Tag: Wokingham & Emmbrook

Twyford Comets 4 Wokingham and Emmbrook 4 (Mulvaney 2, A. Mulvaney, Saynor) La Bambonera

‘See the canyons broken by cloud.
See the tuna fleet clearing the sea out.
See the Bedouin fires at night.
See Woodley Precinct at first light.’

Yet according to Bono it’s still possible to perceive a beautiful day. And why wouldn’t he? It’s not as if he’s a salaryman who commutes to Bracknell’s Southern Industrial Area, inner city Nagoya or Vodaphone on the outskirts of Newbury. Last week – 6-0 down at half-time – it didn’t seem so easy to adopt his perspective.

Wokingham & Emmbrook didn’t need a change of tactics so much as a total revolution of mind and body, as per my favourite overheard line from The Archers: ‘Julie doesn’t need a mentor; she needs a brain transplant.’

For most of us, if we’re honest about it, the options for change seem sadly limited. This is perhaps best encapsulated by Yoga Magazine’s current promise of ‘healing and evolving through subtle breathwork.’ Is that all that can be hoped for? A bit of deft breathing? It’s no mean feat, perhaps. Maybe you can change your vibe, but nothing of seismic importance in the world around.

That said, in Wales last week we decided to deviate significantly from the script written by the FA and endorsed by most coaches. West Wales is as good a place as any to shatter pretension. ‘Fair play’, as an end in itself, would have to go on the back burner for a while. There are other qualities that can’t be found in a coaching manual, and it was essential to cultivate them forthwith.

In the last few matches Evan’s carefree spirit seemed to have evaporated, in stark contrast to early September when – late for the first game of the season and having missed the warm up entirely – Evan strolled onto the pitch, McManaman locks flowing, and nonchalantly swept the ball into the corner with one of his first touches.

It was time for some Chumbawamba parenting (I get knocked down, but I get up again, are they ever gonna keep me down?). I would play tough and put my boot in while observing a notional line between realistic contact and the potential for harm. He would go to ground and concede goals, yet ultimately win, only to complain – sometimes through tears – that I shouldn’t have played my best. Coach Peter also took Evan out with Connor for a separate training session, complete with cones and goals. He’s never content to rest on the premise that what will be will be.

Evan’s goal today was straight off the training ground; Connor was poised over the free-kick, noticed that Evan had withdrawn to the edge of the box and passed the ball beautifully into his path: ‘Look, look, he’s going to shoot!’ I couldn’t keep it in. Evan curled it into the left corner and the keeper got a touch but couldn’t stop it.

Scoring a goal is one of those experiences which tends to clarify and minimise all preceding time. Your regrets shrivel to nothing when the ball hits the back of the net; all time is funnelled into that point. It’s similar in principle, though obviously of lesser magnitude, to having a child. Whether it’s an unfortunate situation on Unthank Road in 2002 or a regrettable interlude in Shepherd’s Bush 2009: forget it. The comment made to you outside Wokingham Bowling Alley: it doesn’t matter anymore. The look that dry cleaning operative gave you: irrelevant. All those unorthodox or unfortunate moments led, however indirectly, to the present.

And If something unwelcome still slips through the net, as it probably will, then at least you can fall back on some concentrated breathwork or even – as advertised by Jason Oslar – book some hacking or lunging lessons on the bridlepaths of Barkham.

Woodley Wanderers Scorpions 8 (6) Wokingham and Emmbrook Orange 3 (0) Sexton, Mulvaney, A. Mulvaney

Sometimes the present seems far too thin a slice of reality; haunted by the past and paralysed by the future, you grip any available railing or local object – a jar of mayonnaise, for example, or a spanner – and stand motionlessly, trying to coax the moment into being while the ‘years disappear like the bubbles in my beer.’

Today, Wokingham began like bats with faulty sonar. Two own goals and four silly deflections later, the score was 6-0 at half time. We had no subs, which didn’t help, with Thanasie in Greece and Jack out with a black eye. I’m not sure if bats can be off colour, or experience periods of existential uncertainty, but Wokingham seemed shadows of their former selves, like a soft drinks brand which has finally relinquished any lingering association with the fruit which gave rise to its name, and is now named after a colour instead – Lucozade ‘orange’, for example.

A monumental effort was needed now. Coaches Michael and Peter gathered them close and in Evan’s words ‘told us to get to the ball first and to not be shy of having the ball. They told us to get into space and start passing.’

Cue the revival. Mark puffed his chest out and played with the fire of a misjudged enchilada. An Italian parent began shouting ‘Quattro, Quattro, Quattro, Quattro, Quattro’ as our number 4 Connor Mulvaney went into full spaghetti heat map mode, covering every putatively carcinogenic, globuliferous inch of 4G AstroTurf as he propelled us into attack.

Ciara executed an audacious nutmeg: the nutmeg of consolation. Evan played according to the range and manifesto of a short Dimitar Berbatov, not quite defending with due diligence but lofting a first time effort from distance which dipped under the bar only to be saved.

Amelia then, in the words of an onlooker, ‘rose like a tin of salmon’ to score at the far post, prompting that most unfortunate of stoppages: the ‘cry break.’

The Woodley defender who lost track of Amelia collapsed to the floor in a parody of grief. Their manager stood there with his arms folded, scowling like a disaffected mechanic on the forecourt of a big dealer as the player’s mum entered the fray, consolingly yet frustratingly, and the game slipped away like pea-inflected water through a colander.

Woodley Wanderers Tigers – – Wokingham & Emmbrook 4 (Mulvaney 3, Parry) Camp Nou

If you research ‘Punctuality in Merseyside’, you will discover a range of factors which occasionally prevent Liverpudlians, Bebingtonians and other Merseysiders from arriving at their destination in a timely fashion; these include ‘poor road layout’, ‘slow crew changeovers’ and ‘problems avoided for years.’

If you’re Bootle bound, there are so many variables – swing bridges, the hypermarket on Wilderspool Causeway, the knock-on effect of commercial shipping – that you would be well advised to cut down on the variables in your own life in order to mitigate the impact of the unpredictable external world.

‘When we get out of the car, it’s going to feel rushed and a bit stressful; but I just want you to know that I’m not angry with you.’ I had adopted a new motivational strategy with Evan: a non-interventionist one. No more advice, instructions, background tension. Minimal human interference would clutter the emerging mind. He could set the agenda for topics of conversation, and have my full attention: thus questions like ‘What’s your favourite type of owl?’ (barn) from Evan replaced the usual ‘Why can’t you just get your effing shoes on?’ subtext from me. So we arrived at the ground much later than normal, and in a calm rush.

The Berkshire Youth Development League official was waiting in reception like a hospitable brazier. He had graduated magna cum laude with a degree in Genially Lingering in Foyers from Binfield Tertiary Learning Centre and was now studying for a distance learning masters in Lobby Clogging from the Niger State College of Freshwater Fisheries (look it up.) He did a fantastically obstructive job: wanting to converse, wanting to gesture, wanting to show us a timetable.

Didn’t he realise we were dropping out of language? This new rule extended to the touchline. I would stay quiet, offering no instruction whatsoever, and only the most generalised and non-judgmental of encouragements. It will all blow up at some stage, I’m sure. But for now, the result of Evan not having to take on board too many good ideas was what the good ideas were designed to provoke in the first place: happiness and freedom on the pitch (he was drugged up on asthma meds too, of course, which might have been the real liberation).

For the first time in a few weeks, he played with a smile on his face; he was vocal with others and began to take a leading role. From a deep position, he threaded balls all over the pitch, elegantly exposing gaps in their defence with a series of well-timed passes. He set up the first goal, skilfully taking the ball past a defender before nudging it across the goal. When he was removed from the fray after 10 minutes, the score was 2-0.

Problems arose – regarding the scoreline rather than overall development – because the team are managed by spreadsheet. I could tell you the minute at which Evan will be substituted next week. A tactical change has never been made, apart from when Andrew and I took charge for a game, dispensed with the spreadsheet and promptly lost 20-1. The coaches equip the players with a repertoire of skills and approaches which sometimes border on the eccentric. Amelia has clattered into the fence while imitating Maradona circa 1986 on more occasions than she’s played a simple pass.

It can be astounding. Ciara won the skills wristband by successfully executing a ‘double touch’, whereby you stand on the ball with one foot before kicking it away in the next instant with the other, retaining control of the ball so as to fool the opponent as to your speed and direction. These skills are remote islands of inconsequential elegance; Coach Michael is firm in his conviction that if you make the difficult skills second nature, you can learn the basics later. He’s seen it happen.

As to whether it would be a better plan to change the tactics during the game, well George Whitefield would call that an ‘argument from Tiverton’: hypothetical and therefore of little weight. Despite the second half capitulation, the coaching has opened up immediate choices and possibilities for the players. It’s never prescriptive and it’s never designed to cause the players to win a game for the sake of it; Peter is pleased when Connor scores, but would more pleased if he lifted up his head and passed, or if he made a mistake and was able to identify what it was.

Woodley Zebras 13 Wokingham & Emmbrook 4 (Parry, Butler, Mulvaney 2) 

‘She really gives everything she has, every week: I mean that.’ That was a response not to Amelia or Ciara of Wokingham & Emmbrook – though the same could be said of them – but to Iris’ ecclesiastical antics last Sunday as, once again, she dragged her little chair into the priest’s line of vision and began to imitate his posture and movement, adding her own swaying meditative flourishes and Upsy Daisy dances to the liturgy.

And it’s true: she gives what she can. This morning, with Evan suffering a crisis of nerves, incapacitated by the encroaching prospect of Woodley Zebras to the point that he was willing to consider hanging up his Indigo Venoms for good, Iris arrived to reassuringly press something into his hands: ‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I will give unto thee’ – in this case, dishwasher tablets.
‘OK, Evan? Tablets!’

He was bewildered and just marginally grateful enough to retreat from the precipice of early retirement. Just when you feel like you’re living in an aviary – with all that squawking – Iris will give you something to cling on to: quite literally. You may not know where she got it from, what it is or why, but whenever despair threatens to strengthen its grip, Iris will invariably scamper off and retrieve something for you from the domestic hinterlands. Sometimes the intention to be a supportive presence is support enough.

One Monday night, large remote controlled aeroplanes – of the sort that can induce fear – were being flown on the pitch next to ours. Part way through the game, one of them plummeted onto our pitch and the owner walked tentatively over to inspect the wreckage. He seemed ashen-faced at the loss of his plane rather than in embarrassment that he could have killed us. We stood there in a silent ‘WTF’ stance, until one of our players defused the tension: ‘Have you found the black box, mate?’

Children don’t have these mechanisms; they can’t contextualise experience or reduce it to the realm of ‘harmless banter’. Hence the fear of Woodley. The sun was hanging a little too high for comfort today. We appreciate it. It puts one heck of a shift in for us. It’s the source of all life, for no reward. It can send us a photon in eight minutes, about the time it takes Evan to locate the front door from the porch.

This is strange because on a football pitch, he can sometimes thread the ball through the eye of a needle, spot a pass which removes 3 of their players from the game or intuitively drop into exactly the right position to thwart an attack It’s just that when he’s put one sock on, or he’s part way through a door, or he’s eaten half his Shreddies, he’ll need reminding that there’s more to come from him, that there’s another side to the equation, even though it’s as clear to him as the dark side of the moon. You have to go through the door, put the other sock on: finish your Shreddies.

Woodley are managed by a compact, diminutive man with a squint. They cruised into a 3-0 lead and the comfortable attitude of victors: parents began to praise our redundant efforts and ceased to celebrate their sons’ triumphs. That was before Connor entered the game and scored one of the most outlandishly brilliant left-footed free kicks you could imagine, curling it high and with power from his own half. For most of the game, it could have gone either way: when Connor left the pitch with 10 minutes to go, it was 6-4 to Woodley.

Even Coach Peter – relentlessly supportive – couldn’t put a positive spin on the catastrophic capitulation of the last 10 minutes. ‘What did we practise in training. Why didn’t we do it?’ It was one of those situations in which you feel chastened just by virtue of listening. But surely that’s wrong: It’s only those in the game who know why something’s difficult. In the end, you have to keep your head up like a golden oriole, whatever the score. As Michael Stipe reflected, ‘I used to think, as birds take wing, they sing through life so why can’t we?’

Rotherfield FC Hornets 7 Wokingham and Emmbrook 7 (Parry 3, A. Mulvaney, Sexton, C. Mulvaney 2) La Bambonera

Squad rotation, though very much in keeping with the motions of the planet, consigned Evan to the bench for large portions of Henry, Hector, Auberon, Stanley and Horace’s visit to Woodley.

Rotherfield is part of Sonning Common, a place which doesn’t know what it is, containing citizens who don’t know who they are. It’s technically part of Oxfordshire, but what does that really mean now that the Civil War is over? The king was once held captive in Caversham House, but was allowed to cross Sonning Common once a week to play bowls in Cane End in an odd prelude to his execution.

Ever since, the deep south of Oxfordshire and the far north of Reading has been unable to truly settle. If you ask someone from that area who they are and why they live there, they will wobble.

Horace’s mother was unperturbed, however, and even bordered on the proprietorial, as if she was the guardian not simply of herself, Horace and her Range Rover Evoque, but of time and space in general: ‘the guy who organises this league prefers people to stand on this side of the fence rather than that side’, she offered. Jack’s dad was unimpressed, as was I. Coach Peter had a steeliness in his eyes; we wouldn’t bow.

The problem was that Wokingham and Emmbrook began the game with an element of indolence, as if there was time for a cigar and a drink of Ribena on the flagstones by the buttery. Rotherfield’s methodical style seemed to owe more to an advance grasp of trigonometry and chess than to footballing skill. When Evan was on the pitch, he startled Auberon with a powerful curling effort which hit him full in the face, knocking him prostrate. Once reminded, Evan went over to see if he was ok, and the Rotherfield parents were concerned yet mollified. Unaccountably, the ref awarded Auberon a free kick.

Whereas Wokingham seemed constrained by physical geography, colliding with fences, misapplying Cruyff and playing cross-field passes which were almost too good, as if they required an altogether bigger canvas, Rotherfield passed with brutal efficiency, unlocking the defence through an understanding of space rather than technique. They raced into a 4-1 lead, but Wokingham showed huge spirit and fought back to make the score 4-4 at half-time. Rotherfield resumed control in the second half but in a nervy conclusion to the game, Connor Mulvaney broke free and slotted it into the corner to make the score 7-7 with seconds to spare.

On the train after the game, we were surrounded by incomprehensible ‘banter’ from supporters of the Army and Navy rugby teams in relation to some kind of spurious surrender in the Falklands War.
‘If it wasn’t for the navy, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere.’
‘Yes we would. We’d just use the merchant navy like we did in the Falklands. Anyway, we need you so there’ll always someone who’ll retreat before us.’

We looked out at the comforting sight of allotments. Jack talked us through an intriguing theory about being constrained by physical geography. He noticed some Altostratus and Stratocumulus: a chance of precipitation. Chris McCann recounted an afternoon in which he decided to walk through some allotments, simply by way of exercising a ‘right to roam’, of negotiating the boundaries of defensible space to challenge the rampant privatisation of common land and the will of anyone who would stop him.

AFC Caversham Kites 6 Wokingham and Emmbrook 7 (Parry, Xanthoulis, Bridgecross (og), Mulvaney 3, A.Mulvaney)

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.)

Burghfield Reds 5 Wokingham and Emmbrook 7 (Sexton 3, Dance 2, Mulvaney 2)

As this was the last game of the regular season, I will begin with some (quite astonishing) goalscoring statisitics. In 24 games:

C. Mulvaney 59
Saynor 17
Sexton 15
Parry 12
Dance 4
Xanthoulis 1
Butler 1
A. Mulvaney 1
In the drizzle and resented frigidity of this April morning, a shadow was cast across our porch. The figure lingered, seemingly incapacitated by a deep dilemma, a wrangling of the soul. Could ‘Knock and the door will be opened to you’ – though a good aspiration – ever apply here, in the Central Berkshire lowlands, significantly in advance of 9am on a dank Saturday morning?

Evidently not, for Uncle Jack had to be relieved of his self-imposed porch-centred limbo by a frightened resident. Once his true identity was discovered, terror was transformed into unconditional welcome faster than you can say ‘Everything hung on a prayer, in the hanging dusk.’ Is there a harder hardness of core than that required to turn out for an Under 7’s game in the pouring rain at 8:30 in the morning?

If the vivid orange of Wokingham’s shirts were an insufficient burst of colour against the banks of brooding grey clouds above Bulmershe Water Tower, Connor offered more as he sauntered magisterially across the pitch in gloves which were…what colour exactly? An indeterminate shade of bluey-green. We settled on teal.

The sky also seemed to take on illogical hues: the mint sunrise and misty buff of Harry Enfield’s Dulux chart. Pat Butcher stood on the sideline with her little dog, waiting for things to commence, but the sky spat at us. The sun threatened to illuminate greater portions of the pitch, but managed only a grey and yellow mist between the clouds.

After a long and bumpy journey over from Burghfield in their Belarus 3022 from Minsk Tractor works, with 5 in the cabin and 2 in the ballast box, Burghfield were understandably slow to start and crocked of limb. But they worked with the methodical dignity of seasoned labourers, and it was nip and tuck until the deeper recesses of the first half when Evan hit the post from distance and Connor scored soon after the rebound. By half-time it was 3-0.

What the landowner from Burghfield said to his bedraggled charges in the break, we’ll never know. Perhaps he told them to forget about their carbon footprints, reminded them that there’s no organic top soil because it’s astro-turf: told them that it’s but a short step from crop rotation to squad rotation, that our attacks need to be mulched, that counter-attacks are essentially pesticide drift.

However he phrased it, they intensified and diversified in their approach. They put the ‘agro’ into ‘agroecology’ and showed goal drought resilience by scoring several in quick succession, incredibly making the scoreline 4-4 with 10 minutes to go.

At this point, the day threatened to break loose from its already tentative moorings as an unthinkable, unmentionable moment occurred for Evan which I can only allude to by offering a personal anecdote by way of parallel.

Yesterday, I took part in an 11-a-side match against a team at least half our age, most of whom were very good players. Can you think of anything more absurd than a manager issuing instructions to the team over a Tannoy? Well that’s what happened yesterday. We had contained them quite well until just after half-time when the manager belted out, over the loudspeaker: ‘Right, we’re going to go 3-5-2, that’s 3 5 2. Rob, you push up and Alex go to centre-back with Mark and Luke. We’re going for it.’

This seemed like a kamikaze move; surely the point of tactical changes is to offer an element of surprise? And they’d been overloading one flank all game, so we’d be even further exposed now. Anyway, no sooner had I moved to centre-back than a ball was floated over my head from midfield: except I couldn’t let it float over my head because they had 2 players running on to the ball, unmarked. So I decided to get my head to the ball in order to nod it back to the ‘keeper. Unfortunately, he read the ball as definitely going over my head and ran towards the attackers (without giving me a shout) in order to battle them for it. Where do you think the ball went?

5-4 to Burghfield. Evan kept his head up and moved on. Please don’t let this be the decisive moment. It was an unbelieveable comeback from Burghfield, but the story wasn’t over. Putting his Everton goalie shirt to one side, Connor re-entered the fray for one last teal-gloved lunge for the summit, and with Mark, Jack, Kiera and Thanasie’s help and wilfulness we finally got there: a remarkable final thrust at the culmination of an epic season.

Woodley United Spitfires 2 Wokingham & Emmbrook 5 (Sexton 3, Mulvaney 2) San Siro 

Fresh off the red eye from Ho Chi Minh City, Jack Saynor made his first destination Woodley, Berkshire. His changed values system was immediately apparent as one of Evan’s teammates approached us in the car park: ‘So what do your people call you?’ asked Jack.

‘Mark’, replied Mark.
‘Far out, brother. Go in peace, friend’
uttered Jack in benediction. He reached into his pockets and withdrew his rizlas, his roll ups, all the dodgy imported Marlboro’ reds and lights: the self-professed Woodbine Willie of our support offered each player and parent a cigarette before the game as a ‘calming leveller’, an opportunity to see the game from a new vantage point.

“What the hell is he doing, Alex? You’re supposed to be helping me here, mate. Sort it out – now.” Coach Peter was not impressed, but Uncle Jack reassured him: “Chill, my brother. Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round again in another form.”

Having spurned an opportunity for philosophical understanding, Wokingham and Woodley began the game with little to offer by way of footballing purpose. David Pleat says ‘You’ve got to put a message on the ball.’ I think he means that you shouldn’t pass without purpose. Don’t play the ball as if it’s an empty text message to the top of your address book. Do something with a bit of meaning or don’t do it at all. But both teams struggled with this, flailing around with ultimately inconsequential effort and misplaced exertion.

Once Connor, Evan and Mark were on the pitch, the complexion of the game became progressively rosier. Coach Peter had asked for ‘dragbacks, Cruyff turns and Maradonas’ and Evan was able to take him literally: no-one could take the ball off him and he was able to open up space for Mark and Connor to vanquish any lingering hopes of a Woodley uprising; Connor’s twinkle toes are just unplayable, in every game. Mark’s regressive power is such that the rules of the game are frequently misinterpreted (he would have been sent off once, twice – or even thrice a by a professional ref), but overruled by character – he roams and lunges, clips and dives, then scores from outlandish positions: ‘Mark, you reminded me of yourself’ is perhaps the highest praise available from Coach Michael, and fair play to him for delving into the deeper waters of cryptic enquiry.

Woodley, ‘rapidly approaching the floor of the gorge’, as Uncle Jack observed, had little recourse to football, at this stage, and were buoyed only by the character and creativity of their supporters whose focus on Waitrose was unclear in its satirical force – were they focusing on the Wokingham branch or the Woodley branch when they belted out ‘kick down the door/ go straight to aisle 4/ get some wild boar/ and some Louis Latour’? I’m not sure, but does it matter? They knew things weren’t happening on the pitch so they mixed the comic with the existential – as everyone should – finishing with: ‘I don’t know where I am/ and I don’t really care/ I look myself in the eyes and no-one’s there/ I fall upon the earth/ I call upon the air/ and all I get is the same old vacant stare.

So Woodley were united with Uncle Jack in their desire to grapple for existential insight, for the values which potentially collude with all that’s meaningful in the universe, but they did so on the basis of inevitable defeat, a prospect which faces us all at one stage or another.

Woodley Zebras 6 Wokingham and Emmbrook 3 (Mulvaney 2, Sexton) 

On the way to the pitch this morning, Evan and I walked past two boys who were obviously sniggering at us. The real problem, though, was that in a disconcerting and, in my view, atrociously handled parental intervention, their mother decided to say the following: ‘I know EXACTLY what you’re thinking, Ben, and I’d really rather you didn’t.’

Well thank you very much for that, Ben’s mother: an insipid reprimand which compounds the insult through tacit agreement. Can you think of a worse response? The brats should have been taken aside and told in no uncertain terms to sort their lives out with immediate effect – before either sincerely apologising or going home.

So there was alienation and encroaching ennui long before we’d even negotiated the car park. A glance at the phone wouldn’t help. A text message from none other than my very own sister read ‘#GoZebras!’, for this was a game which would tear sibling unity asunder, opening up wounds which hadn’t been considered since an earlier dispensation, when in the golden era of The Cold War, of Detente, Duck and Cover and The Bamboo Curtain, we learnt Monopoly and the rudiments of psychological warfare.

Hotel on Vine Street ’91, Coventry Street Deterrence Theory, The Pall Mall Bloodbath: these were the strategies and milestones of early childhood and if anyone fancies Monopoly now, be prepared for more of the same: the Whitechapel Counterforce, the Kremlinology of Chance, the Finlandisation of Mayfair…Mutually Assured Derision. The complete runaround.

But now, there was a different source of psychological incongruence: the odd moment when Emma became the Mohammed Al Fayed of Wokingham Within, opting to outmanouevre the council by initiating the Woodley Pact, bankrolling the future of Woodley Zebras in exchange for the right to display her interests and ideas on the lads’ shirts. It’s a classic ‘spanner’ stroke, designed to twist the nuts of council officials into bringing Wokingham and Emmbrook home from their Henley exile: genius.

Today, as assistant manager (or assistant TO the manager, as David Brent would say) I took my place in a slightly odd set-up in which spectators were stationed in a narrow walkway behind a fence: they had no room to step backwards and I had no room to step forwards without encroaching onto the pitch. This meant you could hear/were part of every comment throughout the game, the first of which was: ‘this is great for abusing the coaches!’

I was responsible for the goalkeepers’ attire and overall wellbeing: for glove amendments, snood removal and general upbeat waffle. The heavy rotation policy meant there were 4 changes of goalkeeper in forty minutes and so, with driving rain and confusion also very much present, there’s very little I can meaningfully reflect on in terms of football proper because it really was just a very confusing morning: oppressive, even. Once, when Roy Hodgson and Ray Lewington were at Fulham they popped up over the dugout like a couple of meerkats in response to the debased advice offered from behind, and I can understand why.

With 10 minutes left, it was 2-2 after Connor had brought us back into the game with two absolutely cracking left-footed strikes. After his stints on the bench and in goal, Evan played a useful cameo with some graceful skills and passes; Jack played with characteristic passion and intrigue, his curious cocktail of wild abandon and intellect keeping the scoreline within comprehensible boundaries. The crux of the matter here was Coach Peter’s selflessness.

With his son potentially angling us towards victory, he substituted him to ensure fair pitch time for everyone and the near certainty that the points would rest, in the end, with Emma and the Zebras,
John Redwood’s Duga radar impotent in the background as the upper echelons of the Emmbrook and Wokingham infrastructure pondered a much needed resurrection: some perestroika for the Burghfield Spring.

Woodley United Scorpions 2 Wokingham & Emmbrook 5 (Dance, Parry pen. Sexton, Mulvaney 2) BYDL Man of the Match: E. Saynor

Woodley United were resplendent in sky blue shirts which promote a local law firm specialising in Cohabitation Agreements (not sure why they would need mediating), Cohabitation Disputes, Grandparents’ Rights and Deputyship Applications, whatever they’re for (Sheriff of Winnersh? Assistant Duty Manager of Greggs? Deputy Head of Bulmershe School? First Mate on the Caversham Prince? Anything else?) Woodley appeared with a style and understatement more usually associated with veteran actresses, or the Queen herself, than a Reading satellite town. It was such a nice tone, it really was.

After some asthmatic weeks, Evan returned to the team rejuvenated, with Dolce & Gabbana oversocks (don’t ask how) to compensate for deficient ankle support.

He was by no means the most eccentrically dressed Wokingham player. Connor – Fresh Prince of Mulvania, architect of our revivals, Maestro of Woosehill – was wearing a snood and mismatching gloves, one of them stripy and one of them plain.

So this was an aesthetic contest as much as a footballing one. We had alice bands and various shades of Nike: no North Korean skin- fade haircuts here. Evan’s MacManaman curls were offset by simple trims, French crops, mop tops, the odd bob. It was the Top Man contest and by virtue of a fortuitous confluence of hand-me-downs and found items: ‘it’s never cheap or cheerful; he’s Hugo and he’s Boss!’

For the first ten minutes, the game threatened to live up to the aesthetics: Evan’s cultured passing and thoughtfully executed skills – along with a pinged half volley – earned him the Man of the Match award. We were 2 nil up when he left the pitch after 10 minutes, and he rarely featured in the latter quarters of the game, having left the pitch to a feeling that his work there was done.

The scorpions rarely found the space to pounce, but were deadly when they did: two goals from two shots in the first half added substance and vitality to the unmistakably dignified tenor of their behaviour.

With the game deteriorating and all but lost to the doldrums, to protracted shoelace stoppages and general entropy, the ball was fired with vigour towards the top corner and saved superbly by a Woodley defender: penalty. Jack Parry strolled up with the nonchalance of a giraffe, stroked it home and then turned and charged in delirious knowledge of victory, throwing himself onto the turf and other players in an action transgressive of health and safety protocol and deserving of a yellow card as surely as the Scorpion lad merited red.

This was a victory of style over style: of clothing, of technical ambition, of bravery. Wokingham have a ‘skills trophy’ which is awarded every week: the coaches are looking for Maradonas and Rabonas, dragbacks and Cruyff turns, improvisation and quality passing. The score is irrelevant to them, and rightly so.

I do wonder what would happen, though, on a tour of the north country. It’s bad enough going by minibus to Berkhamstead: you get off and can hardly move. Imagine stepping off the bus in Darlington or Whitley Bay and facing the locals with all your elegant oddball clobber and a bag of tricks: unthinkable.