.
The top of Woosehill is the only place where you can find a degree of meaning and perspective. You can do a bit of forest bathing, touching base with the earth beneath ferns and variegated pylons. Witness bunting and a royal standard fluttering over the Chestnut Park archipelago. On the side of Rainbow Community Centre is the slogan ‘Life is a circle; enjoy the journey’. Enjoy the existential roundabout, take the second exit up to the play park and sit on a revolving disc as the game commences.
This was Evan’s first game back with Wokingham after a year at Bracknell Town disrupted by flooding and early curtailment of the season for obvious reasons. He was placed in centre midfield, reunited with buccaneering leitwolf Connor Mulvaney, with whom he had previously played for four seasons, and Peter Crouch-style striker Hayden Harris. Rangers’ first and only goal was a reprise of a former move in which Evan floats a ball in for Hayden – who has an aerial threat uncommon in players of this age – to bury at the far post. Also returning was the excellent Kian Smith, who had spent last season representing the district team.
As the game developed it became scrappier, interspersed with phases of good passing from each team. Unfortunately, I was at fault for the Oranges’ equalising goal having volunteered to be linesman (activity not posted to Strava to be picked up by the ‘Strava Wankers’ Twitter account, as happened last time). I spotted what was widely deemed to be a clear offside, but hesitated and didn’t raise the flag. The ball was soon in the net and it was too late. That’s why parents don’t generally volunteer as assistant referees – there’s enough material to intermittently niggle away at the mind all day as it is.
Woosehill’s ‘Life’s a circle; enjoy the journey’ is better, in my view, than ‘Discover Freemasonry’ or ‘Scouting and freemasonry: two parallel organisations’, as advertised outside the town hall in Wokingham. You may not be able to get out of Woosehill, other than via a fantastic network of concrete footpaths and woodland crossings, but perhaps you could also question why you might want to. If you do find a way out, rather than the Ashridge Interchange and the abandoned IDR, which is now a series of car parks leading to the library, you will now find a new road immediately parallel to the A329(M): the relief of the relief road, with houses alongside and little islands of winding paths carefully measured so that developers can advertise ‘the best in country living’ on 5 km of spaghetti trails leading to dead ends on every side and back to where you started.
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Away from Imber Court
Drink was flowing by the River Ember
under placid skies above Island Barn Reservoir
where The Bell was surrounded by Alsatians
scattered on burnt grass in black and umber,
fresh from the water to kettle their masters.North of the Esher Sewage Treatment Works
in sterile upmarket bars away from Imber Court,
where the only reason to live is just beyond Seething Wells
to the east, the Met Police gathered on San Miguel
to march through Molesey with tazers and tannoysbeyond Queen Elizabeth Storage, escorting themselves
to a local derby at Walton & Hersham, keeping the frisks
in-house, removing each others’ bottle tops
for water filled by Our Lady of Lourdes.Will we be stranded at Walton-on-Thames
by the Engine River’s low diesel water course,
or cross ourselves over to D’Oyly Carte Island
to revise some police standards in cooling air,wafting minor chords into barbecue smoke
or Stadbury fires off Weybridge Landing.In our absence of geography and support,
no-one knows we’re here, or likes us – we don’t care –
wasting our resources in the shade of diseased willow
in among the backwaters, under a sun flare.We could go home or follow the Godalming navigation
all the way down to the boarding kennels
of Peper Harrow in drifting daylight
over Hurtmore and Shackleford, or arrive
at an obscure part of inland Hampshire – Frith End
or Wrecclesham, wait at Birdworld and hitchhike
up the A31 and A3 to cross the Orbital for home.The Met Police have neither a geographical base nor supporters (well only very, very few), yet manage to compete consistently at a high level. They have a local derby with Walton and Hersham, but I wondered what this would be like, considering the lack of fans. It may be a rare occasion whereby police effectively escort themselves, their own hardcore ‘firm’ from Thames Ditton through Molesey to Walton-on-Thames, aided by Alsatians and police vans. Then afterwards, how would they relax? I pictured them gathering on a Thames island for a singsong, and maybe following the Godalming navigation down to an obscure part of Hampshire…police officers need a relaxing day off before crossing back over the M25.
Wilderspool Causeway 