After an absurdly bad result a week and a half ago in the cup, it was time to put some points on the board against Shanty Town at our new (for now) home ground of Clapham Common. I have happy memories of beating this lot last season, so even the dark barn that passes for changing rooms in Clapham couldn’t dampen the pre-match spirits.
The pitch was small, narrow, slightly sloping and with one goal about 25 yards in front of a busy road. Oh, and we had to frig around putting the nets up. So far I’m unimpressed with the new home ground.
Paul rounded us up for the team talk and steered clear from any mice-and-men literary symbolism this week. “We can beat these. Our luck’s got to change some time” was the long and short of it. So we line up with Eddy between the sticks, a back four of Bernie, Dan, Ketch and Chris; myself (Pete), Hudson, Simon and Ian across the middle; and Captain Coyley paired with Medge up front.
Early on we had the wind in our sails (and behind Eddy’s goal kicks) and were giving the blue-clad Shanty Town a fair bit to think about. Their subs set the team stall out early (metaphorically: it wasn’t a bring-and-buy sale) by whingeing and moaning about every tackle, and every decision by referee John. Speaking of John, when he arrived for the match the first thing he asked was “is Hudson here?” and then later recommended we get a large pot of vaseline for the first aid kit. Draw your own conclusions.
Back on the pitch, our early pressure paid off after Medge was brought down in their box. In spite of Town’s hysterics, John awarded a penalty and Paul coolly converted. 1-0. This kick up the arse gave the opposition renewed focus and they began giving us all sorts of problems, not least cos of our hopeless inability to win anything in the air. “Free header” they all chorused at each other after every goal kick. Our lead was short lived – a decent attacking move left our defence a man short and their lanky forward lobbed neatly over Eddy’s outstretched glove. 1-1 and all the chat is coming from the blue half of the pitch.
The remaining 15 minutes of the half continued in a similar vein – we gave the ball away cheaply, failed to win it back, they harried and pushed forward, using Fatty Fudge on the wing to sling in Rory Delap-style long throws. The exact details escape me but they put the ball in our net twice more before John blew for half time. 3-1 to them. Ian tried to whip up enthusiasm by shouting “heads up Alliance” as we trudged off, but I couldn’t help noticing he was staring disconsolately at the ground as he said it. We were all pretty dejected, except Paul who was apoplectic with fury that we were – once again – staring at defeat by an unimpressive and annoying opposition. No tactical changes were made (despite Bernie’s innovative suggestion we go 4-3-4) but 5 minutes soul searching evidently had some effect, as we came back after the restart looking a more purposeful side. Colin came on at left back, with Chris moving over to the right in place of Bernie.
We were clearly hungrier for goals in the 2nd half, and after less than 10 minutes we got our just desserts. A ball towards their goal (corner? Can’t remember) rattled around the box, bounced off me at the far post and Dan pounced, slotting home from close range. 3-2, game on.
Ian came off for Micah as the Alliance took a more attacking formation. Medge was causing their defence all sorts of problems, dancing round players at will, but never quite getting the final ball – despite coming close with a long-range drive that just swerved outside the top corner. Hudson had taken command of the middle of the park and was winning everything. It was tempting to think we were the only team in it, but Shanty Town were still pressing for another – a heroic , diving finger tip save by Eddy kept us in the game.
Ketch had put a couple of useful mid-field free kicks into dangerous areas, and if memory serves it was from one of these that we finally pulled level. The ball dropped into their box and Paul (I think) laid it off towards Hudson, galloping in from the middle third. He struck it hard and low from about 20 yards and the keeper had no chance. Cue wild celebrations from the Alliance. 3 all, from being 3-1 down, and we looked the better team.
Tensions were rising: the Alliance could taste victory and Shanty Town were clearly bitterly frustrated to have lost the lead. We were in the ascendancy when Dan challenged for a high ball and clashed heads with one of their players. Unfortunately this resulted in a split eyebrow and John was not happy to let Dan continue without bandaging. Perhaps worth having some plasters in the first aid kit eh lads? After hunting for bandages for about 5 minutes the game restarted with Dan watching from the sidelines and – all our subs being used already – the Alliance down to 10 men.
This was real edge-of-the-seat stuff: 11 men versus 10, 3-3 and 10 minutes to go. Steve – who had come on in place of Simon – made some important tackles, but mis-timed one of them by about 5 minutes and found his name in the book. On another day John would probably have overlooked it, but Shanty were moaning and carping so much the atmosphere had become explosive.
And so it was almost inevitable that Paul – so madly keen to secure a vital win – should put in an ever-so-slightly questionable challenge on one of their players. Well, I say questionable; you could say it was questionable whether the lad on the receiving end knew what hit him. You could even say he didn’t have the ball at the time, and that the tackle was more like a karate kick than any recognisable footballing manoeuvre. I can’t be sure personally, my view was obscured by the red mist that had descended over the pitch. Referee John was a bit affected by the heady circumstances, and gave Paul a straight red card. I didn’t even think he carried a red card. Maybe he’s just recently bought it and wanted to show it off.
In any case, the outlook of the game had changed dramatically within 5 minutes, as we were now 9 men, missing 2 of our strongest players. Frankly I still thought we could win it but Bernie, Simon and Ian sagely advised from the sidelines that we should play the clock down and defend like our lives depended on it. From the mood Paul was in as he left the pitch, our lives probably did depend on it a bit.
Unbelievably John still says there’s 10 minutes left, so we get men behind the ball and try to keep our composure. But their 2 man advantage shows as we struggle to keep possession, with only Medge up front to hoof the ball to. Mercifully, John does us an almighty favour when their man is blatantly brought down on the edge of our box, and instead of awarding a penalty, he gives us a free kick for the Shanty Towner diving! Bless him.
Shanty Town’s frustration at not finding a way through was tangible, but we defended bravely and desperately and the closest they came was when their substituted right winger struck well wide, the ball flying past the ear of a passing cyclist. A few tense minutes later and John finally blew the full time whistle, to the relief of the Northern Alliance and frustration of Shanty Town.
To paraphrase Mr Kipling, we kept our heads while all around were losing theirs and, which is more my son, held on to an exceedingly good point. It ended 3-3, but after being 3-1 down and playing the last 10 minutes with 9 men, plus coming on the back of an 8-0 defeat, it felt like a famous victory.
Several contenders for M-O-M but I’m going to go for Hudson. Great battling second half performance, and excellent goal to pull the scores level. Hats off.
Pete
Sunday 16 November 2008
Friday 7 November 2008
05 November 2008: Fowlers (a) in Thames League Big Cup
Profundity from every orafice with Uncle Gibbsy, enjoy:
Remember, remember the 5th of November?, no, no, please, I don’t want to, I want to block it out, I want to bury it deep down and let it shrivel up and die in some inky black, never ventured down cul -de- sac of my brain, a place where no one goes, ever. No, it wasn’t a good night.
It started ominously enough - as we warmed up on the court next to the pitch there were warning shots rocketing across our bows, bright flashing red lights, screams and sirens - how could we have ignored such blatant signs so casually? But we did, and like many things that occurred later in the evening, our inability to exercise our ‘vision’ facility must be something we should take extremely seriously.
So then we’re on the pitch, and we dick around as usual waiting for the get go, and out of the corner of my eye I see them. Smugly organised in their freshly squeezed hi-viz yellow, they’re gently yet sycophantically applauding each player as they name their squad, jolly good show Nigel..clap, clap, clap, hmmm.
Coyley pull us up for our chat and whos playing where and its feeling good, we’ve a strong squad and everyone looks up for it. But then theres the uncharacteristic use of deep metaphors from our warrior Captain Coyle - the ‘mice and men’ team talk. Well now, based on the ‘vision’ theory outlined earlier, flashing red lights etc, more warning signs are now flashing. Heres the gist of it, ‘Of Mice and Men’ was a John Steinbeck novel about two ill fated migrant field workers in California during the Great Depression, George Milton, the smart one, and Lennie Small, an ironically named man of large stature and immense strength but limited mental abilities. They venture out West to stake out some farmland and live out their dream. The dream crashes when Lennie (massive but not very clever) accidentally kills the young and attractive wife of a ranch owner's son, while trying to stroke her hair, much to hard, like he did already with his pet mouse (aha, theres the ‘mice’ ref). So then a lynch mob gathers and George (the clever small one), realizing he is doomed to a life of loneliness and despair like the rest of the migrant workers decides to be a man and spare Lennie a painful death at the hands of the vengeful and violent ranchers, so he shoots Lennie in the back of the head before the mob can find him. So, if you’ve bothered to read to the end of this bit, the moral of the Mice and Men tale is that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, as did ours, but also if you stroke things to hard they squish up in yer fist, and finally that a bullet in the back of the head would probably have been preferable to 8 nil. So how prophetic was our Cap, scary huh? We should have seen it coming.
I wont go into too much detail about the football because I was, like the rest of us in a Zulu like encounter where we were overrun, out numbered and out stripped, damn those Lemony shirted devils they were everywhere, and although I could see nothing but brave lads being done all around, and there was a total commitment from everybody, nobody went down without putting up a fight, the Dunkirk spirit ruled to the end. I don’t know why it didn’t work, nobody played badly, its a mystery, there were heroics, moments of genius and brute strength from the Alliance, but we were ruthlessly dissected by the opposition. They were tight, strategic and smug about it. They also had a strange shadowy figure on the touchline, perhaps the devil himself, some black magician, plotting our downfall , like Guido Fawkes himself, maybe he was the difference, maybe one of our subs should’ve twatted him early on.
Anyway it’s hard in such painful circumstances to select a man of the match, but my heart goes out to Paul, who despite his early ill fated metaphors, fought on to the end like a true Captain, with his head up, and because I have faith that the next time he leads us into battle with these fucks he will become their nemesis, I will write his ‘yea though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no man’ speech, I will follow him and we will remember the 5th of November, and we will blow them away. Next up for a shout is Eddie who saved us many times from the evil spectre of double figures, excellent work mate.
For what its worth, next time maybe we should play for 0-0, everyone intensively defensive, we wait till they mess up then pick em off, easy.
Gibbsy signing off.
Remember, remember the 5th of November?, no, no, please, I don’t want to, I want to block it out, I want to bury it deep down and let it shrivel up and die in some inky black, never ventured down cul -de- sac of my brain, a place where no one goes, ever. No, it wasn’t a good night.
It started ominously enough - as we warmed up on the court next to the pitch there were warning shots rocketing across our bows, bright flashing red lights, screams and sirens - how could we have ignored such blatant signs so casually? But we did, and like many things that occurred later in the evening, our inability to exercise our ‘vision’ facility must be something we should take extremely seriously.
So then we’re on the pitch, and we dick around as usual waiting for the get go, and out of the corner of my eye I see them. Smugly organised in their freshly squeezed hi-viz yellow, they’re gently yet sycophantically applauding each player as they name their squad, jolly good show Nigel..clap, clap, clap, hmmm.
Coyley pull us up for our chat and whos playing where and its feeling good, we’ve a strong squad and everyone looks up for it. But then theres the uncharacteristic use of deep metaphors from our warrior Captain Coyle - the ‘mice and men’ team talk. Well now, based on the ‘vision’ theory outlined earlier, flashing red lights etc, more warning signs are now flashing. Heres the gist of it, ‘Of Mice and Men’ was a John Steinbeck novel about two ill fated migrant field workers in California during the Great Depression, George Milton, the smart one, and Lennie Small, an ironically named man of large stature and immense strength but limited mental abilities. They venture out West to stake out some farmland and live out their dream. The dream crashes when Lennie (massive but not very clever) accidentally kills the young and attractive wife of a ranch owner's son, while trying to stroke her hair, much to hard, like he did already with his pet mouse (aha, theres the ‘mice’ ref). So then a lynch mob gathers and George (the clever small one), realizing he is doomed to a life of loneliness and despair like the rest of the migrant workers decides to be a man and spare Lennie a painful death at the hands of the vengeful and violent ranchers, so he shoots Lennie in the back of the head before the mob can find him. So, if you’ve bothered to read to the end of this bit, the moral of the Mice and Men tale is that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, as did ours, but also if you stroke things to hard they squish up in yer fist, and finally that a bullet in the back of the head would probably have been preferable to 8 nil. So how prophetic was our Cap, scary huh? We should have seen it coming.
I wont go into too much detail about the football because I was, like the rest of us in a Zulu like encounter where we were overrun, out numbered and out stripped, damn those Lemony shirted devils they were everywhere, and although I could see nothing but brave lads being done all around, and there was a total commitment from everybody, nobody went down without putting up a fight, the Dunkirk spirit ruled to the end. I don’t know why it didn’t work, nobody played badly, its a mystery, there were heroics, moments of genius and brute strength from the Alliance, but we were ruthlessly dissected by the opposition. They were tight, strategic and smug about it. They also had a strange shadowy figure on the touchline, perhaps the devil himself, some black magician, plotting our downfall , like Guido Fawkes himself, maybe he was the difference, maybe one of our subs should’ve twatted him early on.
Anyway it’s hard in such painful circumstances to select a man of the match, but my heart goes out to Paul, who despite his early ill fated metaphors, fought on to the end like a true Captain, with his head up, and because I have faith that the next time he leads us into battle with these fucks he will become their nemesis, I will write his ‘yea though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no man’ speech, I will follow him and we will remember the 5th of November, and we will blow them away. Next up for a shout is Eddie who saved us many times from the evil spectre of double figures, excellent work mate.
For what its worth, next time maybe we should play for 0-0, everyone intensively defensive, we wait till they mess up then pick em off, easy.
Gibbsy signing off.
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