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Saturday 5.17am: I’m awake. Is it time to get ready for the big game yet? Not quite. Can’t sleep though, my shin pads are too hot under the duvet and my hockey stick has left a weird indentation on my forehead during the night. It looks like I’ve had “SADIDA” tattooed on my temple. Maybe I am sad; who wakes up this early because of a hockey match?
7.15am: phone buzzes. It’s a text from Laz, wondering where the team’s hockey balls are. I’m not sad; everyone is up. As I text Laz back, I picture Irish doing his shuttle runs in his garden while waiting for his porridge to heat up. Russ will have been up since sunrise, chanting about the inches.
Saturdays are always big, but today is huge. Like a Saturday that’s standing really close. We know that a win today means promotion is secured with a two-game cushion. An away game. Against Hampstead. On Paddington Rec. In Maida Vale. It’s like the Krypton Factor meets 4th XI hockey. And we’re playing on rubber crumb. That’s not a pudding Daryl prepared earlier. It’s a surface. Allegedly. Last time we played there, we lost Bibs in the long grass. We found him four days later rambling on about polar bears, opening the hatch and the importance of 4 8 15 16 23 and 42.
11am meet. According to the posh British lady who lives in my dashboard, that means a 10am departure. Just enough time for a short run in the gym, a four-egg scrambled egg, a banana and a protein shake. Hair looks good. I’m ready. I’m pretty confident that Hampstead won’t have prepared so thoroughly this morning. We’re already ahead of them. Just to be sure, I get the car washed en route. Now I’m sure.
Everyone rocks up on time; with Laz using CCTV footage of the Paddington Rec north entrance to prove his arrival time. Nothing is left to chance. Charlie arrives at ten after, which is on time for him. The team is upbeat, focused, ready. Laz and Russ take us through a thorough and determined pre-game talk. Tactics, objectives, threats and dwarf jokes. We are zoned. Daryl leads the warm-up. Everyone is pumped. Irish is hyperventilating.
The game starts with Russ sending the ball deep into Hampstead back-left corner. And but for brief moments, the play stays in their half for 70 minutes. From the right wing, I look back and can’t be sure if JB in goal is jumping to keep warm or playing hopscotch with Brad. I think he has his i-pod in.
Steve Van Der Berg seems to be loving his new role up front on the left wing and comes close with a bunch of shots and flicks on goal (I reckon that’s much better than saying he missed a whole bunch of first-half chances (note to self – remember to delete this note before posting)). Si Hibbitt at centre forward looks threatening and causes the Hampstead defence lots of problems early on. My hair still looks good.
Hampstead are getting caught by our well executed press and their left back is not having a fun first twenty minutes. I steal a few balls on the press and force a couple of short corners. We’re close but no cigar. Not even a goal. Then a clinical move involving Daryl, Tom and Nick results in a great shot by Si to break the deadlock. We’re on our way. Soon after, another great passing movement from defence thru the mids breaks into the Hampstead D and Russ lets loose a cracking shot to make it 2-0.
Into the halftime break, we re-assess, take on the Food of Gods (Gatorade and Jelly Babies) and agree it’s 0-0 with 35 minutes and all to play for. “Leave it all out here” instructs Laz “and come off this pitch knowing you did that. That’s all I ask”. I reckon it’s not the time to mention it, but I’m thinking that’s actually quite a lot.
We win another short corner early in the second half and Russ tells us he’s sending it right post. That’s me I think. Glad I had that protein shake. Sure enough, he did mean me. My diving deflection flies into the gut of the Hampstead post man. Penalty flick. In a rare breakdown in communication, I’m not asked to take it and Russ steps up to execute (or as Russ later put it “when a flick is blown, some people walk towards the halfway line and some people walk toward the p-spot. You can’t teach that”). Boom. 3-0.
The 4s’ domination continues with Jamie, Nick and even Laz peppering the Hampstead goal with relentless shots. A sharp and speedy passing movement then sees Daryl break into the Hampstead D with support from his forward line and only a rushing keeper to negotiate. Unfortunately the rushing keeper keeps rushing and, whilst making no attempt to play the ball, flattens Daryl with the 4s in a clear goal-scoring position. A second flick awarded. I’m on the sideline at this stage so Si taking it is understandable. Up he steps and Boom! 4-0.
In a just reward for a great individual performance and relentless work, it was left to Nick to complete the scoring, getting a great touch on a ball sent into the crowded D to guide it into the bottom left corner past the Hampstead keeper. 5-0. And so it ended. A comprehensive display of focused and disciplined team hockey for 70 minutes. Worthy of the promotion it earned us.
Exhaustion kicks in after the adrenalin rush has passed. I’m down on the turf, broken, but enjoying the moment. 18 games. 15 wins. Just 17 goals conceded. We knew the race for promotion was a marathon, not a sprint, and that consistent effort would be rewarded more than flashy bursts of form. And suddenly it feels like we’ve been in a very long race. Celebrations subside and Laz sums up our efforts. Not just those of the 13 of us on Saturday, but the entire 4s’ squad who have worked like dogs all season. Then he reminds us that although we’ve been running since August, we’re only at the stadium and there are a few laps of the track left before we cross that line. The league title is still up for grabs, though 6 points from the final two games is a minimum requirement.
Don’t stop believing.
(Big thanks to Hampstead for a very sporting encounter and best wishes for your remaining few games. And thanks to the umpires.)
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