Report by Gerald
Summer Solstice game
Reds: Kevin, Jeremy, Gerald, Oz, Jim
Yellows: JP, Tufan, Colin, Julius
They travelled from the Old Country, where Hirsute Ancestors and Standing Stones rise like ghosts from the rolling mists of the plains. They travelled in ones, and twos and threes, some with their face scrapped clean by the sharp morning stones, others with beards as thick and rough as the moors themselves. They came to the place where the Uprights rose, and the people gathered to chase and worship the Blatter FootOrb.
Other tribes gathered too: the Grey One (he of the Hairdresser Tribe) walked across and spoke to Oz, and the Grey One said “Do you want to play against us” and Oz replied with wisdom “not today thanks, we’re just playing five-a-side over here” and the Grey One stared blankly, fixing us with the possessed look of a druid hunting for a sacrificial youth and said, low and hushed: “You want to think about what you’ve just said…” He looked around at us and jabbed a finger: “Tonight – all of you, just you think about it” and walked away. He was not happy, that Grey One – not happy at all. Had we offended the Solstice God of the Hairdresser? Was Kevin’s beard too long? Were there now 13 Hairdressers to play the unlucky 6 vs 7? Did he think he was in a crappy British Gangsta Film? It will be left to El Capitano to determine the long-term effect of this rift between the two tribes – and may Frankie go to Hollywood.
SeppBall began, as it always began, with the pacing of the pitch and the piecing of the goals. The pitch was, in the great PCFC tradition, carefully paced out from the goals to ensure that it was wider than it was long, like switching from ‘portrait’ to ‘landscape’ in MS Word. The pieces were missing, and Jeremy raided another bag in the Shed to find the extra part (returning it after the match lest the Gods of South Caribb be angry).
Reds’ early lead (a beautiful homage to Wenger and Henri) disappeared as Yellows took advantage of the leaden feet of their opposition. Yellows were fast – with Tufan and Colin weaving and spinning and appearing as if teleported to score. Questions have to be asked, though, about the injections they’d received in their buttocks prior to the match from Mo Farah. Yellows came back from 1-2 to lead by 5-2, with reds catching a late one by the end of the half. 5-3 to Yellows, and Reds looked down and out, but did they have the Goddess Momentum on their side? At half-time it was noted that 50% of the goals were of the type known as ‘Own’, something to be celebrated like altruism.
Oz’s shots in the first half had come thick and fast, both left and right – literally both to the left and right of goal, but none in the “netty bit” – and his shooting leg had just been calibrated when sadly his old groin injury returned and he spent the second half in goal, letting nothing in. Jeremy and Jim discovered some of their old magic, and JP had swapped step-overs for flicks and passes. Gerald was distracted both by the Military Fitness Tribe, worshipping Sweaty Betty and looking more like an Isis Training Video every week [too soon? – ed.] and the Touch Rugby Tribe, who played a game not recognised as a game anywhere outside of the Antipodes. With every patch of green covered, it looked as if Peckham Rye was turning into Ble*din Clapham Common – to prevent this from happening we promised not to play for another three months.
Julius in Yellow played with silky European cool, and Kevin in Red with British passion – like Wellington at Waterloo, or John Wayne in The Longest Day [he wasn’t’ British – ed.] – and in the second half, the constant, and sometimes inappropriate, probing and prodding of Yellows yielded to wave upon wave of counter attacks by Reds, turning a 3-5 deficit into a 7-5 margin, then 7-6 as Yellows looked like they may get the draw they deserved. But, as Any Fule Kno, a simple glance at the Team Sheet above shows that Yellows were sorely lacking in “natural defenders” and I wouldn’t use the term “glory boys” about Yellows but, hey, history is written by the victors and my team won, so fair dinkum. This lack of, what’s technically known as ‘being a*sed to track back’, did for Yellows in the end – that and the draining heat :- three Red goals in the final five minutes gave them victory. The final scoreline didn’t reflect the narrow margins between the teams (both being at the lower end of the Footballing Skills Spectrum) and, as JP pointed out, Reds did have 20% more players.
The Solstice Gods thus appeased on the bloody alter of FIFABall, everyone went home to enjoy the rest of Fathers Day, guilt-free.
Final score: Reds 10 – 7 Yellows