Seriously, get yourself a brew, get comfy and enjoy, this is without doubt another classic from Easley......
No match abandoned here today or the rule book interrogated for some obscure loop hole for a points advantage. No it was a point won fairly and squarely. A hard won point, won fairly and squarely by the Grappenhall battlers. Oh yes indeed it was.
What an afternoon.
It may be 100 years since our forebears sacrificed themselves at Flanders and Ypres and Verdun and repelled the boche with their bodies and souls and gave their very lives unflinchingly for the cause. Back then it was for the King and country, for their very freedom and for a future free from Oppression and Fritze and saurkraut.
The battlers of Grappenhall stood shoulder to shoulder today ready to give their all for an even greater cause. To stave of relegation from the fourth tier of Cheshire veterans football and to spare the blushes of our very own Lord Kitchener. For PEM was pacing the dressing room today. His reputation on the line.
"We need you" he proclaimed, pointing one at a time at us all.
Another anniversary doing the rounds. 50 years of match of the day. You've seen some of the old clips. You remember them oh so well. The black and white grainy pictures of grey skied winter matches, muddy pitches and rain lashing and whirling and the wind whistling and the mud strewn players filthy and soaked and the sliding and battling and the crowds wrapped tight in hats and coats......
Well it was black and white today. We had a flash of sun for 20 minutes in the first half and then the monochrome descended once more. The cold wind bit deep, the rain turned to hail and like needles stung your face. The conditions were as bad as they could be without the match being called off.
Stepping Hill. Adversaries of old. Plenty of new faces and a few old ones to stir the memories and awaken the passion.
Ray Elliott in the nets. Tok and Mike Illif either side of PEM and big Dan at the back. Junior and Ian in the middle flanked by Leight and Will with self and Gentleman Richard up front. Torres and Prescott on the sidelines. Ian in the middle, a newbie, taking Mecrows name for the day and young enough to be his son. A gifted player indeed with poise and touch and a turn of pace and a very welcome addition to the centre ground.
Stepping seemed off it. It was clear to see they could play and intended to. The pitch (No2, flat and true) allowed them to and positively encouraged it. But the control was missing and the passes too short and the movement slow or was it that we harried and chased and closed them down and jumped and challenged and opened them up. We knocked it out to Will and we knocked it out to Leight and pushed them back right over the Mosel and back into Belgium. And Ian in one of his first touches played a ball through to Richard who jinxed his way into a foul and we had a penalty and it was that early in the game that my shirt wasn't even soaked all the way through yet.
Gentleman Richard won the penalty so quite rightly took it. Low and towards the corner and stroked with Gentlemanly ease. Parried and saved by their Oliver Kahn, but whats that, a whistle from our friend the referee.....'take it again', he proclaims, infringers in the box. Special forces moving across enemy lines.
'Feck this' declares the mad Irishman grabbing the ball from Gentleman Richard 'I've never missed a penalty' he tells us and places it on the spot. As we all scratched our heads trying to recall the deja vu, he dispatches it mightily over the bar like a Browning round fired across no mans land. A let off for them and a rued miss for us.
They hunkered down and set about their business. Their Number 18 orchestrating some fine moves with waves of attack coming down the right but Tok was there to break it up and dispatch them back and then PEM pulled his calf and we had a re-jig. Eales ordered to retreat to the rear, Tony P up front and we got at 'em.
Will with three days and nights of beer inside him pulling on every reserve ( and wanting to make up for his horrendous miss) burst down the right, leight with three months of beer inside him burst down the left. Some jiggery and pokery and a slide and slash and hoof and the ball fell to Prescott and the goal opened up before him and he'd hoped that I'd missed it but I hadn't and he did and off it floated like a browning round across no mans land. Nil nil it remained until our friend the ref blew us off for half time and we dropped back into the trenches for tea and tiffin and a team talk.
Kitchener pointed and proclaimed and we gestured and huffed and puffed and back slapped and climbed back out and faced them again.
I was too busy listening to Mike I telling me 'No Fouls' every two minutes to take stock of where we were at. Where we were at was, we were half way through our 90 minutes playing a decent outfit, it was nil nil and we were holding them, no we were not just holding them, we were creating chances and having the better of it. The first goal would be crucial.
They burst through in a ping ping move and a low shot heading into the corner was brilliantly parried by Ray. That could have been it. They had a shot from 30 yards, a howitzer, straight and true, but Ray pushed it away. That could have been it. We had a break a scuff and a bounce and a rebound and a swish and then gentleman Richard stroked it into the corner and it was hard to believe but we had it. I squinted through the rain and looked to PEM who punched the air. It felt right though. We were battling against the conditions and a fair outfit and we had scored and it just seemed right.
Someone asked the question no one wanted to hear the answer to. 'How long ref?' ... 18 he proclaimed and whistled us away.
Bloody long time to hang on that. Especially when they brought up a fresh division of Panzers and bombarded the box with salvo after salvo of relentless fire.
Junior tucked in his chin strap, stuck out his chest and saw them off. He single handedly broke them down, with knife between his teeth and Enfield rifle under his arm he charged in, slid in, flew in and stopped them in their tracks. His citation will read of bravery and of gallantry in the field and his VC will follow.
Meanwhile Dan was playing a blinder and Mike I had kept Jim the Stepping attacking midfielder and a real threat, pinned down with covering fire rendering his presence useless.
Tok was awesome and so was Ian and Junior was immense and Will was indefatigable and Leight came back on and gave it his all and Richard kept running and closing them down and Ian Torres crashed into them and chased and Tony P fresh from the field hospital fought them with his bandages flailing. It was a gusto performance and the team played like a team and we fought them like brave Tommies. Then they scored.
The ball came across from a corner missing all in the middle and it fell to their centre half twenty yards out who stroked it in.
One all. Hells Teeth. The battle really started now. Their keeper ventured forward and made a mess of a side step and pass causing some heated exchanges and threats and posturing. The ref kept a lid on it though as he did the whole game, seldom taking his hands out of his pockets, too blasted cold.
Not much in it in the final exchanges, a stale mate. Like two sides facing each other across the trenches in the muddy fields of a world war one battlefield. Funny that.
The ref whistled it over. Finished. The end. No victor today. No spoils, for the winners....but as we unhooked the nets and gathered them in and collected in the corner flags and picked up the water bottles and returned to the warm changing rooms it was the home team that seemed the brighter, that seemed that bit more chipper and who were smiling and content. It was a victory for us if only for the solitary point.
No lives given today, a few bruises and a couple of pulls. Tomorrow some stiffness and aches.
Over 10 million died by the end of the 14 - 18 War a hundred years ago and 20 million wounded.
It's Macc vets next week fella's.......let World War 2 commence.
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