'Thats away!' Memories of the Vaux Over 40's League

By Glanton Bob on Mar 30, 08 04:24 PM in

April is the cruellest month’……………. T.S. Eliot (the Waste Land ),
The rancid stale odour of the dressing room at Thompson Park, the smell of ‘ralga the horse linament,sweaty socks, BO, and the cheerful ironic swearing banter of the team preparing for the mental shock of being selected or rejected.
The team is announced without too much discussion, sometimes it might be the eleven who show up or the one’s who are fit enough to play. Nobody likes being a sub as it has all the disadvantages like standing in the cold.
Taking to the cold hard boney pitch, stepping carefully over the dog muck and trying to get the old stiff limbs working again.
‘Right Jimmy when you get the ball, run with it and tak them on’ is the only tactical advice I receive, ‘Noo gan on get stuck in!’ There’s a clatter of studs as the teams run out to take to the park.

The opposition take to the pitch in lurid clashing purple shirts and yellow shorts, all shapes all sizes, hairy legs the lot. A pierced empty whistle starts the game.
‘Wor keeper Ken, leaning against the post in a familiar pose, is suddenly called into action, carefully knicking his tab and throwing it down he sprints to the edge of the penalty area, to try to intercept the fast wind assisted ball.

Running from standing to full pace, he collides with the nippy winger who was just a yard too fast for him. They roll over in a tangle of limbs and groans, bodies locked in a panjandarum of slow motion. Cries ring out across the wind swept park, ‘foul! Penalty, Referee !’ The slow motion on the ball is enough to roll it into the empty unguarded net. At last the ref arrives, late, and decides to point to the penalty spot. There is argument and discussion as groups of players offer their own interpretation of the event. ‘Now shurrup aaall of yous’ the ref intervenes.

Eventually the little knobbly winger places the ball on the spot and after a short run dispatches it into the net, with the goalkeeper on one knee, helpless.

After only a couple of minutes play the burden of physical and mental exertion increases, the runs up the wing all seem uphill, and the speeding ball ever elusive, ‘when yer get it put yer foot on it!’ is the new tactical approach.

The seagulls and the dogs, the solitary spectators the cusses and the cries are all lifted by the wind, Mary Poppins style and dumped across the litter strewn strand. The heady mixture of ozone and adrenalin pound the brain insensible, as the cries shouts and moans lift into the empty skies.

‘How Jimmy this ones for ye’ but I was’nt listening my mind was running free over the strand with the wind and the clouds, to the empty streets and houses in the distance.