And around we go again, as another week hurtles past and the
planet hurtles on its axis and our lives hurtle toward inexorable decay and
ultimate demise. Still, there’s always the football, isn’t there?
Two teams of eight this week:
Blues – Liam, Ian Baggies, Andy, Callum, Joe, Danny, Simon
Gas, Ed
Yellows – Mark, Tony, Peter, Alan, Steve, Nick (no beard),
me, Bristol Paul
With all the usual late arrivals not arriving (because they
weren’t playing) we started pretty much on time. I think it’s fair to say there
was a reasonable amount to report on this week, including two penalties and
five of the Queen’s goals, so I’ll crack on.
The Blue team took the lead as Mark began in goals for the
Yellows and someone or other bagged the first goal, upon which I relieved the
Scotsman for my customary roller-coaster ride in nets. After a quiet start I
conceded the second goal, which was a snapshot from outside the area from
Callum or Liam, or possibly Danny.
But despite this initial setback the Yellow team were very
much in the game, with Nick, Tony and Peter all pulling the strings in
midfield. And it was the towering Peter who pulled the Yellows back into
contention with a fierce low drive from wide on the right hand side of the area
which nestled unerringly into the bottom corner. 2-1 and game on.
Then came the first of the two penalties. After a typically
scrappy goalmouth scramble the ball squirted toward goal, whereupon Andy – NB:
not the goalkeeper – instinctively stuck out his hand to prevent the ball going
in, even though it wasn’t going in. Peter made no mistake from the spot. Two
apiece.
Up the other end and a few minutes later Steve was adjudged,
principally by Danny, to have handled, even though his hands were down by his
side and the ball appeared to hit his stomach first. Steve certainly didn’t
think it was a penalty, neither did I and I think we can safely say that
neither did Tony. The temperamental midfield maestro, who I later learnt is a
keen fencer (the swashbuckling variety that is, rather than someone who sells
on stolen goods) was incensed for the second time in as many weeks about the
apparent gamesmanship from his rivals and made to walk off.
When all this had eventually calmed down Danny took the
ensuing spot kick, which he fired over the bar. Still two all, then. Danny
doesn’t strike me as someone who’d deliberately miss a spotkick, but it may
well be that he didn’t address the ball with as much preparation and composure
as would ordinarily be the case.
And so the game appeared to be meandering toward a draw,
with Liam endeavouring to score but not quite getting there and yours truly
passing up a great chance following a neat cut back from Mick which I could
only squirt horribly wide.
However, with time nearly up I swapped passes with Alan on
the left hand side and the Irishman clearly had some sort of canonical epiphany
via his nation’s saint as he spied Andy straying away from the near post and
rifled in a fabulous volley from a tight angle to register the final goal of
the night.
Final score: Yellows 3 – Blues 2
And thus to the Skinners (after we’d had the usual madcap
ball retrieval routine, that is), which was mercifully free of Oirish themed
nonsense and people wearing comedy Guinness hats.
Conversation among the admittedly small throng touched on
Manchester United’s pot-Ferguson era, Paul McCartney’s solo material and
particularly Steve’s travel plans as he embarks on a three week sojourn Down
Under, complete with the Aiton tribe. Let’s hope the charm bracelet pays
dividends, eh, Steve?
Until Friday!
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