(Apologies to anyone from Whitchurch who may not recognise my somewhat subjective portrayal of their club and village. Match details are accurate.)
AFC Whitchurch were formed when their parent club, Whitchurch United, was bought by an American businessman who pumped millions of pounds into the club before floating it on the New York Stock Exchange. The Whitchurch fans were dissatisfied with this, fearing that investment would threaten their very essence, the nature of what it means to be ‘Whitchurch.’ Rather than expressing their love for grassroots football by choosing another local club to support – Pangbourne FC, Woodcote Caledonian Thistle, Goring Academicals, Streatley in-the-age-of-Aquarius FC – they decided to form their own club, AFC Whitchurch, who would wear gold and green to anchor them to the soul of South Oxfordshire.
As expected for a fan-owned club, Whitchurch packed one whole end of the Estadio da Luz, bouncing up and down before kick off to a raucous ‘Pogo if you love Whitchurch, pogo if you love Whitchurch…’ transitioning into a bitter ‘Where were you, where were you, where were you at Beale Park?’ No-one else knew what they were referring to, but it packed an irrelevant punch, that’s for sure. Discombobulated by the pageantry, Wokingham started the game as if in that most blissful of states: semi-consciousness. Reassuringly, Whitchurch scored within 1.3 seconds of kick off. They scored another in the next few seconds as our gloved and beanied brethren seemed much more focused on sartorial logistics than anything to do with the match proper.
Unfortunately, the pattern continued: Coach Michael is resolute in his insistence that skill, technique, fun and rotation are everything. We rotate so much that we’re all medicated; we’ve all got labyrinthitis. The goalkeeper changes four times per game. That’s the level of rotation. You can’t feel your fingers. They can’t feel their fingers. The Whitchurch supporters fall silent in pity as yet another dog’s breakfast of football management unfolds before them: the numbness of the Assistant Manager’s (me) five minute glove fitting, the manic sleeve inversions of the desperate. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t know what you’re doing!’ It was best just to wave and move on.
Whitchurch scored again. And again. It was 4-0 before we’d even reached garment contentment. Now was the time for Mulvaney. Their experienced Irish coach said ‘Hey, dat nomber 4’s a good player now.’ Yes, he is. First he took on the whole team to make it 4-1, then he won a penalty which resulted in his cousin, Amelia Mulvaney, scoring her first goal of the season. Well done Amelia! Whitchurch then scored a sloppy goal before half time, which for us is merely a textile alteration window, the most dramatic weave being the sudden Pink Gloves of Connor Mulvaney. After the break, we laid siege to their goal. Evan controlled a cross first time, and shot just wide. Thanasie hit the post. We won another penalty, but missed.
As was predictable, the passionate yet precious souls of Whitchurch staged a protest 5 minutes before the end, bless them. The type of fans who invest their whole lives into a club always find something to complain about. The chanting had decreased in relevance as the game progressed: ‘Stand up if you hate Tidmarsh, stand up if you hate Tidmarsh’ and ‘We all dream of a house in Kidmore End, a house in Kidmore End, a house in Kidmore End’ were among the most notable. But events took a much stranger turn when 20 or so Whitchurch supporters walked on to the pitch with a banner calling for ‘Justice for Nettlebed Pete’ and sat down around the centre circle, laying the banner down in the middle. Coach Michael looked at me blankly and the 16 year-old ref was in way over his head. Ciara wondered over and asked me who Nettlebed Pete was. ‘We don’t know, Ciara’ said Michael in his booming Scouse tones, ‘But let’s just let it pass.’
But the people of the bend in the Thames just wouldn’t budge. Eventually we had to call on staff and stewards from the Goals Centre to gather to remove them. Within 10 minutes all manner of officials had gathered round and most fans eventually dispersed, apart from one lady who refused to move. St John’s Ambulance staff tried to sweet talk her off, but eventually she had to be lifted from the pitch, not without a final, piercing shriek of ‘PETE!!!!’ Our momentum was completely destroyed, and all we could hear were cries in solidarity with the clearly deranged: ‘We are Whitchurch, we are Whitchurch, we are Whitchurch from the Thames. We are Whitchurch, super Whitchurch, we are Whitchurch, stuff Cane End.’ They had made an impression, and won. They have a strong identity; we have a strong range of accessories.
That’s life and it was almost as feisty as the Stratfield Turgis v Sherfield on Loddon A33 derby, a real cauldron for the unkempt and over-rotated. Evan’s post match comment was typically tangential: ‘Dad, did you know that a long time ago, Drogba used to be in the top ten Didiers?’
Wilderspool Causeway 