Journey’s End
Monday 6th May
Being part of the one-man organising committee for today’s District Cup Finals at Oxford City means a 7.30am departure, 8.45 stadium briefing and pre-Geoff Richards KO catch-up with Coach Beale of Swindon and Coach Sanders of St Albans. Both district stalwarts have cunningly escaped domestic Bank Holiday rituals by using the age-old, ‘Just popping out for a paper (and might be some time)’ ruse that was invented by Captain Laurence Oates and handed down via Captain Scott Daniels’ posthumously frostbitten diaries a full century and a bit ago. ‘Which just goes to show that the old ‘uns are the best ones,’ chirps up The Photographer, but no-one catches his eye for fear of being offered an end-of-season montage for a cut-price fee that’s not far off the cost of a house extension.
Bexley against Orpington is nearing the halfway mark and the Girls’ Team is cutting it fine, but the tired-looking squad finally emerges through the ‘Teams & Officials’ entrance at two minutes past twelve, having left Longlevens at 10.10am (yesterday). Coach Bebber reveals that Coach Delaney’s been moaning non-stop throughout the near-twenty six hour journey to the Dreaming Spires, repeatedly claiming he’s not paying his post-Jersey slow-speeding fine, refusing to acknowledge the six penalty points the island constabulary has threatened him with and under no circumstances whatsoever will he ‘Catch a Flybe’ to the speed awareness course in St Helier tomorrow afternoon. ‘He’s in denial,’ she concludes, while surreptitiously checking the snack bar menu with her all-seeing right eye.
The Lens is in earnest conversation with the Oxford people, who eventually offer him a pair of old brown boots that are three sizes too small and a fluorescent yellow jacket that’s four sizes too big before they allow him onto the playing area to photograph the girls’ final. ‘And you can leave your big red machine in the car,’ orders Oxford Laura, ‘unless you give us fifty per cent of the profit.’ Needless to say, The Lens’s reply is a single word if you add four connecting hyphens to his rather Anglo-Saxon response, prior to checking the padlocks on his pockets and swallowing the key in a single action that is synchronicity itself.
The ‘A’ Team fans are piling in, shouting and singing and whooping and hollering and clapping whoever’s in the centre of the fast-moving peloton. As they reach the players’ tunnel, the crowd splits; half head towards the clubhouse bar and half towards the once-cleaned toilets, finally revealing Father Myatt, arms aloft, lamb shank still in its recyclable Tesco freezer bag, ice-encrusted finger tips pointing skywards in a silent gesture that simply says, ‘Winner.’
Coach Wilson isn’t the happiest of bunnies as he’s been banished to the home dugout due to his Primark trainers being deemed unsuitable for wandering about on the two-year old 3G surface. And they won’t let him bring a vanilla latte on here either, so he’s making do with a black Americano and a look of utter disdain. ‘He’s in denial,’ concludes Coach Bebber, slipping four quid and a wry grin on to the snack bar counter. ‘Three bacon, two sausage and a runny egg,’ she whispers, ‘and throw in a couple of hash browns as well.’ Behind them, Coach Sanders of St Albans can be seen chastising a whole row of bright blue seats at once, there being nothing that even remotely resembles a human thing to chastise anywhere near the oddly positioned 200-seat structure down near the corner flag. Behind the near railing, Coach Harris is also exercising his lower jaw though there are no words coming out, only a giant cheeseburger without any trace of salad going in. ‘He’s in denial,’ concludes Coach Bebber, ‘if it really is his first of the day.’
Coach Stalley’s carefully planned and perfectly orchestrated warm-up is not quite as orchestrated as he’d intended, due largely to Coach Wilson having moved the red & blue magnetic counters around on his gleaming white tactics board. ‘Er, we’d better start with some skipping then,’ suggests a rather befuddled CS, who thankfully fails to spot HD’s electric blue laser-eyes which are currently boring a six-inch hole between the Head Coach’s fourth and fifth vertebrae while he searches his new-fangled phone for some new-fangled training ideas.
With last-minute plans thoughtfully issued and last-minute jelly babies horrendously decapitated, the referee’s buzzer’s sounds and the team line up in the tunnel, awaiting the appearance of the red & whites who are sneakily hiding behind their changing room door in a clear attempt to leave the BYs stamping their feet in frustrated anticipation. It’s the sort of thing we usually do, but this lot are far too nice to even consider getting involved in anything remotely resembling a shenanigan, let alone making anyone wait.
It’s a stuttering opening from a Gloucester perspective, with Stevenage coming out on top in too many tackles and using the ball far too effectively once won. Obieri however has two early opportunities, a closed-eyes far post header and a right-foot effort saved by the Stevenage keeper; Burgess also sees his inswinging corner palmed wide, though at the other end, Fieldhouse does really well to head a well struck effort away for a corner.
Three minutes later Stevenage have the lead, a free kick middle-left finding its way through the crowd and into the bottom corner. Burgess again goes close, his left-sided free kick bringing a fine save from the keeper, but even though we’re a goal down and second best in many areas, we’ve had four opportunities to Stevenage’s two.
Vye is running his little beater out in the centre of the city midfield as, following Coach Wilson’s midpoint rant, half chances materialise at both ends and with fifteen minutes remaining, we’re level in utterly glorious fashion. Burgess’s corner is spilled by the keeper and Caple’s on hand to grab his fourth goal of the season from fully six inches out. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and never a truer word’s been spoken.
Burgess’s dead ball artistry continues to be at the hub of many of the team’s more threatening moments, his free kick almost providing a far post chance for Obieri, before a similar effort causes confusion in the Hertfordshire box and he who shall now forever be known as Todd the Toe sneaks the ball (right foot, big toe) ever so perfectly into the bottom far corner of the onion bag.
Obieri won’t care that, four minutes later there’s a deflection the size of Mont Blanc on his strike that makes it 3-1, and nor does anyone else in black & yellow as a goal’s a goal, just look in the book.
Back come Stevenage and there’s an almighty scramble in the Gloucester box, with Caple, Millward and Burgess amongst others blocking seemingly goalbound efforts, before Daniels pounces on the eventual loose ball to calm the crowd that lines that same half of the pitch.
May the Force Be with You puts his life on the line by not tucking in during the final moments, Coach Wilson even suggesting he stops the game to surgically attach a piece of ferritic steel to his torso and control his movements using the giant magnet he bought in St Helier’s best joke shop just three weeks ago. Talking of movements, Jones shifts uneasily on the dugout seat, causing CW to vacate the area avec rapidite, the wrath of Oxford Laura being a small price to pay when Full English is in this problematic mood.
All’s well that ends well however and with no further goals for either team, the Shires Cup is on its way back to Longlevens for only the second time and the first since 2006. There’s a great clip of the dressing room celebrations on Twitter, which shows a lot of jumping, a lot of singing and a bit of dancing, Millward and Burgess waving the cups around, Freeman shaking his medal, May with a very red face and Myatt running into a wall.
The post-match chicken pasta doesn’t go down well with everyone – in fact, only two people try it and only Mother Brown finishes it. Full English, under strict instructions from Father Jones to eat nothing at all due to an upcoming evening barbecue at the in-laws, stares longingly at the six uneaten pasta shells on Burgess’s plate, then buries his head in the confines of his interlocking arms before mooching off to the sanctity of the nearest toilet. ‘Second best is better than nothing at all,’ he muses, before walking through the wrong door in his quest for a moment of solace amidst a rumbling stomach and an aching, food-powered imagination.
Coach Wilson stacks both Shires and Cotswold League trophies behind the back seat of the bus, just as Coach Stalley gives a big false rev in an effort to scare him senseless. ‘Now now, it was only a tactics board,’ soothes CW, ‘and we didn’t need them anyway.’ One down, one to go.
Saturday 11th May
Every day is a great day, but some days are just that little bit greater than others. And this might just be one of them.
Iron Man’s nice and early for the 8am meet, though his insistence on punctuality means he’s forgotten one of his very red socks. ‘Superstition,’ he shrugs it off as, though he’s also forgotten to comb his hair, which suggests that getting on the cup final charabanc is of a much higher priority than a couple of pretty trivial domestic routines. Or having a glorious extra ten minutes in his sack may be the real reason for his nearly, but not-quite appearance.
Someone who’s clearly been up and in the vanity suite since the crack of dawn is Slider, whose random fringe that assumed such global popularity in the Channel Islands recently has been replaced by a flawlessly coiffured, inordinately gelled, brushed back parting of the WC variety that must have taken ages to perfect. And talking about Myatt, where is he?
8.05am and the other half of Norton arrives, displaying not only a turn of pace that everyone hopes will be replicated at OCFC in two and a half hours’ time, but also the neatest of sidesteps to dodge the mini bus that’s just decided, of its own accord, to run him over. A perfect warm-up routine then.
Progress is swift with there being precious little Saturday morning traffic on the A40 and apart from Full English being constantly blamed for things beyond his control, there’s a sense of last-day harmony as we arrive at the neat little ground early enough to grab the home changing room for the second game running. Coach Stalley, ever the propagator of a sense of fairness and a share-and-share-alike ethos that makes him so universally popular, suggests we consider vacating the premier space immediately and allowing Wokingham to use it instead, as whoever put the signs up on Monday morning had allocated it to both the Gloucester’s boys’ and girls’ teams. Everyone agrees that CS is invariably correct, considers his suggestion for a full five seconds, maybe six, then goes back inside the home team’s lair to dump the kit, open the jaffas and eat the final kit-kats of 18/19.
Wokingham set up a colossal number of colour-co-ordinated coned 2D shapes, an array that makes people wonder whether this is some hastily contrived method of providing some last-minute geometry practice in preparation for next week’s Year 6 SATs tests. There are two circles, three rectangles and several random polygons that could or could not be trapezia of various descriptions and some hugely impressively choreographed warm-up routines swiftly follow. Coach Stalley meanwhile makes do with a couple of lines of yellow and the odd arbitrary red, leading High Definition to the clear and obvious conclusion that skipping is again highly likely to feature somewhere on the schedule.
Coach Wilson is subjected to the ultimate dilemma – wear a pair of blue-flash 3G boots provided by Oxford Laura, or be banished to the dugout without a latte for the second game running. He’s not happy, but this surprises no-one. ‘Like your new boots,’ offers Burgess, while moving at pace in the opposite direction, an observation that only seeks to add a gallon of paraffin to an already well-fuelled fire.
Handshakes completed, Wokingham are the quicker out of the blocks and enjoy the better of the opening ten minutes, with Vespula twice, Iron Man and Full English each making important interceptions to prevent the Berkshire side creating a direct goalscoring opportunity.
On eleven minutes however, everything changes. Obieri picks the ball up midway inside the opposition half and weaves past three defenders before planting the sweetest of left-footed drives into the bottom corner, then indulging in a touchline celebration with Mother Brown and May the Force Be With You, amongst several others.
Wokingham reply immediately and Weldon forces a fine save from HD before Marvel sees his free kick strike the crossbar following a foul on WC. Branston in the Reds’ goal twice denies Obieri from close range, there’s a fine recovering tackle from May the Force Be with You as Wokingham break following a corner, but Gloucester go close again as great footwork from Vye fashions half an opening, but his effort slides just wide of the near post.
There’s plenty to say at the interval, with Coach Wilson for once erring on the side of positivity, before Coach Stalley gathers in the troops for a last-gasp Churchillian incantation that will send us out for the second half pumped right up to the double-sized eyeballs. Only Wokingham haven’t reappeared yet and the hoped-for ‘up-and-at-em’ crescendo that made Winston such an effective wartime motivator is replaced by a lull that has the impact of that nodding dog in the Churchill Insurance ad, meaning the devastated coach has to start all over again.
To make matters worse, The Reds equalise within a couple of minutes of the restart from a well-struck spot kick that arrows straight into the bottom right-hand corner.
This is the moment for the momentum to swing, Gloucester to buckle and Wokingham to press on, but none of this happens. Mother Brown, Iron Man, Full English and Vespula provide a resilient back line in front of High Definition, while Marvel, Slider, Todd the Toe, May the Force and WC mix defence with offence as Obieri, Marvel and Triple T each see their efforts flash inches wide.
Marvel forces a save from the keeper then strikes the bar once more as it seems the breakthrough just won’t arrive, but with a minute of normal time remaining, Vye nicks the ball in midfield and feeds Obieri who skips past both markers with a feint to the right and a skip to the left before firing in off the far post.
There’s bedlam on the pitch as Obieri disappears beneath a mass of humanity over by the corner flag, with Full English displaying a burst of Usain Bolt to sprint from the dugout to the other side of the ground to jump on the heap. Myatt also moves across the pristine surface, though his momentum is more Coach Delaney in a mini bus than a Jamaican sprinter of any repute and for the second time in four miserable hours, he turns up a couple of minutes late.
There are still four minutes of injury time to play, however. Mother Brown concedes a touchline free kick that garners a reaction from Coach Wilson that borders on the apoplectic, while barely sixty seconds later the same player poleaxes the opposition left winger with a tackle that has ‘Winner’ written all over it, resulting in a double thumbs-up and a ‘That’s my boy’ reaction from CW. They say a minute’s a long time in politics, but in the white-hot atmosphere of both cup finals and eating contests, it’s more like a lifetime.
There are whistles and there are whistles, but this particular whistle signals history has been made and the much-loved Southern Counties Cup is about to be added to the Shires, Southern Counties and Cotswold League titles – an unprecedented quadruple that’s never been achieved before and will never, ever happen again. Chesney Hawkes might have sung, ‘You are the One and Only’ to the Black & Yellow horde if there’d been a DJ in the two-seater press box and the tannoy system had been switched on, but GPSFA Chairman Steadman and Oxfordshire President Stemp are excellent, if not quite as tuneful, substitutes.
There are smiles to be exchanged and photos to be taken as the sun beams down on a small piece of Oxfordshire that is, at this single moment in time, the very best place in the whole wide world. ‘Apart from the Red Lion,’ interjects Father Myatt, before launching into a one-man rendition of ‘Champiano’, an offering that draws a look which can best be described as ‘daggers’ from a big fella wearing a red & black scarf and sporting enough facial hair to stuff a small sofa. ‘Champiano,’ continues FM, adding a brace of overhead handclaps and a pair of exaggerated ‘iano’s’ to his already centre stage performance, before regally disappearing firstly into the once-disinfected gentlemen’s room and secondly into the clubhouse bar.
Full English is thrilled as he’s had no ‘Barbecue later’ orders and wolfs down tomato pasta and two chunks of Italian-style bread, while Millward, Burgess, High Definition, Caple and Vye all join in with varying degrees of success. Only Full English asks for seconds though and when informed that the kitchen’s closed, indulges in an almost surgical examination of his polystyrene tray in an attempt to find, then extract any remaining flakes of something resembling food from the micro-cracks that line its interior.
Next stop Oxford Services, seven miles in the other direction, for what might biblically be described as the Last Supper, even though it’s a day late and a few hours early. High Definition shows that he’s no intention whatsoever of becoming a vegetarian and buying a season ticket for Forest Green Rovers by devouring an entire Kentucky Fried Hen segment by segment, while Father Jones’s Thursday pronouncement that he’s going to sell his Subway shares after today’s Oxford jaunt is concluded, looks like being a profitable move as their value’s just increased by around thirty per cent.
It’s a noisy bus as we head back round the ring road and by-pass Burford, Northleach and the Inn for All Seasons for the final time, though there’s not a single ‘How far?’ query from May the Force Be with You throughout the entire homeward journey. Instead he’s involved in a spot of skulduggery of some description with the other half of the Queen’s clientele, who on each occasion that Coach Wilson as much as clears his throat, buzzes his proboscis behind the headrest, thinking that no-one will realise he’s there.
The ’Welcome Home’ committee has decamped to the rugby club via The Teddy, the prospect of an end-of-season knees-up pleasing Mother Brown (and his boys) no end. The mini bus is emptied, cleaned, returned and locked away for the summer. The kit’s in its big blue Ikea bag and nine of the eleven shirts will be the right way out, but on the last day, no-one’s really counting. F100%B has already left to begin to compile the highlights package that I’ll watch half a dozen times tomorrow afternoon with the cup on the desk and a scarf round my neck and shout and cheer and whoop and celebrate as much on the sixth viewing as we did just a few hours ago.
Every day is a great day, but some days are just that little bit greater than others. And today has most certainly been one of them.
And so it’s finally over, but what a 6096 hours 2018/19’s been. A massive thank-you to all the parents for your support, commitment, enthusiasm and fun. Thanks for encouraging all the players to be the absolute best they can be in whatever they’ve set out to do, for spiritually and emotionally willing them on through the past 256 days, while at the same time encouraging them to develop their self-sufficiency and independence by letting them do as much of it as possible on their own. Thanks too for attending all those Fancy Dress conventions and for entering into the spirit by wearing your best shoes, scarves, beards, shorts, dog collars, coaches’ outfits, bovver boots, bobble hats, deer stalkers, yellow winklepickers, broadest smiles and retro 1970s navy blue shell suits. While we can’t all take home that coveted lamb shank, everyone’s been a winner in 2018/19.
And a massive thank-you to all the players. You’ve made friends and memories that will last a lifetime as you’ve navigated your way through this amazing eight-and-a-half-month journey, an odyssey that we’ve been so incredibly fortunate to have been able to share:
High Definition, you’ve been a paragon of virtue, both on and off the pitch; the best goalkeeper in the SCL bar none and by far; WC – you’ve twisted and turned and spent the season winning everything and losing everything in equal measure, charming everyone you’ve met along the way. Vespula Vulgaris - commitment, skill and admirable consistency; but more than anything, you bleed black & yellow. Issur Danielovitch, your versatility and non-stop running have played a really big part in the team’s success – May the Force Remain with You for years to come, Douglas. Slider - a huge cog in the GPSFA wheel, your workrate, quality and fancy hair-do in the two finals alone are worthy of a chapter in anyone’s Book of Success. Triple T, never fazed, never stopped, never beaten, hugely popular; small in stature maybe, but massive in heart always. Full English; you’ve contributed hugely in a variety of positions, but winning the ball and passing it consistently is what you’ve done so very, very well in each of them. And you’ve made us all laugh hugely and cry a little too for eight solid months. Mother Brown, you’ve made some genuinely huge tackles and some absolutely magnificent blocks – goal-savers all – a part in the new version of Les Miserables (as the immovable barricade) awaits you. Iron Man – you really are made from girders; if you were a WWE wrestler, you’d be called The Rock, cos that’s what you’ve been and that’s what you are. In every indomitable respect. The Determinator – an extraordinary, record-breaking season in both goals and celebrations, manners and humility. And Captain Marvel – the name says it all. You’ve led by example, motivated by deed and inspired a group of Superheroes from first whistle till last.
Record breakers and history makers all and the creators of some very, very happy days.
GPSFA Class of 2018/19: High Definition; Full English, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; WC, Slider, Captain Marvel, Tod the Toe; The Determinator; May the Force Be with You, Mother Brown.
Being part of the one-man organising committee for today’s District Cup Finals at Oxford City means a 7.30am departure, 8.45 stadium briefing and pre-Geoff Richards KO catch-up with Coach Beale of Swindon and Coach Sanders of St Albans. Both district stalwarts have cunningly escaped domestic Bank Holiday rituals by using the age-old, ‘Just popping out for a paper (and might be some time)’ ruse that was invented by Captain Laurence Oates and handed down via Captain Scott Daniels’ posthumously frostbitten diaries a full century and a bit ago. ‘Which just goes to show that the old ‘uns are the best ones,’ chirps up The Photographer, but no-one catches his eye for fear of being offered an end-of-season montage for a cut-price fee that’s not far off the cost of a house extension.
Bexley against Orpington is nearing the halfway mark and the Girls’ Team is cutting it fine, but the tired-looking squad finally emerges through the ‘Teams & Officials’ entrance at two minutes past twelve, having left Longlevens at 10.10am (yesterday). Coach Bebber reveals that Coach Delaney’s been moaning non-stop throughout the near-twenty six hour journey to the Dreaming Spires, repeatedly claiming he’s not paying his post-Jersey slow-speeding fine, refusing to acknowledge the six penalty points the island constabulary has threatened him with and under no circumstances whatsoever will he ‘Catch a Flybe’ to the speed awareness course in St Helier tomorrow afternoon. ‘He’s in denial,’ she concludes, while surreptitiously checking the snack bar menu with her all-seeing right eye.
The Lens is in earnest conversation with the Oxford people, who eventually offer him a pair of old brown boots that are three sizes too small and a fluorescent yellow jacket that’s four sizes too big before they allow him onto the playing area to photograph the girls’ final. ‘And you can leave your big red machine in the car,’ orders Oxford Laura, ‘unless you give us fifty per cent of the profit.’ Needless to say, The Lens’s reply is a single word if you add four connecting hyphens to his rather Anglo-Saxon response, prior to checking the padlocks on his pockets and swallowing the key in a single action that is synchronicity itself.
The ‘A’ Team fans are piling in, shouting and singing and whooping and hollering and clapping whoever’s in the centre of the fast-moving peloton. As they reach the players’ tunnel, the crowd splits; half head towards the clubhouse bar and half towards the once-cleaned toilets, finally revealing Father Myatt, arms aloft, lamb shank still in its recyclable Tesco freezer bag, ice-encrusted finger tips pointing skywards in a silent gesture that simply says, ‘Winner.’
Coach Wilson isn’t the happiest of bunnies as he’s been banished to the home dugout due to his Primark trainers being deemed unsuitable for wandering about on the two-year old 3G surface. And they won’t let him bring a vanilla latte on here either, so he’s making do with a black Americano and a look of utter disdain. ‘He’s in denial,’ concludes Coach Bebber, slipping four quid and a wry grin on to the snack bar counter. ‘Three bacon, two sausage and a runny egg,’ she whispers, ‘and throw in a couple of hash browns as well.’ Behind them, Coach Sanders of St Albans can be seen chastising a whole row of bright blue seats at once, there being nothing that even remotely resembles a human thing to chastise anywhere near the oddly positioned 200-seat structure down near the corner flag. Behind the near railing, Coach Harris is also exercising his lower jaw though there are no words coming out, only a giant cheeseburger without any trace of salad going in. ‘He’s in denial,’ concludes Coach Bebber, ‘if it really is his first of the day.’
Coach Stalley’s carefully planned and perfectly orchestrated warm-up is not quite as orchestrated as he’d intended, due largely to Coach Wilson having moved the red & blue magnetic counters around on his gleaming white tactics board. ‘Er, we’d better start with some skipping then,’ suggests a rather befuddled CS, who thankfully fails to spot HD’s electric blue laser-eyes which are currently boring a six-inch hole between the Head Coach’s fourth and fifth vertebrae while he searches his new-fangled phone for some new-fangled training ideas.
With last-minute plans thoughtfully issued and last-minute jelly babies horrendously decapitated, the referee’s buzzer’s sounds and the team line up in the tunnel, awaiting the appearance of the red & whites who are sneakily hiding behind their changing room door in a clear attempt to leave the BYs stamping their feet in frustrated anticipation. It’s the sort of thing we usually do, but this lot are far too nice to even consider getting involved in anything remotely resembling a shenanigan, let alone making anyone wait.
It’s a stuttering opening from a Gloucester perspective, with Stevenage coming out on top in too many tackles and using the ball far too effectively once won. Obieri however has two early opportunities, a closed-eyes far post header and a right-foot effort saved by the Stevenage keeper; Burgess also sees his inswinging corner palmed wide, though at the other end, Fieldhouse does really well to head a well struck effort away for a corner.
Three minutes later Stevenage have the lead, a free kick middle-left finding its way through the crowd and into the bottom corner. Burgess again goes close, his left-sided free kick bringing a fine save from the keeper, but even though we’re a goal down and second best in many areas, we’ve had four opportunities to Stevenage’s two.
Vye is running his little beater out in the centre of the city midfield as, following Coach Wilson’s midpoint rant, half chances materialise at both ends and with fifteen minutes remaining, we’re level in utterly glorious fashion. Burgess’s corner is spilled by the keeper and Caple’s on hand to grab his fourth goal of the season from fully six inches out. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and never a truer word’s been spoken.
Burgess’s dead ball artistry continues to be at the hub of many of the team’s more threatening moments, his free kick almost providing a far post chance for Obieri, before a similar effort causes confusion in the Hertfordshire box and he who shall now forever be known as Todd the Toe sneaks the ball (right foot, big toe) ever so perfectly into the bottom far corner of the onion bag.
Obieri won’t care that, four minutes later there’s a deflection the size of Mont Blanc on his strike that makes it 3-1, and nor does anyone else in black & yellow as a goal’s a goal, just look in the book.
Back come Stevenage and there’s an almighty scramble in the Gloucester box, with Caple, Millward and Burgess amongst others blocking seemingly goalbound efforts, before Daniels pounces on the eventual loose ball to calm the crowd that lines that same half of the pitch.
May the Force Be with You puts his life on the line by not tucking in during the final moments, Coach Wilson even suggesting he stops the game to surgically attach a piece of ferritic steel to his torso and control his movements using the giant magnet he bought in St Helier’s best joke shop just three weeks ago. Talking of movements, Jones shifts uneasily on the dugout seat, causing CW to vacate the area avec rapidite, the wrath of Oxford Laura being a small price to pay when Full English is in this problematic mood.
All’s well that ends well however and with no further goals for either team, the Shires Cup is on its way back to Longlevens for only the second time and the first since 2006. There’s a great clip of the dressing room celebrations on Twitter, which shows a lot of jumping, a lot of singing and a bit of dancing, Millward and Burgess waving the cups around, Freeman shaking his medal, May with a very red face and Myatt running into a wall.
The post-match chicken pasta doesn’t go down well with everyone – in fact, only two people try it and only Mother Brown finishes it. Full English, under strict instructions from Father Jones to eat nothing at all due to an upcoming evening barbecue at the in-laws, stares longingly at the six uneaten pasta shells on Burgess’s plate, then buries his head in the confines of his interlocking arms before mooching off to the sanctity of the nearest toilet. ‘Second best is better than nothing at all,’ he muses, before walking through the wrong door in his quest for a moment of solace amidst a rumbling stomach and an aching, food-powered imagination.
Coach Wilson stacks both Shires and Cotswold League trophies behind the back seat of the bus, just as Coach Stalley gives a big false rev in an effort to scare him senseless. ‘Now now, it was only a tactics board,’ soothes CW, ‘and we didn’t need them anyway.’ One down, one to go.
Saturday 11th May
Every day is a great day, but some days are just that little bit greater than others. And this might just be one of them.
Iron Man’s nice and early for the 8am meet, though his insistence on punctuality means he’s forgotten one of his very red socks. ‘Superstition,’ he shrugs it off as, though he’s also forgotten to comb his hair, which suggests that getting on the cup final charabanc is of a much higher priority than a couple of pretty trivial domestic routines. Or having a glorious extra ten minutes in his sack may be the real reason for his nearly, but not-quite appearance.
Someone who’s clearly been up and in the vanity suite since the crack of dawn is Slider, whose random fringe that assumed such global popularity in the Channel Islands recently has been replaced by a flawlessly coiffured, inordinately gelled, brushed back parting of the WC variety that must have taken ages to perfect. And talking about Myatt, where is he?
8.05am and the other half of Norton arrives, displaying not only a turn of pace that everyone hopes will be replicated at OCFC in two and a half hours’ time, but also the neatest of sidesteps to dodge the mini bus that’s just decided, of its own accord, to run him over. A perfect warm-up routine then.
Progress is swift with there being precious little Saturday morning traffic on the A40 and apart from Full English being constantly blamed for things beyond his control, there’s a sense of last-day harmony as we arrive at the neat little ground early enough to grab the home changing room for the second game running. Coach Stalley, ever the propagator of a sense of fairness and a share-and-share-alike ethos that makes him so universally popular, suggests we consider vacating the premier space immediately and allowing Wokingham to use it instead, as whoever put the signs up on Monday morning had allocated it to both the Gloucester’s boys’ and girls’ teams. Everyone agrees that CS is invariably correct, considers his suggestion for a full five seconds, maybe six, then goes back inside the home team’s lair to dump the kit, open the jaffas and eat the final kit-kats of 18/19.
Wokingham set up a colossal number of colour-co-ordinated coned 2D shapes, an array that makes people wonder whether this is some hastily contrived method of providing some last-minute geometry practice in preparation for next week’s Year 6 SATs tests. There are two circles, three rectangles and several random polygons that could or could not be trapezia of various descriptions and some hugely impressively choreographed warm-up routines swiftly follow. Coach Stalley meanwhile makes do with a couple of lines of yellow and the odd arbitrary red, leading High Definition to the clear and obvious conclusion that skipping is again highly likely to feature somewhere on the schedule.
Coach Wilson is subjected to the ultimate dilemma – wear a pair of blue-flash 3G boots provided by Oxford Laura, or be banished to the dugout without a latte for the second game running. He’s not happy, but this surprises no-one. ‘Like your new boots,’ offers Burgess, while moving at pace in the opposite direction, an observation that only seeks to add a gallon of paraffin to an already well-fuelled fire.
Handshakes completed, Wokingham are the quicker out of the blocks and enjoy the better of the opening ten minutes, with Vespula twice, Iron Man and Full English each making important interceptions to prevent the Berkshire side creating a direct goalscoring opportunity.
On eleven minutes however, everything changes. Obieri picks the ball up midway inside the opposition half and weaves past three defenders before planting the sweetest of left-footed drives into the bottom corner, then indulging in a touchline celebration with Mother Brown and May the Force Be With You, amongst several others.
Wokingham reply immediately and Weldon forces a fine save from HD before Marvel sees his free kick strike the crossbar following a foul on WC. Branston in the Reds’ goal twice denies Obieri from close range, there’s a fine recovering tackle from May the Force Be with You as Wokingham break following a corner, but Gloucester go close again as great footwork from Vye fashions half an opening, but his effort slides just wide of the near post.
There’s plenty to say at the interval, with Coach Wilson for once erring on the side of positivity, before Coach Stalley gathers in the troops for a last-gasp Churchillian incantation that will send us out for the second half pumped right up to the double-sized eyeballs. Only Wokingham haven’t reappeared yet and the hoped-for ‘up-and-at-em’ crescendo that made Winston such an effective wartime motivator is replaced by a lull that has the impact of that nodding dog in the Churchill Insurance ad, meaning the devastated coach has to start all over again.
To make matters worse, The Reds equalise within a couple of minutes of the restart from a well-struck spot kick that arrows straight into the bottom right-hand corner.
This is the moment for the momentum to swing, Gloucester to buckle and Wokingham to press on, but none of this happens. Mother Brown, Iron Man, Full English and Vespula provide a resilient back line in front of High Definition, while Marvel, Slider, Todd the Toe, May the Force and WC mix defence with offence as Obieri, Marvel and Triple T each see their efforts flash inches wide.
Marvel forces a save from the keeper then strikes the bar once more as it seems the breakthrough just won’t arrive, but with a minute of normal time remaining, Vye nicks the ball in midfield and feeds Obieri who skips past both markers with a feint to the right and a skip to the left before firing in off the far post.
There’s bedlam on the pitch as Obieri disappears beneath a mass of humanity over by the corner flag, with Full English displaying a burst of Usain Bolt to sprint from the dugout to the other side of the ground to jump on the heap. Myatt also moves across the pristine surface, though his momentum is more Coach Delaney in a mini bus than a Jamaican sprinter of any repute and for the second time in four miserable hours, he turns up a couple of minutes late.
There are still four minutes of injury time to play, however. Mother Brown concedes a touchline free kick that garners a reaction from Coach Wilson that borders on the apoplectic, while barely sixty seconds later the same player poleaxes the opposition left winger with a tackle that has ‘Winner’ written all over it, resulting in a double thumbs-up and a ‘That’s my boy’ reaction from CW. They say a minute’s a long time in politics, but in the white-hot atmosphere of both cup finals and eating contests, it’s more like a lifetime.
There are whistles and there are whistles, but this particular whistle signals history has been made and the much-loved Southern Counties Cup is about to be added to the Shires, Southern Counties and Cotswold League titles – an unprecedented quadruple that’s never been achieved before and will never, ever happen again. Chesney Hawkes might have sung, ‘You are the One and Only’ to the Black & Yellow horde if there’d been a DJ in the two-seater press box and the tannoy system had been switched on, but GPSFA Chairman Steadman and Oxfordshire President Stemp are excellent, if not quite as tuneful, substitutes.
There are smiles to be exchanged and photos to be taken as the sun beams down on a small piece of Oxfordshire that is, at this single moment in time, the very best place in the whole wide world. ‘Apart from the Red Lion,’ interjects Father Myatt, before launching into a one-man rendition of ‘Champiano’, an offering that draws a look which can best be described as ‘daggers’ from a big fella wearing a red & black scarf and sporting enough facial hair to stuff a small sofa. ‘Champiano,’ continues FM, adding a brace of overhead handclaps and a pair of exaggerated ‘iano’s’ to his already centre stage performance, before regally disappearing firstly into the once-disinfected gentlemen’s room and secondly into the clubhouse bar.
Full English is thrilled as he’s had no ‘Barbecue later’ orders and wolfs down tomato pasta and two chunks of Italian-style bread, while Millward, Burgess, High Definition, Caple and Vye all join in with varying degrees of success. Only Full English asks for seconds though and when informed that the kitchen’s closed, indulges in an almost surgical examination of his polystyrene tray in an attempt to find, then extract any remaining flakes of something resembling food from the micro-cracks that line its interior.
Next stop Oxford Services, seven miles in the other direction, for what might biblically be described as the Last Supper, even though it’s a day late and a few hours early. High Definition shows that he’s no intention whatsoever of becoming a vegetarian and buying a season ticket for Forest Green Rovers by devouring an entire Kentucky Fried Hen segment by segment, while Father Jones’s Thursday pronouncement that he’s going to sell his Subway shares after today’s Oxford jaunt is concluded, looks like being a profitable move as their value’s just increased by around thirty per cent.
It’s a noisy bus as we head back round the ring road and by-pass Burford, Northleach and the Inn for All Seasons for the final time, though there’s not a single ‘How far?’ query from May the Force Be with You throughout the entire homeward journey. Instead he’s involved in a spot of skulduggery of some description with the other half of the Queen’s clientele, who on each occasion that Coach Wilson as much as clears his throat, buzzes his proboscis behind the headrest, thinking that no-one will realise he’s there.
The ’Welcome Home’ committee has decamped to the rugby club via The Teddy, the prospect of an end-of-season knees-up pleasing Mother Brown (and his boys) no end. The mini bus is emptied, cleaned, returned and locked away for the summer. The kit’s in its big blue Ikea bag and nine of the eleven shirts will be the right way out, but on the last day, no-one’s really counting. F100%B has already left to begin to compile the highlights package that I’ll watch half a dozen times tomorrow afternoon with the cup on the desk and a scarf round my neck and shout and cheer and whoop and celebrate as much on the sixth viewing as we did just a few hours ago.
Every day is a great day, but some days are just that little bit greater than others. And today has most certainly been one of them.
And so it’s finally over, but what a 6096 hours 2018/19’s been. A massive thank-you to all the parents for your support, commitment, enthusiasm and fun. Thanks for encouraging all the players to be the absolute best they can be in whatever they’ve set out to do, for spiritually and emotionally willing them on through the past 256 days, while at the same time encouraging them to develop their self-sufficiency and independence by letting them do as much of it as possible on their own. Thanks too for attending all those Fancy Dress conventions and for entering into the spirit by wearing your best shoes, scarves, beards, shorts, dog collars, coaches’ outfits, bovver boots, bobble hats, deer stalkers, yellow winklepickers, broadest smiles and retro 1970s navy blue shell suits. While we can’t all take home that coveted lamb shank, everyone’s been a winner in 2018/19.
And a massive thank-you to all the players. You’ve made friends and memories that will last a lifetime as you’ve navigated your way through this amazing eight-and-a-half-month journey, an odyssey that we’ve been so incredibly fortunate to have been able to share:
High Definition, you’ve been a paragon of virtue, both on and off the pitch; the best goalkeeper in the SCL bar none and by far; WC – you’ve twisted and turned and spent the season winning everything and losing everything in equal measure, charming everyone you’ve met along the way. Vespula Vulgaris - commitment, skill and admirable consistency; but more than anything, you bleed black & yellow. Issur Danielovitch, your versatility and non-stop running have played a really big part in the team’s success – May the Force Remain with You for years to come, Douglas. Slider - a huge cog in the GPSFA wheel, your workrate, quality and fancy hair-do in the two finals alone are worthy of a chapter in anyone’s Book of Success. Triple T, never fazed, never stopped, never beaten, hugely popular; small in stature maybe, but massive in heart always. Full English; you’ve contributed hugely in a variety of positions, but winning the ball and passing it consistently is what you’ve done so very, very well in each of them. And you’ve made us all laugh hugely and cry a little too for eight solid months. Mother Brown, you’ve made some genuinely huge tackles and some absolutely magnificent blocks – goal-savers all – a part in the new version of Les Miserables (as the immovable barricade) awaits you. Iron Man – you really are made from girders; if you were a WWE wrestler, you’d be called The Rock, cos that’s what you’ve been and that’s what you are. In every indomitable respect. The Determinator – an extraordinary, record-breaking season in both goals and celebrations, manners and humility. And Captain Marvel – the name says it all. You’ve led by example, motivated by deed and inspired a group of Superheroes from first whistle till last.
Record breakers and history makers all and the creators of some very, very happy days.
GPSFA Class of 2018/19: High Definition; Full English, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; WC, Slider, Captain Marvel, Tod the Toe; The Determinator; May the Force Be with You, Mother Brown.
