A large, dark metaphorical cloud hung over El Capitano as he lay in the B&B bed.
The wedding had been good, curry! The B&B was a little odd and the lady owner, though perfectly nice, certainly had the persona of someone with a stash of gin in every cupboard in the house. His kind of proprietor. Romsey was such a nice little town too.
No, the towering cumulonimbus was because she had promised to drive. Leave at 8am? No problem. The alarm had rung. They’d both woken. He’d packed his kit and was ready to endure two hours in the passenger seat listening to C90’s get even more warped in her cassette player whilst figuring out how to play in such a hungover state, such was his love for the team. But no, the love wasn’t shared. Two liquid sounding burps from the other side of the bed aroused his suspicion, the signs weren’t good. He wasn’t impressed.
But there was no humility. He would have let it go – she’d been very understanding of his Sunday absence on a regular basis – but when they eventually did get up and readied to leave, she came out of the bathroom with the immortal words….”I’d give it five minutes if I were you.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch……
Report by Gerald.
Red: Gerald, Oz, Ahmet, Keith, Kevin, Richard, Tufan, Stuart, Jim
Yellow: The Others plus John
River run past Peckham and Rye, from green of common to park of cars brings us circuitously via cafe and playground to the Triangle and its environs.
The Others, turfed on homesoil with numberswelled, were still short a man, although no short men, and John of Greenwood redtop dispersed to don yellowtop and evens make the numbers whilst Reds felt only sunshine and warmth from a day of spring as beautiful as that day on the Howth peninsula when you said yes, and first you put your arms around me, yes, yes.
Richard in goal saves, saves, Ahmet and Richard (yes the same) and Kevin in defence toils, toils – none shall pass these three knights of the Nun’s Head, Except the tall others shot, piyannggpyannggg, and ball scurtling net bulging, yellows heads high, 1-0 the Others now lined in yellow lines waiting for match restart.
The longball from back to front, over the heads of waiting midfielders spurned by the flighting ball from Ahmet’s foot to Tufan’s knee. Stuart, returned from absence long and heartfelt, turns and drifts from left to centre, Tufan collects and delivers the loving ball with sidefooting love into Yellow’s goal. 1-1.
The time of halves, drinking gluglguglguglguglgug, lungs emptying and refilling aching limbs eaoughapuffpuffeagluglguglgpehaowwhooauuhsouddgluglgug, Time Gentlemen Please. Luncheons are to be had (did Jim enjoy his morning croissant?), and the Elite mix with the Precariat as at the last supper, the end of days and Ragnarok.
Elbows jab in second half, arms and palms in ribs and face, yellow’s joy is lost through red’s longball heaven. 2-1. Heads go down amongst yellows, blame is lain, humours are lost, tempers are frain, stakes are raised. They attack in waves, heldback by the redoubtable Kevin, Richard, Ahmet. But resolute red stand, short of skill, greying at temples, perhaps, yes, but teamwork, fellowship and love of the cause make smilers of us all. Tufan skips and scampers, Gerald, me, blisters in the chase, Keith and Oz spoil and harry in the centre and Ahmet’s longballs ping over heads and onto feet and into net. 3-1.
How do you do it? Yellows ask, as goals unravel and unwind, bags packed, goodbyes had. Three shots, three goals – not a fair summary methinks, but the jist is made. The difference is in the happiness of playing together, not whining and moaning at others, not snarling and scowling when mistakes are made, but enjoying the green the blue, the sky, the trees, the jokes and hangovers. Love is the difference, that’s all.
Final score: Red 3 – 1 Yellow
love it!