I'm gonna have to find something else to write about. Having a superior goal deficit to our opposition is something I have become accustomed to in my 10 or 12 games of soccer but it's not going to make for great literature.
Since my last post we have been overrun twice by gangs of old football players. I've served in goal for 2 of the past 4 halves of combat, and whilst I'm not about to put my hand up to play goalie in the full sized version of the game, I have acquitted myself reasonably well in the protected environment of the "6 a side" goal sanctuary.
You see, the goal circle in this form of the game is a bit like Sheriff Bart's Jail Cell in Rock Ridge, a painted line over which none but the goalie may cross. This seemingly minor protection has the amazing effect of stopping a fully (over)grown man from trampling you in his efforts to embarrass. As no such protection is provided to my full size compatriots...they can keep their jobs with my blessing.
Another rule that both helps and hinders is one that prevents players from kicking the ball over head height. Whilst this protects me from long range bombing sorties and their associated aerial acrobatics, it offers no salvation from Barnes Wallis and his mates. The down side of this rule is that I can't grab the ball and pound it as far as possible from my goal, having instead to work it out along the ground to my team mates. This, not surprisingly, is not unlike trying to throw a hot chip across a splintered green table at the beach without 400 seagulls intercepting it. Unfortunately these seagulls, instead of flying off with their booty, take great pleasure in firing it back past you into the net. The screeching afterwards is strikingly familiar.
This week should see a FULL compliment of willing minds take the field (can't speak for the bodies) and that should make a big difference, as last week we ran with only one substitute on the bench. Spreading the work load over 3 or 4 extra respiratory systems makes a huge difference to blokes of our vintage.
Hopefully my next post may return to it's victorious former glory, if not I may have to start talking about future employment prospects. A subject almost as depressing as recent events in Victoria.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Defeat
Well...here it is the post you would have expected after last weeks success.
I think I have already established my familiarity with losing. I don't think of myself as a loser, never have, too much self love for that. But given my propensity for it in the fields of sporting endeavour you'd think I would be more able to talk about, flesh it out and give it the same attention to detail as my beautiful piece on Victory, which I have always felt estranged from.
I haven't lost out in the important things in life. I have a beautiful, spirited, sexy wife. Three wonderful, healthy, spirited children (see a connection there). Both my parents are still alive and my Mother in law lives outside walking distance from my warm, spacious home. I know what you are thinking, it hasn't all been rosy. My Brother in law is a Kiwi, but in the grand scheme of things...
But when it comes to sport I feel I am on the wrong side of the ledger. Sure I've had my moments. A bottle full of ribbons, many of them blue for being able to propel myself around a bumpy dirt track faster than most kids my age. A screamer of a catch that I watched all the way into the back of my glove when playing right field for the Moorabbin Panthers. Grand Final wins for Hardies Heroes, Super Ted and Eric and a boundary that flew off a top edge and soured over the slip cordon whilst filling in for the Naval and Military Club. But by and large I've always felt like an also ran in sports race of life. Actually documenting my successes like that makes me feel more accomplished than I did 10 minutes ago, but I digress.
We lost. A fuller compliment of "fit" players this week left me the option of having a few well timed runs (any more that about 3 minutes and I was shagged). Unfortunately I realised this too late after one of theirs ran around and away from me to score un-contested. It was time for the first of many interchanges. The game continued this way and we were down 3-1 at half time.
I felt we played better football (see I'm learning) in the second half. Neither team could penetrate the others defences for the first 15 minutes although many chances were offered and taken and play moved up and down the pitch. The final 5 minutes saw us run out of steam and the game was lost in a flurry of late shots 7-1.
Two quick paragraphs...and I really had to work to pad that out. Imagine how I would have regaled you with our magnificence had we been on the opposite side of that ledger. We still sat afterwards drank amber fluids, belched, farted and laughed (not always in that order) but without the same gusto as when we last met. Still the cares of the world were abandoned for a few hours, the retreat to boyhood that only comes with the company of men, stripped of their worldly encumberances. Defeat however is not so skilled as victory in banishing the concerns of my paternal friends. Life intrudes again until next we meet to chase that elusive suitor, Victory.
I think I have already established my familiarity with losing. I don't think of myself as a loser, never have, too much self love for that. But given my propensity for it in the fields of sporting endeavour you'd think I would be more able to talk about, flesh it out and give it the same attention to detail as my beautiful piece on Victory, which I have always felt estranged from.
I haven't lost out in the important things in life. I have a beautiful, spirited, sexy wife. Three wonderful, healthy, spirited children (see a connection there). Both my parents are still alive and my Mother in law lives outside walking distance from my warm, spacious home. I know what you are thinking, it hasn't all been rosy. My Brother in law is a Kiwi, but in the grand scheme of things...
But when it comes to sport I feel I am on the wrong side of the ledger. Sure I've had my moments. A bottle full of ribbons, many of them blue for being able to propel myself around a bumpy dirt track faster than most kids my age. A screamer of a catch that I watched all the way into the back of my glove when playing right field for the Moorabbin Panthers. Grand Final wins for Hardies Heroes, Super Ted and Eric and a boundary that flew off a top edge and soured over the slip cordon whilst filling in for the Naval and Military Club. But by and large I've always felt like an also ran in sports race of life. Actually documenting my successes like that makes me feel more accomplished than I did 10 minutes ago, but I digress.
We lost. A fuller compliment of "fit" players this week left me the option of having a few well timed runs (any more that about 3 minutes and I was shagged). Unfortunately I realised this too late after one of theirs ran around and away from me to score un-contested. It was time for the first of many interchanges. The game continued this way and we were down 3-1 at half time.
I felt we played better football (see I'm learning) in the second half. Neither team could penetrate the others defences for the first 15 minutes although many chances were offered and taken and play moved up and down the pitch. The final 5 minutes saw us run out of steam and the game was lost in a flurry of late shots 7-1.
Two quick paragraphs...and I really had to work to pad that out. Imagine how I would have regaled you with our magnificence had we been on the opposite side of that ledger. We still sat afterwards drank amber fluids, belched, farted and laughed (not always in that order) but without the same gusto as when we last met. Still the cares of the world were abandoned for a few hours, the retreat to boyhood that only comes with the company of men, stripped of their worldly encumberances. Defeat however is not so skilled as victory in banishing the concerns of my paternal friends. Life intrudes again until next we meet to chase that elusive suitor, Victory.
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