Lets not play no games here (except football ones obvs), right out the theoretical Spring starting blocks we’ve the euphoric potential at the hands of our feet to send my head spinning into orbit, akin to a child’s first full fat Coke-Cola lunacy level, which’ll evolve my monthly rambling rubbish parade of unbalanced dipshittery into looking like Voltaire on an Adderall bender. For the month of March has the ingredients to turn our lit torch paper into the atomic bomb of historical Concord success stories. We’re carefully treading the eternal legacy tightrope. All right people, hang on to your knickers, we’re going in.
As a young pup hailing from the Great British shores of Blighty, when you fall in love with the beautiful game you unconsciously and naturally dream of one thing. To play at Wembley. I too as a chipper lad spent many a school lesson deeply lost in the blissful thought of gliding across the hallowed turf guarded by the iconic twin towers. The beautiful modern bowl which now stands proudly in it’s place under the awe inspiring arch will hold this years FAT Finale, meaning a win over Royston Town would leave a two-legged SF hurdle in the face of making dreams come true.
A strong aperitif was sunk prior to go time, not for the want of stimulation but more to stem the nervous flow of energy paralysing ones muscular and psychological systems. Players emerging and DJ Horse cueing Insomnia meant one thing… it was time. Our stellar solders strode out onto our patchwork surface where the nickname ‘Beachboys’ has never been more apt, whilst my brother and I spied a densely packed mass of bodies taking up position upon our fresh faced terrace end, he curiously asking me “are they ours or Royston?”, “I guess we’ll soon find out” was my inquisitive response.
“Give me a C, give me a O”… we were soon in awe of our answer, in the form of a tight knit pack of our finest Essex youts, bouncing around and cheerfully creating what I believe is known in the trade as an atmosphere.
Let’s do this soccer Saturday commentary style to add a bit of spice. Being perfectly honest, if I did have the commentary gig, the following wording would’ve toned ever so slightly differently.
“Scott High into Nouble, shapes to shoot. Deflected. GOAALLLL. The ball beats the stranded Joe Welch and Concord have the lead.”
“Matt Bateman to take the spot kick. SAVED by Chris Haigh, Bateman reacts, SAVED again. A incredible double stop by the Concord custodian keeping the Crows at bay.”
“The ball in the air, Castiglione feeds Warner-Eley who strikes early. GOAALLL. Royston have the equaliser. A magnificent finish by Luke Warner-Eley levels the scores.”
“Scott High picks up possession. Concord now on the break with High, who feeds the run of Decarrey Sheriff, GOOAAALLLLL. He slips the ball past the advancing Welch and Concord have one foot into the semi-finals.”
Our collective cardiovascular fitness levels were put through the toughest of tests where a world record was surely broken, with 1,967* time checks completed in the most nerve wrecking fifteen minutes, ever. In what felt like a daze, I gazed towards the man in black as he the referee put whistle to pursed lips, signalling the single loudest noise I’ve ever heard at our little football club. *Roughly
I really do have to doff my bobble hat to the teenage delegation of chanters, the pick of their orchestral sing song had to be “we’re gonna fly in a minute, fly in a minuteeee” which was taken a little too literally by one of the many children hurdling the pitch side barrier only to discover he’s not of the avian variety, dropping like a stone, then wheel spinning through the mud in sheer excitement before celebratory crashing into the first yellow shirt presenting themselves with identical matching crazed animated gurn spread across their ecstatic face.
A emotional moment was had where a number of heads who make our club tick stood pitch side in complete bewilderment as to what they’d just witnessed post trauma. A near silence, and all I could hear was my neurological positivity pulsating away.
A semi final appearance awaits our men of honour, separating us all from our wildest dreams. These young men are the living definition of the words heart, desire and honesty.
The cockles had taken their time to cool but we’d finally settled our heads in time to reacquaint ourselves with another chance to cut up the Clarets. But before all that, I have something I’d like to share with you sweet hearts.
Make way for some fresh stupor where two wonderfully special comments were recklessly dispatched in earshot, which we’ll throw onto the daft raft en route up the creek without a paddle for shortlist inclusion of what’ll be known as the Ginge Gong of the year awards.
Bravely stepping up first to the lectern, Mr form filler extraordinaire quite simply delivered a beauty, “Travelling up on the Friday is ideal. I’ll be able to relax and chill out in the gym before the game” he chirped. Which triggered young Billy White into sharply spitting out “You’ve gotta be the only man I know who relaxes in a gym.”
Quite a bar set to beat straight off the starters gun, but one youthful towering chap said ‘hold my Ribena’, as he went in with a shot of his own. “Which ways the wind blowing” were his words, as he tore off and tossed a pinch full of grass blades into what I’d best describe as a jet stream. As if it wasn’t obvious enough with the cows flying overhead, we were indeed ‘“shooting into the wind.” Well spotted young Sir.
As for the game itself, we halved the occasion with 1 apiece having found ourselves enduring a rather frustrating afternoon at Melbourne Park. On a side note it’s worth reminding that we still haven’t won a league game in the year 2020, and currently sit uncomfortably at the basement of the league form table… not that anyone cares. We are however a frightening dos points clear of the drop spots. ‘Best get some wins then aye’ I hear you say. Me agree.
Tonbridge made a visit to us with unwittingly fortunate timing where we were dealt the blow of missing four from five of our pro loan starlets for the critical league clash.
Well this one from our perspective was played out a little like Phillip Schofield. The back door was left wide open, whilst appearing apparently meek on the eye, with the weaponry up front spraying a wee wayward. This presented the Angels with the opportunity to take advantage, which they did, snatching the ill-earned point at the death. 3-3 on FT made for the aesthetically pleasing ball game for the attendees who dug deep to present our wonderful partner charity, the Indee Rose Trust with the tidy sum of three thousand English pounds sterling. Thank you all for you gorgeous generosity. You really are raising smiles.
We’ll now sink to a more sombre sound to sum up our currently saddening situation.
The beautiful game, although we all love it dearly and will miss it terribly for the interim, has been ground to a understandable halt with the worldwide catastrophic pandemic caused by the wildfire spread of COVID-19. The vociferous virus is moving at breakneck speed and trailing destruction in it’s wake leaving us with little option but to fight this threat head on by listening to and abiding tightly by the guidelines our government alongside their scientific and medical experts lay out. Sport generically brings the people of the world together for all the right reasons but during these unprecedented times we are being advised to stay apart, and that is exactly what we’ll do for as long as it takes to overcome this horror story until it’s safe to resume our love affair with football.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the relentless and selfless work of our great nations key workers, particularly those on the NHS frontline. You beautiful people are all superheroes.
To every single one of you absolute lunatics taking precious time out of your lives to read my dreadful deciphering depictions this season thus far, I hope one, that you’ve devoured, enjoyed and savoured my dribble (metaphorically of course) and two, that I get to later chirp on about our seasons conclusion upon eventual completion.
In the mean time, please look after your loved ones, look after yourselves, and stay safe.
Toodle-pip and cheerio.