The Summer League’s inaugural fixture: the Tracy Chapman derby.
The first challenge of the day – descending the stairs – did not bode particularly well for a carefree morning in which ‘all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they fit’, as Van Morrison once put it. It was one of those descents in which you grip the banister and place both feet on each step, hoping you’ll make it down without tearing something irrevocably. This was before the shinpad crisis, the enigma of Evan’s missing underlayer, the hairbrush chase, the absent spatula – you name it, it was missing. Even the coaches were struggling with the opening fixture: an unwelcome vibration by The George told me I was in charge of the warm-up.
A league official approached with paraphernalia relating to the incipient season: a fetching trophy with a ‘player of the match’ wristband wrapped around its base: ‘the challenge is to keep this intact until the end of the season.’ Strange instruction. The trophy is pretty much unbreakable, and the wristband is for the wrist, I would have thought. When I relayed this to Coach Michael, he sort of squinted uncomprehendingly, as if a spacecraft had just landed behind me: ‘Thanks anyway, Alex.’
The game was perhaps the closest and most unpredictable I have witnessed. It had everything: a red-card challenge from Mark, an own goal, a scuffle between Evan and Mark after Caversham scored a free-kick, a left-footed wonder goal from Connor, some excellent interplay, goals from unlikely sources and a scoreline which went back and forth as frequently as 17-year-olds drive Range Rovers over Sonning Bridge.
A contest like this teeters on the brink of irrelevance throughout; without pattern or logic, there’s a ‘certainty of chance.’ I might have hoped for a post-match verdict from Evan. Instead, typically out of the blue, he said: ‘Dad, I set Siri a challenge. I said, say “oh my giddy aunt.”‘
Siri said “oh my giddy aunt!”, so I said:
“Right, now break titanium, rose gold, copper and rock.”
This is somewhat outside Siri’s remit, presumably, but confrontations such as this are what makes the world interesting. We all know a person who’s friendly, but always indignant; they’ll argue in an empty room, and will have fallen out with the waiter before the starter’s even been ordered. I love that kind of person.
Even the coaches were struggling to articulate instructions which were not at a distinct tangent to reality: ‘Guys, remember: virtual marking’ advised one of the Caversham coaches. You what mate? One was bald and friendly and the other had a fuller head of hair and was equally friendly, though with a slight ‘edge.’ Would they not have been better advised to adopt ‘real marking’, given that we scored 7 and they scored 6?
They were animated, pacing about and shouting, whereas our coaches crouched on the opposite side, watching, waiting and getting the psychology right. Paradoxically, if you want to engender intensity and quality, it seems you sometimes need to release pressure rather than apply it. Michael and Peter project acceptance; there’s nothing the players could do which would disappoint them, and therefore the pressure’s off and the team play well and with constant ‘bouncebackability.’
With the score at 7-5 in the nervy final moments, the ball was smashed at goalkeeper Thanasie Xanthoulis who fell to the floor in floods of tears. Caversham scored the rebound, with questionable ethical force. With a player on the floor crying, would you score? Most people would say it’s fine to play to the whistle.
The final moments were tense; with Mulvaney off the pitch, we were scooting without recourse to handlebars. Oddly, the Caversham supporters dealt with the tension by resorting to a rendition of REM’s Mr Richards, their theme tune:
Mr Richards your conviction
had us cheering in the kitchen,
now the jury’s eating pigeon pie!
So tell me, how was prison?
Have they taught you how to listen?
Mr Richards, pay attention
to the famous Kites from Caversham.
Mr Richards, you’re forgiven;
Sign the papers, stamp the ribbon.
And we know what’s going on.
Yes we know what’s going on.
This put the game into a wider perspective, no doubt, but Wokingham were unflustered and held on to win 7-6. As we left the Maracana, I wondered if this was a league for aristocrats. A team from Oxfordshire called ‘Rotherfield United’ were present, and so was a boy called Ernest whose dad is visiting Dorchester tomorrow and is wondering if anyone would like to join him.
(Postscript: after one or two enquiries, I’m going to take the unusual step of declaring a rule I adhere to. My policy is that large scale fan activity can be fabricated – because it clearly doesn’t exist at U7 Level – but everything else must be truthful. Therefore Mr Richards is NOT Caversham’s anthem, and they didn’t sing it. Everything else happened.)
Wilderspool Causeway 