It was always thought that when the sun returned to the skies on a Sunday morning, then so the squad would be blessed with a multitude of players from which the manager could picketh. But no, a paltry 10 men showed at the meeting post prior to travelling for this away fixture, and the manager was on holiday, so Gary's dad and Brothwell Snr. Snr. were sent home to polish their boots. Ringo was drafted in, and the convoy rolled out of Stourport HONK HONK, Toot...beep.
The smell of confidence could be detected as the troops marched into the away changing room, notably once again voted Changing Rooms Most in Need of Demolition by What? magazine readers. A quick survey revealed the smell of confidence was actually the lack of alcohol - unbeleivably the whole squad had politely passed on the ale the previous evening. Apart from the odd crafty beer....or two.
Comments were passed that it was nice to play football next to a boating lake, however it was soon clarifed that the boating lake was the centre circle, and the game kicked off.
The first quarter was played mostly in the Vale half, however the boys battled hard and began to press forward, with short passages of reasonable football...(who am I kidding?) The game began to open up, but it looked like a first half stalemate, and then crack. Oh dear, a ridiculous lunge just inside the box, and Dan had conceded a penalty. After retreiving the attackers left leg, which had sailed over the cross bar, the Cat proceeded to procrastinate about the diving nature of said attacker, whilst he received emergency medical attention for a ruptured spleen. The penalty was taken, the goal was scored, and the whistle was blown for half time.
The second half started with a bit more agression, Matt, Gary and Dan obviously deciding 'It's clobbering time', in the knowledge that anything except genocide would escape without a booking. Rob, Pete and Leon kept it simple at the back, while Shim made some tidy moves down the right. The half chances came and went, but as the clocked ticked the tick of doom an air of inevitability descended on the team.
Aquaforce forced a seocnd goal, quick break down the middle, parried shot, and the centre forward got there first to tap in and kill the game.
Man of the Match was really the Aquaforce centre half, built like Goliath and fleet of foot it was notable that Ringo and Laan endeavoured to avoid him all morning, and as such he collected most things the Vale threw at him into a neat pile, swept it up and placed it quietly in the bin.
And out of nowhere like a pure white dove on the Starlight Express came the game's champagne moment. Aquaforce make some room on the edge of the box, its shifted onto the left foot, and a drive is hit drifting inside the left hand post at about 5 foot and still rising, marvellous strike, marvellous play, total football, and the ball hits the back of the net for the third goal of the gam-.....wait a minute, is that Andy, ironically called the Cat becuase of his tubby physique and lack of agility, he takes a quick step, then another, muscles tense, and the ball teasingly floats in slow motion to his right, and as the cameras flash and the crowd hold there breath he runs a comb through his locks as he launches, and off, into the cosmos he leaps, back arched, right arm stretches, he's pratically horizontal, levitating, shit me...what a save.
Back of the net.
No...."NOT back of the net".
The phrase shall be repeated ad infinitum throughout generations of Cat fans.
Yours, THE GOBBLER
