Lymm men’s 1^st 10 – 0 Bebington HC

On a day when the shining lights of England’s national football team were too bright for Estonia at Wembley and the roaring lions of England’s wonderfully triumphant rugby squad were causing grown Frenchmen to cry at the Stade de France, Lymm’s 1^st Men’s team had their Wirralite opponents sobbing into their pies and mash after a comprehensive beating at the Padgate Stadium.

Ben was pleased with the team from the outset because we managed to warm-up our engines with more urgency and eagerness than in previous weeks. It put us in a good frame of mind; more focused, more determined, more disciplined. Well it worked because before 20 minutes had elapsed we were 4 up. Hurrah for plentiful possession, swift and accurate passing and precise finishing inside the D. Gerrard et al could only dream of such a start.

The indications were that we might finish well into double figures and that thought must have permeated through the squad because we got a little complacent after number four. We took our feet off our respective pedals and allowed “Beb” (as they call themselves) to have a little more of the ball. Only a little, mind, and not for too long because by the end of the first period it was 6 – nil.

The goals had, thus far, been credited to Ben and Scowy in the main. It is difficult to keep track of whom scores when and how spectacularly when goals are flying in left, right and centre. You know how it is. Anyway, if anyone saw the goal that Ben scored just before the half-time whistle, you would know it was quite a good goal; contender for ‘Goal of the Season’ if you hear how Ben describes it. I didn’t see it despite being on the touch-line at that time. I was showing Dez a rather nasty (massive) bruise I have on my right leg, suffered the week before at Oxton. A young lad cracked the ball at me from about 7 yards and…Sorry, I digress.

So, there we were, sitting in the goal area at half time with Ben actually saying we were playing well. Hallalujah! “I’ll be happy if we get to double figures”, he said. There was no bad language for a change, which was just as well because our two youngest supporters (7 and 4 years) were stood beside us.

We motored on through the second half putting a further 4 goals past the hapless goalkeeper. It should have been more but who’s complaining. Phil, the midfield dynamo, worked tirelessly throughout. His effort was clear by the sweat dripping from his long flowing locks. Ross A and John mopped up at the back with quiet efficiency. The full-backs were composed as usual and the rest of the midfield wore out the tread on their wheels with the amount of ground they covered. The front two caused the Beb defence no end of trouble in what turned out to be a rather one-sided affair.

The goals were distributed thus: Ben, 5; Scowy (“my stick’s on fire”), 3; Becks, a sneaky 1; and I can only imagine the other went to Phil. Or it might have been Ross A. If it was someone I have not named I apologise.

We retreated to a cramped changing room, the end of another 3 – 0 win for the footballers and talk of the possibility of a second final appearance for the passers of the oval ball. It couldn’t happen could it? Fingers crossed for England in Paris next week.

The Final Chapter

Or: How the few prevailed

Chester 1-8 Lymm 2nds

So, Chester, the homeward leg of the odyssey, and for once, the journey was uneventful, and direct, except for the pathfinder squadron, who had to go that little bit further!

After some discussion as to which pitch we were on, we repaired to the practice pitches in an attempt to look professional, except for Martin, (who doesn’t like putting his kit on in front of the boys, but has a note from his Mum, so it’s OK)

Off we went, and pressure was soon brought to bear on the Chester goal, some stalwart, and occasionally immovable defending helped to keep the tally down, as did the lack of out and out forwards in the team, but more of that to come.

Nevertheless, Lymm has a proud traditions of it’s warriors stepping into the breach in adversity, and never in the field of human hockey was this better demonstrated by one brave, young private.

A tense mêlée erupted in the Chester D and with Cooper away protecting the flank, Private Bradders fought his way through the fog of war to deliver the ball safely behind the enemy line like a good ‘un. What a way to open your account in what is becoming one of the toughest regime’s (or regiment, depends if El Captitano Guevera is listening). And, like the man he became in that fateful moment, tipped a wink to his proud Mum on the touchline. In an exclusive interview after the game, when asked how it felt to witness such a momentous event, Corporal Bradders’ dog said: “sossiges”

A shock lapse in Lymm’s defence and a costly error by Blackthorne saw Chester take their score peg of the bottom rung, To the informed onlooker however, it seemed the Lymm tactician may have made a numerical error in the number of out and out defenders on the field, but more of that later.

After a rousing halftime team talk, and here are some exclusive quotes from that talk:-

We’ve got plenty of space, lets see some more running

You’re running about too much trying to mark that extra player.

We can beat them with numbers

Who forgot the water?

You can run hard for the next ten, we have a sub

The proud platoon emerged invigorated by our Leaders wisdom to deliver the final coup de grace and put away another four goals, from both open play and corners. It became a bit of an end to end game, Lymm’s midfield showing apparent signs of weakness. Yet again, to the seasoned watcher of our glorious game, it may have suggested an numerical disadvantage in that area of the game, maybe another midfielder? Just slotted on in there, might have helped poor Dave P, whose legs are now 2 inches shorter due to the amount of running he had to do, But David falling over a lot provided comic relief!

Anyway, with a final tally of 8 goals:- Lance Corp. Bradders, The Silver Fox’s sweet low flick from a shortie, a couple from that cheeky young scamp Racey, and the inevitable Scowcroft equalling 4 from Cooper (and Scowie had to get the missus to help him out) and the one, which is far too many, let in by Bluntthorne, the final whistle blew and a defenceless table in the bar was quickly surrounded by the fines session, Judge Jim Deed in the chair, wearing his new badge of office, a ratty, 20 year old jumper from some club or other, meted out his punishment.

A justly deserved, and worked for, Man of The Match went to Dave P, for sterling work in the face of overwhelming numbers.

Hats off again to Mr Buckeridge for wielding the whistle, decision making skills of his calibre are hard to find.

And that was just about that, the end of the Welsh sounding odyssey, all that remained was for the weary warriors to wend their way home, but wait, what’s that? David, did you have something to say?...... Oh, shame it was lost in the scraping back of chair legs, and the general tumult of departure, I’m sure if it was important you would have told us………….

At least the Special One can count!!!

FIN

This is a wholly inaccurate account of what might or might not have happened apart from the obvious details, and any coincidence or likeness which may be drawn to any of the characters in this work of utter fiction are only put there by yourselves and your naughty little minds dear reader.

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