The Perversity of Hope: A double match report
OWFC2 v Old Foresters: 0-1
Old Foresters v OWFC2: 2-1
A malignant, primordial 0 still lurks at the bottom of the Arthurian League Division 3 table, squatting unwanted alongside the words ‘Old Wykehamist 2nd XI’. The Cyclopean gaze of this unnatural oval still pursues the stout-hearted men of Wykeham – a numerical Sauron tracking its gaze over the workplaces and astroturfs of London, transfixing teachers, bankers and advertising planning directors vainly trying to forget, if only for a moment, the plight of their team.
These benighted toilers do not cower at the abyssal stare of this diabolic zero, but rather meet it eye to eye, countering statistical despair with bright-faced optimism. It’s got to pick up, they say, this team has too many good players, the games have given too much evidence of skill and efficiency, the team ethic is too robust, surely this 0 cannot linger forever. But yet it lingers. And it is the clash of gimlet-eyed hope and steely numerical fact that really hurts. If only we were shit, they think, if only we were clapped-out chancers in rugby boots wheezing our way through a sporting charade just to avoid a nagging wife and sense of masculine inadequacy, then it would be OK. This unending hoop of nothing, this 0, would not be such a rank accessory. But the Old Wykehamist 2nd XI are not a bad side – this is a team that terrorised two divisions, this is a team steeped in success and footballing nous. So why - why, why, why? The cliché-mongers are right: it’s hope that kills you in the end.
The best chance to shed this albatross seemed to be the double-header against Forest. For a fortnight the Wykehamists have fought an unceasing battle with this implacable forest-dwelling foe – 180 minutes of footballing struggle interleaved with a fleeting dream of work and home. And the battle was lost: at home 1-0, away 2-1.
The first encounter was almost over before it began. Within two minutes a jittery Joe Flaherty felled the Forest frontman at the far extreme of the box as he chased a hopeful through ball. The OWFC keeper would later atone for his sins with a string of fine saves, but his redemption was not immediate: the inevitable penalty was neatly dispatched.
This is not how it was supposed to be. One of the Forest players was in leggings, for Christ’s sake. (Sources suggest that he was only persuaded to play without his trucker cap and Louis Vuitton grip when promised an hour’s gratis bronzing in a leading Leyton solarium.) Their hefty striker’s breath was so redolent of last night’s boozing, that the Blues’ centre-backs could itemise his intake (for the record: Kronenbourg Extra Cold x 4, Lamb Bhuna x 2, mate’s Garlic Chicken x ½, WKD x 6, Jaegerbomb x 4, ill-advised Apple Sourz x 1, bitter taste of rejection x 1, Doner meat and chips x 1). Although the Forest tackling was stiff to the point of recklessness, Winchester soon started playing some decent football, with Morgan battling well in midfield and Wilson finding space in the false nine position. However, the unfamiliar gold kit, donned to avoid a clash did not inspire a Midas touch in front of goal and too much of the Blues’ play took place in front of the resolute Forest backline: an abundance of crosses from deep, in particular from embattled right-back Christofides, were too easily repelled by the redwoods in the Forest defence. What few chances there were fell to the wrong people: centre back Rann, up in unfamiliar territory on the edge of the enemy six-yard box for a corner, swivelled neatly in response to Blackett’s squaring header, but sliced his volley up into the stratosphere. Wykehamist pressure intensified in the second half as superior fitness began to show (chasing games has had a positive effect on cardio-vascular, if not mental, health), but the Forest custodian was rarely troubled. The Epping men continued to present a threat, but the combined efforts of Fuller and Flaherty kept them at arm’s length. Nevertheless, the Sylvestrians were ultimately very relieved to hear the final whistle; the dejected Wykehamists largely failed to heed their own exhortations to ‘keep your heads up’ and trudged off to watch their more successful First XI comrades and contemplate that nul points millstone.
The intervening days passed in a sombre grey fog of regret and stifled lamentation, shot through only rarely with the glistering rays of the weakening sun of hope. In other words, office plankton browsing the AL website at work kept thinking “We can definitely beat this lot, no problems, we can do it.” Optimism continued to grow even in the intimidating surroundings of the Girls’ Changing Rooms at the Sylvestrian Leisure centre. A changed team had plenty of firepower: in came Vernon, Underwood, Irvine-Fortescue, Kiley, Walters, Duncan and Golding. Battle was recommenced on a pitch as long as it was wide, under the keen eye of stentorian arbiter Stuart, who ably coped with the problems of lunging studs-up challenges (our trucker-cap-wearing friend) and persistent, whinging offsides (some other scrote). Despite a collective determination to start strongly and some competent early manoeuvres, the Woks went behind after 20 minutes: a corner was inadequately cleared, allowing the taker to fire in another fine cross – the lanky Forest centre back reacted quickest and angled a skilled volley into the side netting. Despair never set in, however: the Blues were winning all the headers and a good share of fifty-fifties. A fluent move starting in the right back area and going via ‘keeper Duncan culminated in an exquisite instinctive lob from rehabilitated forward Kiley. As the net bulged, the seed of hope grew green shoots of expectation. Irvine-Fortescue’s neat footwork offered a threat throughout and the striker was unlucky to poke over after a neat juggling swivel. But, despite the momentum swinging decisively in favour of the Blues, the Forest goal-keeper—sporting a retro green sweater which gave him a nostalgia-inducing 1970s look—remained largely unruffled. The impotence of OW shooting has to be remedied, and fast: at this level defences leak chances, and such lapses must be punished. Sure enough, with 15 minutes to go, much against the run of play, the diminutive Forest left-winger, who had looked bright all day, flummoxed the Blues’ rearguard with a rapid jink and struck a lofted shot over Duncan from the edge of the box.
Reeling from this blow, the Wykehamists lost a little fluency. But they compensated for this with effort, translating desperation into action. Throw ins and long balls were trebucheted towards the Forest battlements; Irvine-Fortescue was denied by the woodwork; the goalmouth became scramblier and scramblier. Nevertheless, whatever my friend Barack says, hope does not always lead to change. All the Blues’ self-belief and effort was in vain. The ref ended the game thrilled with the quality of the football and the spirit of the clash; the Foresters were clearly overjoyed with a second act of footballing burglary; the forlorn Hampshire men were heartbroken. Normally ebullient Wykehamist scamps plunged into Schopenhauerian cynicism: life, and Arthurian league football, is a cruel joke bookended by vast, silent nothingness.
That existential Nichtigkeit still looms from the centre of that 0 in the corner of the league table. Something must be done, before morale is utterly destroyed, and before match reports—the author’s ersatz therapy—descend still further into pretentious sesquipedalian nonsense.
The battle of Forest ended in defeat. But battles are not wars and wars are won and lost on the playing fields of Eton. It is there that the Seconds must begin their recovery. Nil desperandum.