It’s that time of month once again, our very own Jack Smith Jnr waxes lyrical in his own unique way about all things Concord Rangers:
As you’re all becoming accustomed to… I am prone in my dribble to produce a few linguistically decorative buzzwords. This is purely a byproduct of casting my peepers over thousands of pages of fellow Sapiens scrawl, and as having done so, a fair few of the big boy words have stuck in my nod. Rest assured that I am doing my level best to obtain for your perusal, 1x Oxford Thesaurus discount deal for each and every one of my dribblers. Failing that you could always eyeball different material to your average social media feed to help broaden your vocabulary horizon. Just a thought. Anyhow, moving swiftly on.
So here I am, once again spending precious minutes of my 24 hourglass to offer you my honest depiction of recent Beachboy related activities. You’d damn better be grateful.
First act in the month of October saw us reacquainted with a sample of the sweet taste of success. A historical competition was re-established, the Essex Thameside Trophy making a welcome return to the roster. Originally penned as step 3 and south criteria, the admittance rules were thankfully amended to allow our participation with no more than 6 first teamers being fielded after our chair dogsbody Antony made the rather accurate point of stating the “you can’t get much more Thames side than us” quote to the organisers of which they happily concurred. Useless fact of the day… roughly 330 metric meters separates the estuary from our establishment. And yawn. Anyway we managed a neat penalty shoot-out win over game Aveley after garnering a tough 2 all draw to reward those lunatics in attendance on a nippy and gusty evening with a fine fall of H20 which is best described by smart arses as ‘that wet rain’.
So following some debatable recent performances a cynical chap chop was on the cards… now don’t panic, it’s not what it sounds like, just simply a reshuffle of players, weeding out those with less emphasis on putting team before one. Then attempting to replace those fallen with men of high integrity, who’ll display an innate dose of bellicose for the cause. I believe it’s best we shall reserve judgement of this recruitment drive for a minute and revisit it later, let’s say dribble numero cinco.
What with a Saturday to spare due to the Margate mishap the squad bravely decided some gallivanting about town couldn’t do no harm. Due care and attention was thrown like caution to the wind with plans of grandeur for the evenings festivities brewing excitement among those ante meridiem training session attendees just as if on cue one young fledgling midfielder mistook the vocations practiced at a classy east end joint much to the amusement of his colleagues. I wished them the best of luck baby sitting.
We are fast accumulating a disgusting panoply of blown opportunities in striking distance of the fabled land that appears to the human eye as a 24x8ft metal frame to which a net is attached. So by my quick mathematical calculations that leaves a mere 192 square Great British feet of air space for a spherical leather full of puff to pass between said rectangular gap in order to add the singular unit of goal to ones scoreline. Right, enough of my sarcasm styled soliloquy… for now.
For those who prefer pidgin English, we lost. 0-1 Chippenham Bluebirds.
At this stage my prayers were littered with calls to the big man like “Dear God please give our strikers strength, poise and shooting boots enabling them to hit cows arse with banjo. Amen.”
The well travelled road back to auspicious realms was evidently still closed for a roadblock in the shape of Hungerford Town. We made it 2 in 2 at being put to the sword by table fodder albeit this one dug a little deeper. A scathing assessment of the events and those responsible was and were fair game. We were in a pickle and required kicking up ones backsides pronto. Enthusiasm at this point was a tough ask for us beachboys & girls as we began the process of deactivating our twitter accounts to grace ourselves dampened exposure to any more hard reality. The 0-2 score line told the story accurately enough.
For the record, apologies for the bull I provided earlier and the blasphemy I’m about to offer, as I refuse to believe in imaginary sky people. I believe in scientific fact and the fact is if god controls humans as badly as that after the thousands of years practice he’s had, then how the hell did the guy create the heaven and the earth. Not real I tell you. Wait I did that wrong, shouldn’t have said hell… I’m sorry Morgan Freeman.
We tied up the month of October with a trip to the wet and windy Westleigh Park, home of Havant & Waterlooville, where you’ll find a peculiar mixture of human being. Upon arrival to the less then desirable ghetto of Hampshire, maybe the district of ‘loo ville’, we were greeted or rather disregarded at the gate by a snooty disdainful man wearing a petrol blue voluminous oversized whistle and flute all the while voluntarily sporting a conceited high profile goatee moustache, maybe in attempt to take the attention off his lack of polite or well-bred social behaviour. Those aristocratic ivory tower wannabes coupled with your average yobbish asbo collection specialist supporters made for a bizarre mini mecca. But I digress. Back on the footballing front though, a vast performing improvement was apparent from weeks bygone, where we fought for the entirety of the 90. A narrow 2-1 deficit cost us as the fat lady did her bit, however if our playing staff continue in this vain and pick up these threads the corner turner will be upon us momentarily.
So we flip the page to November, happily placing the preceding month firmly in the rear view mirror. The proverbial ‘There’s no easy game in this league’ saying will ring literally true for our cavalry in the coming weeks as we go to war against 4 adversaries currently residing in the top 7 of the rebranded MANarama National League South. If we allow ourselves a short and comforting nostalgia trip back to the starters gun, we’ll fondly remember flying out the traps like Mick the Miller. To help rekindle such scintillating form we could look towards the inspirational quote from the fictional high school American Football Coach Eric Taylor, which when applied to real life, rings bells eminently close to the truth.
“Clear eyes, full hearts. Can’t lose.”
Translation. If we devote full clarity and concentration, clearing our minds from distraction, stress and doubt “Clear eyes” whilst having a heart full of passion and confidence to allow ourselves to give everything we have “full hearts”, we can’t lose. If we apply this mindset to our everyday, we’ll discover success at a far superior ratio, and on the occasions we do fail (it happens, that’s life) we’ll live and learn with the sense of inner peace in knowing we gave it our all. In essence, we “can’t lose”.
I believe I’ve bored you all efficiently enough for now my poor subjected souls. Sayonara.