Wilderspool Causeway

Evan’s first evening game (and therefore my first pre-match pint before one of his games – at The Jolly Farmer in Hurst) merits a short report before the league season starts in two weeks’ time. Reaching this local derby required a minor feat of fleet fingers on the SatNav; you have to know your Warfield from your Wargrave and negotiate some eccentric Bracknell roundabouts such as Frampton Bridge, Quelm Park and County Lane. If you get to Sheppee, you’ve gone too far. If you get to the Isle of Sheppey, you’ve gone way too far: all the way past Maidstone and over the Kingsferry Bridge.

The dilemma – for me if not Evan – has been whether he should stay at Wokingham where he was happy and the team were doing well, or move to Bracknell Town who play in a tough division of the East Berks league and have a mini academy set-up within the club. It’s not a decision I am ‘at peace’ with, but Evan has opted to move to Bracknell and play alongside Ronny, Solly, Oli, Seb, Ted, Ashton, Jacob, Sam, Josh, Josh and Lucas.

The pitch, bordered by dark banks of trees in the shadow of a dipping sun, was by far the biggest that any of the lads would ever have played on. Though this was supposedly a friendly, hefty challenges were flying in with regularity, and at one point Evan was studded in the thigh as he got to the ball before a Whitegrove lad. Lots of people gathered around, but this didn’t sit well with one Whitegrove player: ‘Oi, give him some space! Don’t crowd him.’ The first half was extremely tight and ended 0-0. With Evan playing left midfield, the consensus among the coaches seemed to be that he was doing well defensively, but that they would rather he worried the opposition rather than be worried by them. In the next phase of the game, this became a reality as he won the corner which led to the first goal – a lovely whipped cross/shot from Ronny – and was involved in some great attacking interplay down the left channel. Bracknell began to move the ball around at pace, judging the offside trap excellently to play weighted through balls beyond the Whitegrove defence, leading to a final score of 3-1. Evan has settled into the group very well, but I’m still unsure about the move. There’s another friendly on Saturday before the season starts for real a week after that, requiring many a trek through Binfield, Warfield, Ascot, Sunnymeads and beyond.

A cautionary note: this includes many of the typical circles of tournament hell, including captivity, penalties, heartache etc and as such is not supposed to reflect  negatively on the host club. Organisation was excellent, pitches were immaculate and beer was available. But still…

To start with, as mentioned above, it’s one of those tournaments in which you’re taken captive. Having already paid to enter the competition, you are then expected to pay to be funnelled into the area where the games take place. There was no alternative route in or out of the park. To exit on foot during the morning meant sneaking past a group of about 8 ladies from the Staines/Egham/Englefield Green area – fine, but not ideal. In return for paying for captivity, you receive an informative and well-designed programme which outlines the schedule for the day, the rules of the competition and some heavy messages for scouts. Basically, they too are captive but they’re also not allowed to talk to anyone; they have to go to the ‘control tent’ so they can be monitored at close quarters by tournament officials. Also, wherever you went, the following sign was always there to meet you: ‘These are kids. This is a game. The coaches are volunteers. The referees are only human.’ Of course, everyone agrees with this. It would be hard not to. No-one thinks ‘These are adults. This is not a game. The coaches are paid. The referees are extra-terrestrials.’ Compared to the 80s, when there were no rules at all regarding parental conduct (for example, I remember fights breaking out on the touchline at Hanover Way in Windsor – not ‘posh’ btw), this sort of ethos is very welcome. But is it also a very subtle form of mind control?

1st Circle: Limb(o)ering Up

Elm Grove Wildcats 0 Wokingham & Emmbrook 0

We arrived in Englefield Green at 8:30 on a Saturday morning to play a team from Hersham – great. Having travelled through Bracknell and Ascot, we could have gone via Virginia Water but ended up skirting Windsor town centre for a depressing drive through Old Windsor. If you can be in Old Windsor and not be depressed, then well done – the external world has  no bearing on you. I can be around the Great Park, though nostalgia is quite powerful, but other parts of Windsor trouble me as I remember two types of thug, and not much in between. There are the over-privileged, Jeremy Clarkson type thugs and the more ordinary/reactionary thugs – it’s probably a good coping mechanism to be one of these types. A theory is that this is an overreaction to  daily reminders of insignificance. In the presence of natural grandeur, it’s good to feel small – of course. In the presence of inherited human power and privilege, along with widespread total acceptance among everyone in the town that some human beings are inherently more valuable than others – not so much. Anyway, the game was fairly pleasant and low key. There was a lack of intensity,  although we did get a penalty in the second half when the buccaneering Stefan Webb got in front of a defender and was mercilessly chopped to the floor. Unfortunately the penalty was woefully sliced high and wide  under a low blanket of cloud obscuring the Canderel sun.

2nd Circle: abandon all hope.

Brunswick 5 Wokingham & Emmbrook 0

This was dire. Perestroika needed immediately. There was one funny moment though. Ryan’s granddad turned and said ‘I’m thinking conceptually from now on. Day to day matters bore me.’

(The tale of this game had a heartening coda later on, though.)

 

3rd Circle: fighting to the surface of the Styx.

Woking Cougars 0 Wokingham & Emmbrook 2 (Harris 2)

After the Brunswick debacle, Coach Justin took decisive action, calmly removing the team from parental distractions to a far corner of the field in order to work on some basic training routines. We were not playing with the intensity required for tournament football. Justin is a calm, mild mannered and cerebral coach who played to a good standard, including a spell at  Forest Green Rovers in Gloucestershire, but he said the key change needed was to be aggressive rather than tentative. This was thought-through rather than expressed in the heat of the moment; this allowed the tone of his communication to remain entirely positive as he held back from expressing frustration when it would have been pointless to do so – when we were 3-0 down in the preceding game, for example. If criticism had been levelled then, confidence may have been dented beyond repair and I’m not sure such a strong and coherent performance against Woking Cougars would have been possible. It was a pretty one-sided game, in the end, including two decisive close range finishes from striker Hayden Harris and a determined, composed effort all round. But with only one win so far, was the tournament all but over?

 

4th Circle: Treachery. Hosts consigned to icy Englefield Green waters.

Manorcroft United 0 Wokingham & Emmbrook 1 (Harris)

The last group match was a must-win game for both teams. Our players would have to overcome Manorcroft on the pitch and block out the noise generated by a relatively large contingent of loud adults (about 20 or so) on home territory. It was a tense game but Evan and William in defence were composed  and determined while the attacking players generated good momentum going forward. But a goal was essential, and even then we could only hope to qualify for the next round as one of the best third placed teams. While we wanted freedom, we didn’t want to be ‘sent’ to it – we wanted it to be the result of natural causes, such as the tournament ending and it being time to go. With 3 or 4 minutes to go, the ball fell to Hayden at the edge of the box who slammed it into the top of the net, ushering in an intermediate state in which we’d have to wait for word from the control tent as to our destiny.

5th Circle: Penalties

Brunswick 0 Wokingham & Emmbrook 0

Oddly, the draw for the quarter final paired us with Brunswick, the outfit from Fulham who thrashed us in the second game. Hayden’s family  had arrived mob- handed from Bracknell, whereas the Brunswick players must have come by minibus – no-one from the Chelsea area of Fulham, where the club’s based,  had roused themselves to support their young. This made the character and maturity displayed by the players even more impressive. In contrast to the group game, Wokingham & Emmbrook dominated the match from start to finish. The ball was hardly in our half, and we were untroubled, making the earlier game so hard to understand. Their keeper and defence was impressive, though, and we just couldn’t quite find a goal. As the game wore on, extra-time seemed likely. Evan had to leave the pitch, suffering with a recurrence of the asthma that had kept him off school earlier in the week. The dilemma, though, was that he’s generally a set-piece specialist and would be required again if the game went to penalties. Should he take his inhaler and go back on, or sit it out and let others take responsibility? We had missed a penalty in the first game – shockingly – so the omens weren’t necessarily great. Then again, the turnaround had been incredible. Tension seemed to double with every minute, even though rationally everyone knew it didn’t matter and it was only a game and all that. Eventually, the final whistle went, signalling penalties. I decided – rightly or wrongly – to encourage Evan to get back in the mix and put his hand up to take a penalty. He was given the fifth, and potentially most important, penalty. We were up first and William, our calm centre back who played like Tomas Kalas in the quarter final, stepping in front of attackers to win the ball,  stepped up and side footed it into the net. Brunswick then scored their first penalty – an excellent strike into the top corner. Our second penalty was smashed against the bar; Brunswick then dispatched their second. Hayden stepped up to take our second penalty – and scored. Again, Brunswick scored their third with no problem whatsoever: 2-3 after 3 penalties each. Our 4th – a great strike – unfortunately hit the post. Still 2-3.  Brunswick had to score their 4th penalty to win. ‘Keeper Leo saves it, meaning that Evan’s penalty had to be scored if we were to remain in the tournament. I was providing live updates to absent parents so missed his long walk to the spot. He normally scores penalties quite easily though. He struck it well and with composure towards the top corner and immediately dissolved into tears as the ‘keeper tipped it round the post to knock us out. With emotions raised to such a level, we left with the question we had at the start: what was the point of all this? It’s good if it’s a learning experience, but awful if you feel you’ve let everyone down. Taking the 5th penalty, that feeling is inevitably heightened. It was essential to quickly counteract the idea that a single person had let the team down. Unbelievably, a Brunswick player, instead of celebrating with his teammates, did the bulk of that work himself with such impressive maturity. He walked straight up to Evan and gave him a full on hug followed by a motivational talk. In Evan’s words he said ‘Look at me. Look at me. You came back from losing 5-0 to us earlier to being the best team just now and you were one of the most important players. Don’t think you’ve let your team down.’ Unbelievable from the lad and so appreciated. We were finally free to go, but stayed at least an hour longer over £3.50 cans of Doom Bar and a cathartic  filmed post-mortem interview between Evan and former coach Michael who had watched on encouragingly and put the whole thing into perspective.

 

 

 

 

A strong planetary breeze affected today’s game against Woodley United. Technically it was a ‘fresh breeze’, which sounds gentle but is actually between ‘moderate’ and ‘strong’ on the official charts. Whatever terminology you want to use, it felt strong enough to make training plans all but useless. This was just as well because at the end of Tuesday’s session Coach Peter knelt down to check the players’ understanding of what they had just learned. He was met with total silence. Eventually Connor decided to take a punt with ‘Erm…passing, shooting, tackling, movement.’ This was not the right answer. Sensing this, other players chimed in to help. One ventured ‘Time’ and another went with ‘Space’.

We were playing a team we had beaten a few weeks ago and whose manager was a compact and slightly mischievous Phil Daniels type figure. Thankfully we had our own characters in the team who could contend with anything the elements, the opposition, the manager or his coterie could throw at us. Notable in this regard was Josh Dance, who arrived as if fresh from a meeting of the Lower Earley Psychedelic Society, with an outlandish coat and hat combo in stark contrast to the official orange and black livery of Wokingham & Emmbrook FC. He wasn’t even at training, so would be carrying neither the psychic baggage of incomprehension nor the subconscious lessons learned through practice. He would follow the beat of his own drum, but ironically become the best example of what the other players couldn’t articulate: the ability to get back behind the ball quickly when we lost it and pass it decisively when we found it.

In the first half we were against the wind, and the Woodley manager obviously felt ‘Confidence is a preference’ and encouraged his players to belt the ball into the stratosphere. On one of these occasions it seemed to take a month long vacation before dipping into our half, bouncing and looping over the keeper and into the goal. We tried to defend against this style and keep the ball on the carpet as much as possible, but who could honestly blame Woodley for working with the elements?

At half-time, Peter went for it. It was a kind of Warnock/De Niro/Ferguson mix with a Scouse twist: ‘Youse can win this game. Youse are going to win this game but you have to make it happen. The wind is not going to gift you this game…’. He then went around the team with a quick hard-hitting precis of their efforts so far. They could stay there and get the shit kicked out of them or they could fight their way back – to the light.

But the second half started with indecision and a lachrymose defence. Woodley scored an outstanding goal as they worked the ball down the right before whipping it in for their central midfielder to score an excellent volley: 2-0.

As this point, Peter’s motivational capacities went into overdrive; Connor was playing right-back but he needed him to make gut-busting runs forward. Ciara, at centre-back, was having the game of her life, regularly surging forward 20 yards into midfield to win the ball against boys nearly twice her size; she was absolutely superb and without a shadow of a doubt worthy of the player of the match award she received at the end; Mark and Jack were fighting meaningfully in midfield and the whole team were trying to shift the momentum in our favour. But despite the effort, balls flew wide and over the bar rather than at the goal, and we were always susceptible to a counter-attack as we committed players forward.

It seemed like it was going to be ‘one of those games’, but such was our determination that  faint hopes of revival couldn’t quite be extinguished. Evan – out of action due to illness this week – came on for a second half cameo and though he struggled with the pace of the game, whipped in a quality ball with about 5 minutes to go. Josh, perhaps resurgent as he looked forward to a restorative gong bath back at the centre, or a visit to the Crystal Sound Lounge on Carshalton Way,  glanced the ball into the corner to score only the fourth header in the team’s history. It was so well deserved, but would it lead to another? Time was running out, and Woodley were no mugs.

Then, seeming disaster. Woodley sought to record a riposte in short order and committed players forward in an attempt to compound their lead. The ball bounced around in the box, and indefatigable Ozzy in goal was left 3 on 1. He saved the first strike, parried the rebound and then sought to claw the ball away from the line after a Woodley player thought he’d scored. The ball was then kicked out of Ozzy’s hand/hands (was it one or two?) and into the goal. I must admit here that I thought a 3-1 Woodley win would be unfair so sought to influence the ref as much as possible. ‘It was kicked out of his hands ref!’ (I really didn’t know, but it could have been). The ref said no goal and it was back to a goal kick but with time running out.

In the final throes of the game, Connor – uncomprehending at the end of training – threw himself forward but his skill seemed thwarted by Woodley’s defence, who wisely gathered in central positions on the edge of the box. Mark fired an excellent half volley just over the bar. The Woodley goalkeeper took as much time as he possibly could over every manouevre, at one point smashing the ball as far as he could into the recesses of Sol Jol Park when it was our ball (there are no yellow cards at this level, so he could effectively do what he liked). One of those games? Not quite. In a final attack, with the box packed, Connor translated his dad’s instructions to seize the moment into a lunge through whatever was in his way to connect with the ball and send it with a deflection off the keeper into the top corner to earn a draw with all but the last kick of the game.

From the low-lying fog of Winnersh to the crisp afternoon sunlight of Maiden Erlegh, yesterday, to a dank Sol Joel park this morning, Evan played two games in as many days, emerging from both on the winning side after an assured defensive display in each game. In the school game he was slightly reticent as the majority of players were from the year above, but this simplified his play and made it more economical. That’s easier to practise on Astro-turf or 4G than on the kinds of pitches available in Earley at this time of year. It feels poignant whenever we play there, as my friend Geoff used to live on Mays Lane and had an association with Earley St. Peter school which, along with the church, is tucked just behind the park’s Jubilee Pavilion and is clearly visible from the pitch.

In terms of spectators, we were relatively mob-handed today, with Josh bringing his parents, his brother and a set of grandparents (all Arsenal fans), Hayden accompanied by his giant of a dad who describes himself as a ‘man with no filter’ (just to give an example, he accidentally mentioned to me at the end that the opposition manager was a ‘f***in’ bell end’. This was during the post-match debrief and not entirely out of earshot of the team), Mark blessed by the presence of Uncle Clive, his mum and a small dog, Connor with his Bristol-dwelling Liverpudlian grandma in support, along with his mum and sister, and Thanasie and Ozzy both with steadfast parents to cheer them on – one Greek and one, if I remember rightly, from somewhere near the Pevensey Levels.

Last time we played them, the Reading manager was relatively anti-social but today he had quite a positive vibe about him to begin with, coming up before the game to ask if we could spot any grass on the pitch. The game was relatively even, with both teams trying to string some passes together and make the best of the conditions, but Wokingham & Emmbrook were the more clinical of the two, taking the lead after Connor burst down the wing and squared the ball to Hayden who side-footed it home with marginally less lugubriousness than usual.

Evan was reading the game with relative comfort at centre back, but while Reading City were able to play some good passing football, they lacked a cutting edge or a leader: someone who could change the tempo of the play and take the sting out of our high energy attacking players and midfield scamperers. Whatever the line up these days, we seem to always have  two or three players who make a nuisance of themselves through what could be termed ‘generalised endeavour’; they rarely make a single decisive contribution, but are always in amongst the action simply as frustrating presences. This often opens the door for our more clinical players to find greater space in the final third. I wonder if a parallel can be drawn to other fields? Are there people who are underestimated because they always put a seemingly misguided and uneconomical shift in, rarely do anything spectacular yet still ‘put themselves about’, wittingly or unwittingly allowing others to flourish? Does this mean that these people flourish without realising it?

I remember going to watch an interview with the author Richard Ford in which the interviewer could have been interpreted as a rambling fool. His questions were convoluted and he generally seemed to talk too much. I overheard someone questioning his style, implying that he was unjustly taking some of the limelight for himself. But could this have been a deliberate strategy, putting the author at ease and giving him time to formulate responses while questions consistently edged into the realm of wittering? Afterwards when we went to get our novels signed, Richard Ford said ‘John’s such a great guy to talk to.’ The interviewee probably didn’t want short, open questions and vast tracts of time in which to answer them. Likewise, it may not be ‘good’ to deliberately create a hazard when you see a learner driver, yet my driving instructor used to take me to nob around in High Wycombe or on Oxford Road, deliberately seeking hazards. His voice still haunts me at times: ‘Get it done’ (gear change), ‘Pick another one’ (not that gear), ‘Where’s that left foot?’ (he liked it resting on the floor for some reason) and ‘I can’t teach you anything more about this – you’re going to have to learn it yourself (negotiating the Black Boy roundabout). I just had to persevere with some generalised endeavour until it clicked – an underrated idea?
By half-time it was 2-0 after Connor played a perfect diagonal ball through to Mark who found himself in acres of space to slot it under the ‘keeper.

The second half was scrappy, with the only goal being a penalty after a fairly soft foul. A few more fouls and very minor scraps occurred, but the one the Reading manager found unforgivable, causing him to lecture the ref at the end and omit to shake our hands, was committed by Ozzy who while racing a player to the ball decided to push him in the back rather than attempt a valid tackle. It was a foul, but not a sickening act of aggression or anything like that. Coach Pete even turned to their manager and said ‘Yes, that’s a good shout. You’re right. I’ve told him not to do that.’ This wasn’t enough, apparently. It seemed to fit the coach’s narrative to see us as inveterate foulers, a poisonous club from top to bottom. There’s a – now slightly overused  – poster going around these days to the effect that ‘The coaches are volunteers, the refs are human beings, the parents are doing their best and it’s all for fun anyway. It’s not the Simod or World Cup Final .’ The sentiment is true. If the ref didn’t see an incident, or perceived it differently to you, how can you expect a certain decision? Leave them alone.

So overall this was a good performance in tricky conditions, and everyone just needs to chill out – apart from those who can’t or won’t chill out, and who bust their guts  uneconomically and to no discernible effect.

AFC Whitchurch 1 Wokingham and Emmbrook 9 (Harris 3, Saynor 2, Mulvaney 2, Xanthoulis, Parry)  January 5th, Solomon Jol Park

The new year started with a ridiculous game against AFC Whitchurch from the West Country. They are maybe more suited to an aquatic lifestyle or the slowly unfolding  intrigues of rural life than a 40 minute football match on land – churned up, at that – in East Reading. They need freedom: how can you condense your experience into the narrow parameters of a football pitch in restricted time?

The manager looked like Louis Balfour, the proprietor of the jazz club in ‘The Fast Show.’ He was a very chilled out guy but his team’s offerings were perhaps too ‘nice’ for what was required in the situation they were in. Their goalkeeper, though, was an absolute legend, vocally. After scoring a goal, our surly striker remained surly, as if celebrating would be beneath him: ‘You don’t really seem to be enjoying yourself’, said the keeper. This was perfect: a little bit of needle to remind our player that he hadn’t really won and that nothing could be done to damage the goalie’s morale. Even with his own players, instead of tantrums the banter was good-humoured: ‘Can we start kicking the ball the other way please?’

Once the score reached 6-0, an odd and problematic rule came into effect which permits the losing team  to field an extra player. In Louis Balfour’s case, though, they were no extra boat people to field so Coach Peter ambled up to offer him one of our subs. This wasn’t received as a ‘nice’ idea. ‘Don’t patronise me with your charity’ seemed to be the unspoken thrust of it, but he did reluctantly accept not one but two of our players and was then proved correct in his concerns as the plan backfired monumentally with us scoring even more goals as confusion reigned in the Whitchurch camp. Perhaps this was just a foggy beginning to the new year for Whitchurch and they will soon find some footballing  buoyancy to match the spirit of their more-than-psychologically-afloat goalkeeper.

Maidenhead 2  Wokingham & Emmbrook 1 (Harris) January 12th, Solomon Jol Park

This was one to forget. Also, there’s something about Maidenhead – the town, the people, the idea – that I find difficult to engage with.

Our efforts weren’t helped by forgetting to bring one of our players to the game. Coach Peter scrambled back to Woosehill to collect him in time for kick-off, but in the meantime I had supervised a shambolic warm up. The balls were flying all over the place and I wasn’t really able to rein it all in. They just seemed intent on slight, mischievous non co-operation: nothing you could quite put your finger on. We therefore had a very sluggish and unsuccessful start to the game.

In contrast to the Whitchurch manager, the Maidenhead ‘allenatore’ – with his headband and flowing locks – was an extremely energetic fellow, with a constant torrent of advice and gesticulatory energy radiating from his being.

We came back from 2-0 down with a rare headed goal and were ascendant when the ref brought the game to a close with brutal finality.

Centre Skills 2  Wokingham & Emmbrook 0  BYDL Cup Quarter Final (Solomon Jol Park, January 19th)

Centre Skills – what does that name even mean? I assume there’s a centre somewhere, presumably in Tilehurst, at which people display skills. But isn’t that like naming a road ‘Driving Surface’ or a school ‘Educational Setting’?  Centre Skills teams are very highly competent and clearly receive good coaching, but in some cases had come to represent some of the more unsavoury aspects of the game. For example, one of our teams refused to play them ever again after a Wokingham player was clattered into the boards at the Goals Centre in Woodley; their coaches would call out phrases like ‘That’s it, hit them harder’ – the teams were made up of seven-year-olds. With this in mind, the identity of our opponents was shrouded in secrecy until 5 minutes before kick-off. We didn’t want the psychological collywobbles to kick in ahead of time.

In fact, though, our fears were totally unfounded. They were a good side, as would be expected at this stage in the competition, but more importantly they could hardly have been friendlier. There seems to have been a cultural shift, or maybe it was just one toxic guy causing all the problems before. I did notice that club founder Michael Boahene, once of Reading FC and a reputedly excellent coach, arrived in the second half to watch and offer some coaching; perhaps he circulates around as many Centre Skills teams as possible to cultivate a consistent atmosphere and approach across the club. After the game, their parents gathered around our team to say what a good game it was and how well we played.  As for that, we could have played until the sun had ceased its internal thermonuclear reactions, all student debt was void and John Redwood was finally out of Wokingham: we still wouldn’t have scored. The curtain could have been brought down on mankind as the sun dissolved, leaving nothing but Sports Direct to form another big bang, and we would only have rattled the bar; it was just one of those games.

Reading City 1 Wokingham & Emmbrook 3 (Mulvaney 2, Harris) January 26th, Woodford Park

Speaking of teams with unfathomable names, this one takes the biscuit for obvious reasons. The Democratic Socialist Republic of Reading would at least be meant ironically. How can you justify a thought process which leads to naming a club ‘Reading City’? Before the game, I approached their manager as there was a bit of confusion as to which pitch we were on: ‘Yeah, what?’ was the response. That was it – I wanted to beat this silly team and their mope of a coach. But we’re told, these days, that’s it’s really important to ‘breathe’ so I responded in friendly tones and went off in search of the ‘player of the match’ wristband that had to be collected from a league official: a man, perhaps, who had graduated magna cum laude with a degree in Amiable Delay Tactics from the Federal Polytechnic of Lower Pangbourne and was now Emeritus Professor of Wristband Distribution at The University of Central Fifield, but the problem was that though we’d never met, he began to open up to me about recent serious health issues. He said ‘I’ve probably spoken to you before. I’ve just had major ____________. I wanted to grab the wristband, calm my view of Reading City and get back for kick-off but was now drawn into a saga. What’s more, I was then offered a free bacon roll while I listened, which I couldn’t turn down.

The opening part of the game is therefore a bit of a mystery, but it was still goalless when I arrived on the touchline. The game was close but Connor soon snatched at a chance to score, lofting the ball home with a left-footed volley. Evan was in a withdrawn role, playing as sweeper to calmly side-step the Reading forwards, keep possession and play some incisive balls forward.

Reading ‘City’ equalised after an excellent through ball – Pete and I instinctively clapped this and praised their midfielder. Did this soften the Reading manager’s heart? As the second half progressed, he seemed increasingly agitated but that could have been deceptive; he could have been evolving as a person on the inside. He even had a little pop at the ref at one point – something which is absolutely taboo at this level.

The game was tight, but we edged in front thanks to an excellent Hayden Harris free-kick. He was still relatively surly, but I’m not sure he quite fits Evan’s post-match description of a diva: ‘a diva is someone who’s given a small doughnut but cries because they wanted a big doughnut.’ That said, he will sometimes drop his head even after he’s scored a goal. From his perspective, he wanted to score a ‘better’ goal. From my perspective, a goal is a goal and it borders on arrogance to classify success as failure. Coach Peter won’t hear a word of that: Hayden’s disappointed in himself because he has high standards. But if you’re that self-critical, won’t you also be instinctively frustrated with others? That’s my thinking, but I suppose the jury’s out.

We soon scored another and Reading City struggled to regain a foothold  in the game. Their manager approached at the end, shook hands and said ‘Well done. The better team won’: a nice balm for the emotional frost nip of our first meeting.

 

 

Bracknell is not the most accessible place to run to, or the easiest place to leave. If you need to go for a run and complete one of your final Christmas purchases, though, but don’t want to drive through traffic, one of your options is to trot over there and back, culminating in being caught on one of the embankments of the Coppid Beach Roundabout, sandwiched between the A329(M) slip road and a muddy access route to nowhere, entangled in barbed wire and thorn bushes while hanging on to a tree so as not to slip onto the carriageway.

I started off, as usual, running along Old Forest Road with the motorway to my left across the fields and the dismal industrial units of Toutley Road straight ahead. This road now merges into a new road (Queens Road – note the lack of apostrophe) which leads to Twyford Road and the entrance to Cantley Park. Another option would normally be Bell Foundry Lane, but this is closed ‘except for access’ as all the land around it has been sold off for the construction of unaffordable homes (UH).

‘Except for access’ wouldn’t normally be a deterrent as you could access the road in order to leave it again at the other end. It looked pretty hazardous though, so I chose a route alongside the intensely waterlogged goalmouths of Cantley Park to a dog walkers’ lane leading to Wiltshire Road. Incidentally, part of Wokingham was once considered to be in Wiltshire rather than Berkshire: Cross Street outside The Ship used to be a boundary between the counties.

Wiltshire Road then merges with Warren House Road which eventually leads to The Warren, a sort of upmarket chain pub with little character. It’s the kind of place which has muted green paint on exposed wood as if to honour some kind of consensus nobody remembers being party to. Instead of turning towards The Warren, though, I continued to Keephatch Road, running on  driveways to avoid the inevitable dog walking couple who somehow become more than the sum of their parts, slowing and stopping at confusing angles while doing little to constrain the animal. Once at the end of Keephatch, I opted to run down Binfield Road, a lovely country road generally untroubled by traffic or building work. However, at the A329(M) bridge, this route was blocked with unmistakable finality by a high fence and a sign which simply said ‘road closed’. Turning back, I followed Binfield Road down to its junction with London Road, between St Crispin’s and The Three Frogs.

Crossing London Road, I decided to run down Priest Avenue. When doing this, don’t make the mistake of turning down Froghall Drive – Wokingham’s Bermuda Triangle: houses seem to bar access to a lake at the far end and once you realise that, you’ve lost time you won’t be able to recover. Priest Avenue, though, leads directly to Waterloo Road and away from Wokingham’s gravitational field. Ordinarily I would turn right towards Ludgrove, but this time turned left and immediately over the railway line onto a country road past Oakwood, a climbing centre with a Christian twist, and onto Peacock Lane.

You reach Bracknell quickly from here, as evident by an awful lot of UH and some contrived areas of ‘Open Space’. Any little patch of greenery is marked by a railing and a sign to tell you it’s there. Pretty soon, you see the Fujitsu building – a pleasing landmark – and it doesn’t take long to reach it, with a dilemma on your hands: do you just keep going into the wilderness of Wildridings, through Bill Hill Bronze Age Barrow, do you look left and hope there’s a way to somewhere meaningful through the gigantic network of Waitrose buildings or do you nip down onto a secluded, fenced-off path alongside the A3095? To find your way through Wildridings would be an absolute nightmare, but the secluded path and the Waitrose depots aren’t really enticing options either. In the end, I went down onto the path and upped the pace a bit for a kilometre or two, emerging from the huge underpass of the Twin Bridges roundabout to see a large Morrison’s sign which indicated the far end of The Peel Centre.

Sports Direct purchase secured, it was now 2 p.m. and I needed to be back in Emmbrook by 3:30 to facilitate a trip to Sainsbury’s in Winnersh to pick up some things for Iris before 4. However, I now had a bag and my muscles had ‘seized up a bit’ or at least felt too jaded now to be fired up to run and swing the bag around. I therefore didn’t run or jog back but opted for a fast walk. I had to slightly improvise the route though, as I didn’t want to end up entangled in a hazardous thicket on a verge of the Coppid Beach Roundabout. I knew that something like this would happen if I ended up near Amen Corner, John Nike or The Coppid Beach Hotel. I therefore decided to go back via the Binfield area, vaguely near to Warren House/Twyford Road and the beginning of the journey.

Walking as quickly as I could, I soon reached Newbold College with its symbol of an open bible with a flame rising from the pages. Whereas Wokingham’s faith expressions seem predominantly CofE, Bracknell’s seem adapted to sometimes wild effect. Perhaps you have to adapt in unusual ways to gain mystical traction here. Turning down Foxley Lane, I intended to go cross country back to the Keephatch type area. Taking another left down ‘Murrell Hill Lane’, I asked an American where the path led. He said ‘all the way to the main road – the 329’. With him being American and saying ‘main road’, I assumed he meant the A329(M) on the other side of the Coppid Beach area and that there’d be an overpass or way to safely cross it. Why I assumed this, I don’t know as it clearly wasn’t what he’d said, and the only place to safely cross the A329(M) would’ve been via Binfield Road – the one I’d been barred access to earlier. The more I walked down this ‘Murrell Hill Lane’ thing, the more I wondered if I was going back in the direction I’d come from.

This proved to be the case when I got on the London Road – the ‘329’ – near The Coppid Beach Hotel: exactly the scenario I wanted to avoid. With the time constraint, there was nothing for it but to press on and cross the roundabout. I’d done it before, but couldn’t remember how. As you approach it, you have the option to go up an elevated residential road. Right at the end of this, overlooking the roundabout, is Coppid Beach House and a sign saying ‘public footpath’. You couldn’t see where the path would end, but it should have been obvious, what with the dual carriageway and large roundabout beneath it. What’s more, the turf wasn’t exactly conducive to walking – it was the light brown, squelchy stuff bordered by green and darker brown which looks flat and innocuous until it gives way beneath you as you step on it. In the back of my mind, I remembered I’d asked my mum for some new running trainers so was hoping this could be my current pair’s last outing. If I retraced my steps, I may have found a safer way to cross the roundabout, but would definitely have missed the 3:30 deadline.

Slip sliding in the mud, I therefore edged towards the littered verge of the dual carriageway and stepped over some barbed wire to edge my way down the thorny bank, keeping an eye to the right for cars flying around the corner. I then grabbed a non thorny tree so as not to slip, and tried to keep my centre of gravity low in case that happened. After a little while I got down onto the side of the road and over it to the vast and peaceful concrete centre of the roundabout. If you’ve ever tried to access St Anne’s Manor from here though, you’ll know there’s a little more to do. You then have to walk along a very narrow grass bank which drops off into undergrowth; when a bus or lorry passes, stand still and brace yourself for the afterwaft. Once at St Anne’s Manor though,  a path appears again and you just have to press on past a lot of UH around Loch Fyne and stomp back to Wokingham.

As with its faith expressions, Bracknell’s interpretation of what people are looking for in new housing seems unusual, bordering on the bizarre at times. As a ‘new town’,  perhaps there’s a sense that they can just let go. One of the new developments looks like a multi-storey car-park on a major roundabout and another – called ‘Blu living’ or something – looks like a student halls of residence with a ‘fresh-air social nucleus’ in a development that ‘encourages growth and prosperity.’ Eh? They admit their attempts at social engineering, welcoming ‘ambitious executives’ while ‘deterring the less welcome.’ Once in Wokingham town centre, it was a case of taking every shortcut I knew (Cross Street, Rose Street, Rose Walk) to get onto Glebelands, Milton and then Matthewsgreen Road for some urgent strides home.

 

 

‘If you’re leaving please still say goodbye and can you leave me my Silver Jubilee mug?’
Cups, mugs, bowls, saucers and flotillas of cupcakes floating away after washed out picnics in 2012, the ‘keep calm and carry on’ brigade claiming that sitting out in the rain celebrating the monarchy demonstrated ‘blitz spirit’: these are some of the images that come to mind if ‘jubilee’ is mentioned. It’s somehow seen as ‘very British’ and commendable to sit around in abject misery.

G: ‘Who are we playing?’
Me: ‘Purley Jubilee Lions’
G: ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

The ‘G’ here is Gareth, friend and Brentford fan in his cold and groggy Saturday morning form. He was also a player donor, loaning us his son Elliot from the Wokingham Satsumas. The problem today is that we were 3 players down going into Round 3 of the cup. We also borrowed Kian and Ryan (whose names said together sound identical to that of former Egham lecturer Kiernan Ryan) from Wokingham Rangers. To make matters worse, Ciara Butler reported a feeling of indisposition early in the morning; she would be missing too. With manager Pete away in Kent, I was in sole charge and would have to admit that while quiet and attentive in the team talk, the players seemed uncomprehending of my messages. How do you give a team talk to 9 or 10 year olds which truly expresses the nuances of how you want them to play? It’s easy to end up sounding like John Barnes in his World in Motion rap: ‘You’ve got to hold and give, but do it at the right time. You can be slow or fast, but you must get to the line. They’ll always hit you and hurt you, defend and attack. There’s only one way to beat them – get round the back.’

As it happened, we did score a couple of goals from wide areas – as Barnes would advise – but my suspicion that words were lost in translation was borne out by a largely incoherent – and at times floundering – first-half performance. Telling the defence to keep their shape was possibly a mistake; I didn’t mean them to keep their shape at all costs. They thought me a small-time hypocrite of muddled mind when I asked some of them to push up, some of the time. The new boys played extremely well, but needed to lift their heads up a little more; with the ball at their feet, they found labyrinthine paths to navigate and extricate themselves from: paths which could have been made unnecessary with the so-called ‘simple ball’. Football, as Roper Maguire once said, is the art of circumnavigation. If you have to walk around the Hanover Conservatoire, why circle the same tree 5 times on the way? Despite this, the winding paths led somewhere meaningful for us today; it was the attacking initiative of the new players which compensated for the frailties of a defence which as half-time approached would need to be dismantled forthwith.

Ryan epitomised a  ‘get your head down and get on with it’ work ethic, scoring twice, winning a penalty and creating another goal. He also embodied a ‘substance over style’ aesthetic, with hair more unkempt than most mortals could have thought possible. This wasn’t stylishly unkempt or artfully tousled or deliberate in any way; we are talking Unkempt with a capital ‘U’ and a distinct ‘Un’. No thought could conceivably have been further from his mind than external appearance. This was full on, downtown Unkempt. Unkempt-on-Thames. Kemptness Subverted.

He was an example, usually provided by Connor, of how individualism can benefit a team. The result of such mazy running, though,  is that you can become ‘locked in’ at times as though adrift on the streets of Brussels; any moment now – you may be browsing some carefully displayed cakes and pastries in a shop window, tethering your mutt to a lamppost or remarking on a cirrus formation high above the stainless steel and glass – TING! The tram is here. The tram is bigger than you and has right of way. You can’t outwit the tram. The tram is coming and whatever your individual talent or motor, you can’t beat the tram. All you can do is anticipate and see it; scampering into its path and scurrying away from it again doesn’t necessarily indicate skill.

With the score finely balanced after Ryan’s penalty put us 3-2 up, the players were now starting to reconcile their varying styles. Evan, one of the ‘lift your head up and look’ brigade, hadn’t hitherto found his usual passing rhythm in the mud and mire of Solomon Barnato Jol Park. He was happy and privileged to have Gags and Auntie Emma there to  watch him, but was asthma-addled in the first-half and willing to sacrifice his recent scoring momentum in the presence of new teammates.  This changed, though, at a key moment midway through the second half when he dragged the ball past a defender and played it through to Ozzy who went on to finish from a narrow angle. The next crucial moment came courtesy of Kian  (scorer of a rare headed goal in the first half) who, now in goal, made a fantastic one-on -one save to keep the momentum in Wokingham’s favour. We managed to hold on to the end and progress to the next round, but with tactical conundrums still very much alive and frailties as clear to see as strengths.