The Game from Hell

Games 31-32, 2018-19

The home team is coached by an old friend of this blog, 'Danny'. I intuit before the game that it's not going to be a quiet afternoon. When Danny's on the touchline, it never is. When we met in March I let him get to me. Today I resolve to remain absolutely calm, no matter how much shit this U19 match-up propels in my direction. By the end of the afternoon, I'm indeed in fecal heaven.

The game kicks off.

The away coach tells me before the game that when the two teams met earlier this season, Danny hounded and intimidated the young referee throughout the game. It's the same story I've heard now from three other coaches in this league. Just to recap, it's over three years since Danny and I sat in front of a disciplinary panel and he was fined €150 and told they didn't want to see his face there again. Yet to no one's surprise he's still here, a malignant cancerous growth on the city's already diseased amateur football scene. 

I gather all four coaches in the centre circle to remind them of the punishment process for irresponsible behaviour. First warning, then the second and final warning, followed by dismissal. They all nod, except for Danny. "Did you get that, Danny?" He gives a token gesture of the head, but I can't read his expression - he's wearing reflective sun-glasses to go with his hipster beard, giving off the usual air of 'I don't give a fuck'.

Neither do the teams, who go at each other right from the off. There are obviously numerous scores waiting to be settled from the first game...

Yellow leaves, yellow cards, mellow fruits and the smell of weed

Game 20, 2016-17

Yet again it's a gorgeously warm weekend, despite the first yellow notes of autumn. My game's south of the city, across the river and then five miles through the forest. The whole world's out doing normal Sunday afternoon things. Couples cross the foot bridge holding hands, on their way to an art gallery or a museum. Others lie by the water, reading books, unpacking picnics, drinking a beer. In the woods, people are dog-walking, bird-watching, horse-riding.

Where John Keats might suggest spending
 Sunday afternoons (with a fat joint).  

The strong smell of weed hits me before I see two young men finishing off a joint and flipping the tab end away. That's something else I wouldn't mind doing on a day like this. But hang on a minute, I'm already at the ground, and these young men are walking in there too, just ahead of me. One of them stretches out his arms and runs on to the field like an aeroplane. His friend laughs and then they make their way towards the away team's changing room. Well, maybe today's game will be all relaxed and mellow fruitfulness.

Yeah, right. It only takes 13 minutes before the first histrionics...