3s vs Old Parkonians – 04.02.17

Our story begins with a handsome man from the regions that, for the purposes of this match report, we shall call ‘Bill Baylor’. Though long since departed for foreign shores, Bill once played sports with a host of friendly folk at a club that, for the purposes of this match report, we shall call ‘Burton FC’. 
 
Burton was full of so many attractive men that one of its many fraternities was known as ‘Team Attractive’, and they were renowned for dazzling lady people as well as any opposition sporting outfits that they played and defeated. Bill was undoubtedly the most attractive member of Team Attractive, for he dazzled the most brightly. And yet, another attractive (and in this case intelligent) member of Team Attractive, who for the purposes of this match report we shall call Dave Wayne-Tonne, was somewhat confused. 

“Why,” enquired Wayne-Tonne over a perfectly chosen beverage. “Why is Bill, the finest of swordsmen and a clear Southern Amateur League Senior Division 1, so often seen squiring lady people that one might objectively say are Southern Amateur League Junior Division 3?” 

“DW,” replied Bill. “Why did you say ‘Bill’ just then and not ‘you’?” 

“Good question,” said Wayne-Tonne. “I think it’s because this is a made-up story forming part of an somewhat off-kilter match report, though a story itself based upon many truths.” 

“Ah, then I shall answer,” said Bill, placing his hand on Wayne-Tonne’s awesome shoulder. “You see, making love to beautiful ladies is much like scoring goals. I do plenty of both, but you’ve got to accept that occasionally you will have a a bit of a mare. The thing is, if you keep putting it out there and your balls end up in the right place, you have to consider that a success.” 

********** 

Though its message is somewhat esoteric, I was reminded of this story at halftime during Merton 3s’ not-at-all-epic 3-2 defeat of some numpties from Essex. 

“We’re playing REALLY well,” Mustard was telling the team, playing at manager for the day after giving himself the cold shoulder. “I don’t know how we’ve not scored more goals.” 

“I need to go and do a Jason Puncheon,” I (DQ, for those not keeping up) said, galloping towards the ref’s changing room for a quick ten-bob-bit. And it was on that run, and during those runs, that the story came back to me. You see I’d scored the goal that had put us 1-0 up, but really by that stage should already have secured the match ball. Twice the Ukrainian Menace, Denys, had put me through, and though once the ‘keeper saved well the second time he really didn’t have the chance. I blame the pitch.  

The favour was returned on a quick break, but this time the UMD himself dragged wide, before finally the partnership struck some sort of gold via a dainty throughball and tidy outside-of-the-boot finish. 1-0. Lovely. 

Bored of watching his teammates making like an unlucky Monopoly players and repeatedly passing chances, Andrew Holder Ross then chinned one of the weighty Parkonian players’ elbows. Somewhat unsurprisingly AHR’s chin came off worse, and he departed the pitch worse for wear.  

Holder Ross was to return in the second half. The same cannot be said of Parkonian’s best player who appeared to break his wrist on the post during a goalmouth scramble. The scramble came from a corner generated by one of the many fine saves Dan made on the day, ensuring him a couple of MoM votes in the bar. 

I was to receive no such votes. Returning from the halftime relief, not knowing whether I’d missed out on any of Mustard’s keener tactical insights, I joined 10 other determined men on the field of battle ready to enjoy a ten minute brain fart that saw us 2-1 down and making more mistakes than Donno trying to do a healthy food shop. 

One chubby chancer wandered through and poked home apologetically before a corner a few minutes later resulted in a handball that Vin assures everyone in no way touched his arm. Slow motion replays reveal that, in fact, one of the Italian Stallion’s enormous moobs swayed majestically across his bicep and thwatted the ball away. But you couldn’t blame the ref for giving the penalty, nor Dan for not saving it. 

My time to shine. Still giving the defence a glorious old runaround I shaved the post when one-on-one and grazed a header somewhere in the direction of the corner flag. Realising the folly of my ways, next time round I lay the ball back on the left-hand edge of the area and Jordan, who had woken-up after a slumbersome first half, proceded to curl the goal of the season into the top bag. 2-2. The jolly Scouser went on to win MoM and in no-way stick to stereotype by stealing my shower gel. 

The UMD was so excited by the goal that, rather than score when given the ball on the goal-line by a galloping (and returning) Holder Ross, dummied it, lay down beside it admiringly, and punched it twice without putting it in the net. How he wasn’t sent off no-one really knows, but word is the ref really loves a hard-smoking and hard, smoking eastern European. 

I scored again. May have been offside. Who cares? I celebrated two minutes later by Porborskying the keeper and, sadly, the bar, and, with the very last move of the game, aiming another delicious Glenn cross (there were quite a few) over the left-hand corner of the goal. 

A 3-2 win, and a bunch of ruddy heroes involved. Notable shoutouts for the wonderfully complainsome Ricky, who caused many a defensive problem in the first half (both the oppo and Conor); our Hispanic friend and the UMD’s married couple arguments that go on the entire time they’re on the pitch together; Iain, for not knowing what E.T.A. means when questioned about arrival time, but also largely dominating the midfield; and Cookie for returning and not getting sent-off or arguing with anyone. 

“I haven’t got time for this,” said the Bristolian battler, without a hint of irony, after Conor’s dual with Parkonians’ ‘solid’ left winger boiled over a bit. “Why do people argue on football pitches?” 

********** 

“Nah, she was terrible mate, so was yours,” Baylor said to Wayne-Tonne, as he ushered the recently boffed, and sore-yet-satisfied vixens out of his doorway. “But a score’s a score, always never forget that.” 

Wayne-Tonne nodded, for he knew it was true, and he slept like a man that had missed enough chances to earn ‘Dick of the Day’, yet had the satisfaction of knowing that he alone ended the match with two goals on the scoresheet.