Soccer Sagacity

With the final Cotswool Reserves game cancelled due to lack of players (golfing in Argentina probably), I was called up to the First Team squad for their penultimate fixture in the Bristol Downs League Division One season.

Dry pitches are a nightmare for keepers

Sitting comfortably mid-table, the First Team had little to play for. The opponents were a side battling relegation, but who – more importantly – are sponsored by the same local bar as we are, thus making them our rivals. The quagmire pitches have now – thanks to the widely-reported ‘drought’ in England – been transformed into rock solid, knee-twisting ankle-devastators. Slide tackles leave you feeling like someone took a blowtorch to your legs, and any kind of passing game goes out the window.

I’ve previously mentioned that the Reserve Team ‘warm up’ by pelting the goalkeeper with shots for 20 minutes, and you’d probably expect that the First Team are much more regimented in their preparations. Organised stretching routines, pass-and-move practise, and detailed tactical team talks are the kind of things you’d anticipate a top division team go through as a matter of course. Alas, this is Cotswool, and warm ups are not our thing.
During the pre-match chaos it became apparent that we were several players down (one text to the manager read, “Sorry boss, wasted…can’t get out of bed, I’m a douche bag”). We started the game with 10 players, in the vague hope that an 11^th man would materialise (I’m not sure where from, perhaps the kit bag or from an army-style trap door under the turf). The opponents, despite battling relegation and with little chance of retaining Division One status, managed a full team plus three substitutes.

Caravans - popular with fairground folk

Now, it’s hard enough to play with 11 players and no substitutes, as it means there is no one to replace you if you can feel that Friday night curry making its way back up your digestive system, but to be a man down from the outset really is facing the impossible. When I explained this to my girlfriend later that night, she looked confused and commented, “That’s not that bad, it’s only one player less. It’s not like you’re playing with 5”. Brilliant. I have forwarded her CV to ITV for a punditry role, as she’d still be better than Roy Keane.

A whole town of Rollercoaster-towing Gypsies (don’t worry, they can’t read and so can’t be offended by this) had parked up adjacent to the football pitches. Whilst the giant Ferris Wheels and flashing lights of “Funderworld” (this is honestly what is on the posters) were a little distracting, the screams of teenage girls echoing around the pitches gave me the feeling of being David Beckham, if only for a moment.
For 35 minutes we managed to hold out well. My role was Right Midfielder but with the remit to “support the [lone] striker at every opportunity”, which is easier said than done when you’ve got the stamina of an American Burger Eating Champion. This also wouldn’t be such an issue if we had a strong all-rounder in attack holding the ball up. Unfortunately, we had the Reserve Team Manager who is hardly Didier Drogba (although he does stay on his feet more).
Around 10 minutes before half time, one of our defenders stupidly pushed an opponent when going for a header, and the resulting penalty left us 1-0 down at half time – a real kick in the proverbial.
The second half continued with much of the same; our ten men ‘frantically’ (I’ll use this word as it makes us sounds gallant in defeat) pressing and closing the ball down in vain. Rather heroically, the First Team manager put himself on as a second striker for the final 20 minutes. You might wonder why he didn’t play the whole game to make up the numbers. I should probably point out that Steve is a wonderfully enthusiastic manager (hoping he reads this and gives me a permanent First Team place next season) but who I estimate must be in his late 50s/early 60s, and thus isn’t really built for Downs League competition (which is home to athletes in the pinnacle of their careers, of course).
3 goals later, the relegation-threatened chumps were revelling in what they saw as a glorious victory. I am certain that at no point did they realise they were playing against 10 men for most of the game.
And that, as they say, was that; a disappointing game which was always going to be frustrating and tiring in equal measures. However, I was pleased to have played a full game under what I consider to be reasonable playing conditions for once (no rain, not knee deep in mud, and on a pitch which was comparatively flat for the Downs League).
With just one game to go this season, it remains to be seen if I am called up for the First Team. If not, this will have been my final game of the season. I may go into hiding to avoid paying my backlog of match day fees, and put these towards some new boots for next season. It would be nice to play for 90 minutes without volcanic blisters erupting on the way home.
Fret not readers (I use the plural tentatively), there will be plenty more blogs to come.

Satellite view of the Downs - see if you can spot the pitches (there are about 20-25 in total)

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Running late for last Saturday’s latest instalment of the Bristol Downs League, I hurriedly headed for the pitches under a sky of light-grey mediocrity. “At least it’s not raining” I thought, as I put my boots on and joined the rest of my teammates for the warm up.

[By warm up, I mean standing around the penalty area lumping rock-solid balls at whoever the unlucky chump between the sticks is. All of the other teams in the league (without exception) huddle together pre-game, applaud each others’ names as the team sheet is read out, and perform stretches that wouldn’t look out of place prior to an Olympic gymnastic floor routine. Cotswool FC, instead, have a long and proud history of what is technically known as “dicking around” before a game, followed by 2 minutes of the famous warm up routine ‘jogging back and forth almost in a group, but not quite’.]

Urinating - worse than punching an opponent

A few minutes prior to the game, I headed for a few trees away from the pitches to empty the old bladder (to improve my speed, of course). On returning to the pitch, I was informed that this is an offence which – if seen by the referee – results in an immediate red card and a four-game ban. Apparently, this is part of the etiquette of the league and the respect for The Downs. This came as a bit of a shock, considering that it seems to be acceptable to commit GBH on an opponent during the match without even a yellow card, yet you can’t piss on a tree. Odd.

Anyway, the game got underway and in typical Cotswool fashion we were 2-0 down within 20 minutes to a couple of sloppy goals. Nevertheless, we dug in and kept the game competitive. Around 30 minutes into the game I realised that the skies had turned a darker shade of grey. The temperature started dropping and my testicles headed in the opposite direction. Then the rain came. I can’t think of a better description than to say it was absolutely c**ting it down. By half time (somehow still 2-0) we were all soaked through, not an inch of dry skin on any of us. A wry smile crept across my face as I realised I was the only idiot wearing Nike Pro under my shirt – which was a daft idea when I left the house and it was 8°c, but was now paying dividends.

Neymar - loves Bristolian amateur football

After the usual pep talk at half time, we soldiered out for the second half. Almost immediately after kick off, I jumped for a header (which is reason enough to write a blog entry) and was promptly elbowed in the face, leaving me flat on my back in a puddle of muddy water and despair. With my cheekbone throbbing, I got up and got on with the game. The weather got worse and worse, as did the score line. 3-0 followed. Then 4-0. Brief respite at 4-1 was misleading and soon we were 5-1 down after 60 minutes. Bizarrely, a player who appeared to be Brazilian wonderkid Neymar appeared from the bench of the opposing team, did a few stepovers and promptly fell to the floor – almost in tears – with no one around. What at first seemed to be a peculiar fall was then explained to be a reoccurrence of a broken foot that he had only recently recovered from. In the true spirit of the Downs League, we offered to let them substitute him with another player, despite having used all three of their allocated substitutes. Whilst the referee wasn’t feeling the love and declined our offer, we applauded him as he was carried off the pitch and into the arms of the equally-miserable St John’s Ambulance crew. The compassion shown by both sets of players was a heart-warming moment in this otherwise utterly abysmal example of a football match.

Fouls - more fun on a wet pitch

Time dragged on and the referee was soon being asked “how long left, ref?” every time the ball went out of play (he soon resorted to replying with “too bloody long”). The downpour continued and soon the pitch had become a 50:50 concoction of mud and water, with no grass in sight. The ball was sticking in places – leaving players to perform amusing air-kicks – and skidding in others. The ground was so wet, players were starting a slide tackle in one box and finishing it in the other.

The final straw came when, in one of our rare ventures forward, we lofted a cross into the opposing box. After a few token bobbles and deflections, the skid of the ball eluded a defender who accidently clattered into our striker instead of the ball. The referee allowed us the time to convert the ensuing penalty, and then called a halt to the game on the grounds that the conditions were too dangerous. This left me pretty annoyed that all of our perseverance in the face of Mother Nature’s best attempt to ruin our game was for nothing. In his final act of the day, the referee announced that the result would stand, as any game abandoned after 2/3^rd completion (62^nd minute onward) is counted as a result. In all honestly, I was glad that the last 75 minutes had actually counted for something. If we had replayed on a dry, hot day, the score would likely have been much less flattering.

As we trudged off, the water sloshing around inside my boots reminded me of when you are a little kid, sitting in the bath, and you slide up and down the tub creating a wave effect which inevitably overflows onto the bathroom floor.

Feeling a bit miserable (par for the course), I began the walk home. The adrenaline started to wear off, and my nervous system reminded me that my right foot had been stamped on twice during the game. My right shoe started to feel tight under the swelling, and my cheekbone began to hurt even more. I must have looked like some kind of disabled hobbit limping down the street, covered in mud, face bruised like a gypsy’s wife, in a monsoon, with no jacket. I started to wonder what it would be like playing football in the lower leagues of Madrid or Lisbon.

Enough of the moaning; a few days have passed and the wounds are healing. Same again next week? Why not. Forecast for next Saturday: rain.

An accurate reflection of the visibility during the game

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I have recently had the pleasure of joining the Bristol Downs Football League. Despite the name, this is not a league for sufferers of the chromosomal condition. Instead, this entirely independent league is a 4-tier system for amateur players in Bristol. The league is unusual in that all games – home and away – are played atop the blustery and exposed Durdham Down’s in Clifton. There is something quite charming about the league, the spirit of the game and indeed the Downs themselves. One part of the illustrious Clifton Downs The first thing that struck me was the use of communal Victorian changing rooms, located in the centre of the 400-acre parkland. The changing rooms are a complex of box-sized team ‘rooms’, shower areas and toilet blocks. The scent of urine, mud and sweat fills the corridors. Bristolian banter echoes around the brick maze, with the clattering of studs on the concrete floor providing a backing track. A long walk through the corridors leads me to a room, no more than 3m x 3m, filled with 22 men getting ready for the game. Apparently, someone thought it was a good idea to place both the first team and reserves in one room. Once you’re out on the pitch (following an orienteering exercise in locating which one of the 25 pitches you are scheduled to play on) you can’t help but worry about the playing surface. The pitches are so uneven they remind me of the Wavy Top building (see below) from my days at Loughborough University. In fact, there are some pitches on which parts of the touchline disappear temporarily from view. It wasn’t long into my first game before I succumbed to the pitches, as I let a slow pass bobble over my foot and out of play, leaving me looking like a short, white Emile Heskey. Classic example of a Bristol Downs League pitch It had been six years since I’d player 11-a-side football on a regular basis. After a while, you get used to the relentless basketball-like nature of Power League 3G kick-abouts. Coupled with watching the bowling green pitches in the Premier League week-in week-out, I’d almost forgotten what ‘real’ pitches looked like. However, after a couple of games you learn not to trust the bounce of the ball (think of a rugby ball being dropped down a flight of stairs), and get used to the ball flying around the pitch like a giant game of pinball. Without doubt the most pleasant surprise has been the way in which the game is played. I had expected to leave the Downs in an Ambulance most weeks, after going 90 minutes with a team of Joey Bartons and Lee Cattermoles constantly looking to remove one of my vital organs every time I touched the ball. Instead, I found a league which is generally played in a fair manner with respect given to both the opponents and the referees. Perhaps this is because my team are languishing at the bottom of the 2nd of 4 divisions, and rarely do we threaten a team enough to warrant an aggressive response. Nevertheless, my experiences thus far have been largely positive, and even the usual in-game abuse ends with a joke and a handshake. The Argentina shirt design inspires us to greater levels of performance...perhaps So far we’ve been relatively fortunate with the weather too, having enjoyed sunshine in 3 of the past 4 games. The one bad day in that period was, however, the kind of weather that would make Sir Ranulph Fiennes say “you know what lads, let’s cancel this trip and play FIFA instead”. All-in-all, it’s been good so far. It’s not one for the purists, but it is good old fashioned ‘English’ football in every way. Gentlemanly conduct from beer-bellied blokes/hungover students, occasionally trying to play ‘pass-and-move’ football but generally trying to avoid getting the ball stuck in the quagmire by lumping it over the top of the centre backs in the hope of someone getting a toe-end on it. No matter what pitch you play on, in what weather conditions, and against who you’re competing, you can’t beat getting back to competitive football*. A picturesque view of the Downs

*Expect a less optimistic blog entry when I’ve had my nose caved in by the aforementioned Lee Cattermole-wannabe, been racially-abused by the local Luis Suarez, or had my right tibia and fibula sent in opposite directions when I attempt to run at a defender.

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