They stood in the bitter wind. Three brave men. Three men waiting. Waiting in Faith.
Jim. Martin. Matt.
And then a fourth joined the three. The fourth was me. And then a fifth.
The gods of association football called out in hideous mirth from from winged perches in bare trees.
The bitter wind blew, driving icy tears from grown men’s eyes. Biting, cutting, scouring skin.
And a man, number six, joined the five. It was agreed. Enough for a game.
Jim. Martin. Matt. Gerald. Tufan. Kevin.
The bitter wind blew, iron doors were wrenched open. Bags and kit, stiff with mud and ice, assembled.
Two fellow travellers in the cold. Two of The Others, Prit and Robert. These two joined the six.
Steve, the Wanderer, cast adrift from his Sunday League, was the ninth.
Ahmet, the Tall, watched from the Common edge. Until the goals were set up. He made the tenth.
Saturday’s roll call had brought 1 firm ‘yes’. Yet here, today, were Five A Side.
El Capitano was absent. But the rituals were followed according to ancient Law, lest the gods of football be angered still.
Thirteen paces from goal to corner? Yes, said the ten, to the Gods of Varying Stride.
Play area wider in breadth than in length? Yes, said the ten, to the Gods of Misshapen Pitch.
Pitch moved twenty metres to the South West to avoid the puddles? Yes, said the ten to the Gods of the Swamp Flies.
Goals rotated by 90 degrees to satisfy the Gods of Procrastination and Indecision? Yes, yes, yes said the ten. And the goals were moved.
But in the searing cold the ten said ‘No’ to 40 minute halves. They prayed for 30 minute halves. Yes, said the Gods of Digital Timepieces.
And, gods satisfied, rituals complete, players well-greaved, the game began.
Yellows scored, then Reds. Ahmet the Powerful.
1-1.
Yellows scored. No reply.
2-1.
Tufan slippery and subtle, slipped through defence.
3-1.
Then Reds. Ahmet the Dribbler.
3-2.
Then Reds. Ahmet the Tall.
3-3.
Robert, warding off illness and evil spirits, lay resting on the bags. But without respite. He retreated to Cafe, thence home. Ten men became nine.
Reds had lost a man. But they played on in the bitter, biting wind. Martin ran, patrolling, marshalling, tireless. Rewarded by a goal.
4-4 at Half-Time.
The mud stuck in clods to boots. Pride stuck to the Four and to the Five. Military Fitness, Blue Team, watched and worshipped from close by. Arms up. Arms down. Arms up.
Second half. Reds a man down. An early passage of play the likes of which not seen since the dark days of Ruskin Park. It was bad. Red ball mis-hit to the opposition; yellow mis-hit a long ball back. Red mis-hit at goal. Yellow mis-save. Bounce off Red. Goal to Reds.
5-4
It was not what the punters had paid to watch. The gods, as parakeets, laughed in the trees.
A police van squealed down the Rye. Altogether now: “You’re Not Going To Sell Many Ice-Creams Going At That Speed”.
Two minutes of Ahmet that Changed the Match: Reds scored. Ahmet. 6-4. Reds scored. Ahmet. 7-4. Reds scored Ahmet. 8-4.
Yellows fought back. Heads held high.
Kevin scored with right foot (his wrong foot), in honour perhaps of Jonathan Key’s left foot (his right foot). Ahmet scored with left foot (his wrong foot), in honour perhaps of Jonathan Key’s left foot (his right foot).
The score ticked over. The mud flew. The crows cawed. The wind blew. 8-5, 9-5, 9-6, 10-6, 10-7, 10-8, 10-9, 11-9
Gerald, tireless in defence, hopeless in goal, fluffed an easy save 11-10. 1 minute left. But there was no respite for yellows from the insidious cold wind of defeat that blew across the Common.
Ahmet The Goal Machine 12-10.
Time gentleman please.
The gods appeased. Nine men became eight became seven became six became five. Goals muddied and sullied, dismantled, disassembled. The Common now empty of footballing folk. The goals and gods are gone, but the wind still howls. The swamp flies and the crows return.
Good night, gents, good night, good night sweet gents.
Final score: Reds 12 – 10 Yellows
