With customary hubris, I was so confident that we'd finally win M'Duck this year, that me and Tim took the liberty of having the victory party on the Saturday night, ahead of the competition on Sunday (no-one's ever up for a party on a Sunday night, are they?) Not that many were up for a party on the Saturday as it transpired, but that didn't stop me rolling into bed at 4am after a prolonged absinth binge. After last year's tomfoolerous mud-wrestling, I was pleased to see that we had relatively clement weather for this year's tourny. An early meet at the Memorial Park, and we arrived in Hinckley in good time for our 9.30am fixture with Birmingham's Net Baloos, only to find that half their side had gone to the wrong Hinckley United (don't ask). The belated Brummies eventually made their appearance and we lined up with Pete ("The Startled Cat") in goal, a defensive trio of Digger, Steve and Rory, John and Banjo patrolling the flanks, the midfield mayhem of Lanie, Mick and myself, with Jed and Sam up front providing the proverbial icing on the cake. On the sidelines, Ali and Tim looked on, itching for a piece of the action.
The Brummies were looking somewhat depleted, having to call up a couple of members of their youth team (I hope they filled out those parental consent forms) and, on a soggy pitch, we took an early lead when Sam drove the ball in from the edge of the area. We retained the ball well after that, but didn't exactly threaten a deluge of goals. At half-time, Tim gave us a few words of encouragement and brought Ali on for Jed. Although a little short of match practice, the boy Evans didn't have to wait too long to make his mark: the ball was played across the six-yard box, leaving Sam with an open goal, but he uncharacteristically scuffed it, stumbling into the goal himself and leaving the ball stopped dead on the line. Ali, following in, held his nerve and clinically slotted home from about six inches out, effectively finishing the voting for "day's daftest goal" before it had even started. Meanwhile, at the other end, our defence was having a fairly quiet time of it and all Pete really had to do in goal was keep himself warm. 2-0 it finished.
After having such familiar opposition for our opening match, we were stepping into the unknown against York City, M'Duck debutants whom we'd not played before. After having a fairly easy time of it in the first game, our defence was now put to the test on the soggier of the day's two pitches. The three stalwarts stood firm, however, and forced the opponent's attackers out wide to look for the ball. Pete had a couple of opportunities to dirty his gloves in goal, but nothing too dramatic. Half-time arrived without score and Ali came on for Sam. However, it was our other striker, the Alleged Jed Hardy, who provided the breakthrough: collecting the ball deep in the opposing half, he carried it forward, circumventing defenders and ignoring supporting runners with typical chutzpah, before coolly striking the ball past the opposing keeper for an outstanding solo goal. 1-0, and we were on the brink of the semi-finals.
Our final group game was against Colchester, who reached the final of the second M'Duck tournament. By now, we had been weakened by the loss of midfield piss-artist Lanie Stan, whose hamstrings were giving him gyp. This left Tim with his prefered managerial scenario (ie no substitutions to make) and the team with a hastily rearranged midfield. Needing a draw to go through, Tim counselled possession football before the match. After about 30 seconds of neat passing triangles around defence and midfield, we got fed up and started lumping it up the park again. Up front, we now had erstwhile custodian Pete Myton, with John McCutch going in sticks: a tactical masterstroke which paid dividends when Pete scuffed home a shot from the near post after some good work from Banjo on the wings. This was swiftly followed by another tomfoolerous solo goal from Jed, who wriggled his way along the byline before striking home from a tight angle. The second half was notable only for the fact that Tim brought himself on for the first and only time all day; the game finished 2-0 and we were in the semi-final.
Our semi-final opposition was Luton's Whosh FC, who'd finished second in their qualifying group behind Rangers. The main pitch was now rapidly deteriorating and attempts to dribble the ball through the middle of the park were just frankly asking for trouble (although that didn't stop one or two of us trying.) SBA were the more promising side early on, spending the majority of the first period in the opposing half of the pitch. Luton, however, were a more organised side than any of our group opponents and didn't present too many opportunities, although Jed did hit the post early on. A crucial breakthrough arrived just before half-time: more good work from Jed, who eluded a swathe of defenders before cutting the ball back to me. I took it past the keeper but overran it; Sam, coming in from the opposite direction, took the ball off me and coolly went past the keeper in the other direction, before steadying himself and firing home past the defenders on the line. The second half saw a few tomfoolerous wobbles (like me giving the ball straight to the opposing winger with our entire left flank exposed, for example) but we continued to create the majority of chances and were a little unlucky, Ali in particular, not to increase our lead. However, one goal proved an elegant sufficiency, we managed to hold out, and we were in the final.
All of which semi-final triumph buffoonery left us with a chance to make it third time lucky in the coveted M'Duck final against Rangers, although by now we were pretty well all footballed out and Mick was carrying a nasty injury. The skies darkened overhead and the floodlights cast eerie shadows on the scarred pitch as we stepped out once more, to face our destiny.
And so to the final: after a promising first 8 seconds (we had kick-off), we spent the remainder of the half encamped in our own penalty area, whilst Rangers peppered us with long throw-ins and corner kicks. The defence remained resolute and were ably supported by Pete in goal who produced two blinding saves, first deflecting away a close-range shot with an outstretched foot and later parrying a header to safety. We finally made it into the opposing side of the pitch when we changed ends at half-time. Tim gave a stirring teamtalk which belied his reputation for tactical naivety: "Ok lads, I think we need to chill out a bit here: we've played football all day and it's got us this far; I don't see why we've suddenly got the idea that we ought to just boot it up the pitch..." Suitably chastened, we returned to the fray.
After looking rather improved for the beginning of the second half, we weren't overjoyed to find ourselves a goal down: Pete went down in front of an overhit pass, only for it to jam in the mud a yard or so in front of his welcoming arms. With The Startled Cat spreadeagled, one of the Rangers forwards was first to react, scrambling the ball home despite a Herculean effort from the covering defender (who, I believe, was Digger). Disgusted by this vile caprice of fate, we redoubled our efforts and were a little put out to find ourselves still ensconced in our own half of the pitch, such was Rangers' dominance. A second goal threatened: a vicious swerving volley from long range brought the best save of the day out of Pete who, having followed the initial flight of the ball, had to readjust, somehow keeping his footing in the goalmouth quagmire, before flinging himself full length to his left to tip the ball round the post.
Despite his heroics, our scarecrow custodian was doomed to concede again. A dangerous break down our left flank was effectively, but illegally brought to a conclusion by a desperate sliding tackle from Steve. The referee had no hesitation in awarding a penalty to Rangers, at the same time earning himself an almighty kicking next time we play Brentford. The Rangers forward took his time placing the ball and preparing his run up, hence Pete's rather caustic observation ("I agree mate, it's a very nice ball, but could you get on with it? I've got work tomorrow...") The preparation paid off, however: the penalty emphatically despatched past our keeper's outstretched arms and Rangers were well in control of the fixture. 2-0 up with only a few minutes remaining, they made a couple of substitutions and dug themselves in to await the final whistle and the plaudits.
Determined to regain some pride out of the fixture, we surged up the pitch, concentrating our attacks down the left hand side of the Rangers penalty area. Finally, a breakthrough: the ball headed away to the edge of the Rangers area, where I trapped it with my groin (never ideal) before unleashing a Yeboah of a volley which dipped over the keeper's head, leaving me even more astounded than everyone else. Despite the fact that it was only a consolation goal, I must admit I was grinning like a horse collar as I jogged back to the halfway line.
Alas, it wasn't enough: full time was blown and we had allowed the Holy Grail of football to depart in the company of the Queens 11. Rangers were definitely good value for their win; it would be churlish to bewail the manner of their first goal, given that they were denied on three occasions by outstanding saves from Pete. By contrast, we only had one shot and it went in (jammy bastard that I am).
Ah well, whilst we braved the cold showers, our old mates Brentford were getting beasted on penalties in the Vase final. Then it was into the bar for the presentation of the various gongs. First off though, we concluded the voting for Player Of The Tournament. The final result was an exact tie between new boy Sam and pin-up boy Pete. In a victory for democracy, we tossed a coin and Sam got to keep the prize.
On to the main presentation ceremony. First up, I was announced the winner of the keepy-up trophy by Paul: "I don't know how this bloke won it, because he's completely shit!" beamed the diminutive fund-raiser. Probably because you didn't tell anyone else about it, you pleb, I thought, but held my peace (and my piece...).
Tim and I had concurred that Pete would be the right man to go and collect our runners-up trophy, but we were forestalled by the fact that, to our own frank astonishment, we were declared winners of the Fair Play trophy! I say astonishment, not because we don't make every effort to respect the spirit of the game (we do), but because at such a good-natured event, nearly every team there must have had a good shout for the trophy. Needless to say, we were absolutely delighted to have made such a favourable impression with the other teams. Pete accepted the trophy very prettily, although it would have been satisfyingly ironic had he indulged in some gross display of gratuitous triumphalism ("Ha! We won the Fair Play Trophy! You can all eat my shorts, losers...)
All that remained then was for Tim, our fledgling manager, the Ginger Banana, to step forward and accept, damn and blast it, our third M'Duck runners up trophy. Not that we were overly disappointed: the better side won on the day, and, lest we forget, we did accrue a fairly decent haul to create the M'Duck shrine that now exists on our mantelpiece amidst the beer cans. Many thanks to all who turned out on the day to make this dream a reality; both myself and Tim were delighted with our first major tournament and could reflect on a good day's work:
"I reckon we deserve a curry."
"I reckon you're right..."