I think I should have spotted the omens for the weekend when a mailing to the IFA list on Friday erroneously gave our team nickname as "Tomfoolery".
Having started the week with a strong-looking squad, we had already been whittled down to the bare bones by the time the weekend arrived: work commitments for Mr Beidas, an outbreak of influenza in the Draper household, Orca wounded (harpoon?) and our potential ringer from the Foxes, Bernie, had also cried off.
On the Saturday, Sam phoned in with an injury received playing at University and Mick warned me that Steve wasn't going to be able to make it, which left us with just 11. Mick was also going to have to "borrow" a car to make it up to the tourny, which, if I know Mick, means that there is now some bloke lying dead in a ditch in Walsgrave, minus his car keys.
Nevertheless, in good spirits (and oblivious to several of these breaking developments) Tim, Joe, Pete and I set off to Wakefield on the sunny Saturday afternoon to prepare the ground for the pre-tournament victory sesh (an idea I robbed from the Official Monster Raving Loony Party Manifesto.)
We are having a few brews in Joe's garden when the news comes through about Steve's absenteeism. Tim asks how many players we've got, thinking we've still got 12, although by my count there are 11. "Let's see, there's us four..." Tim, Pete and Joe all raise four fingers, finding it the easiest way to keep count when pissed, "...Ali and Lanie..." six fingers, "...Martin and Ross..." eight fingers, "...Mick, John and Liam..." eleven fingers, "...and Tim."
Pete and Tim, out of fingers, are satisfied that this makes twelve; Joe, after a few seconds' thought, gives me an odd look, realises that I've deliberately counted Tim twice and grins hugely. Tim, pissed up Maths teacher that he is, breathes a large sigh of relief as he thinks this means he won't have to put himself in the starting line up.
I would have felt less in the mood for laughing had I known about the e-mail sitting in my inbox from Liam, bewailing a badly injured foot.
We were joined later on by Ross and Martin, fresh from watching the City play Preston, morale was high, sobriety was at a premium and the auspices seemed generally good. As a designated driver (life-saving geek), I kept my own consumption down and got a pretty good night's sleep, despite Tim's hideous snoring and the consequent rattling of window panes.
The morning arrived and brought with it fresh worry: Liam hadn't turned up at the Coventry departure point and Ali's train from Liverpool was delayed by an hour because of a horse on the line. Furthermore, we got stuck behind- of all things- a Fun Run coming out of Wakefield. Nevertheless, spirits were still high: "Look, there's a Northern Midget!" cried Ross, as if this were some mythical Chimera for which he had sought all his life. "Quick, let's throw him in a skip!" Er... no...
SBA FC 4-0 Net Terriers
So, despite my many and various attempts to start the tourny with some semblance of decent organisation, we turned up late and with only 10 men. My first job of the day was to recruit a ringer, which I duly did, grabbing hold of Ade from the Leeds Lards. In the meantime, our die-hard supporters contingent (Diane and Michelle) had made it to the ground. Our first opponents were tourny hosts Huddersfield, and we lined up thusly:
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Pete
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Tim
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Cross Ross
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John
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Mick
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Martin
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Danny
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Lanie
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Joe
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Ali
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Ade
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We weren't looking too clever to start with, either: a bit of a mix up between Sweeper and Keeper culminated in Ross nonchalantly clearing the ball by shinning it against our crossbar. Oops...
Fortunately, we started to get a bit of a grip and, after some sustained pressure, took the lead when John McCutch stepped out of defence to curl a shot from distance over the Huddersfield goalie. As the result between Huddersfield and Scunthorpe (the other team in the group) had been a draw, we had the chance to secure qualification for the quarter finals by winning our first game and our chances of doing so were improved when I stole in behind the Huddersfield defence to slot one in. 2-0.
After this, the fledgling strike partnership between Ali and Ade started to blossom: the latter drove home a deflected shot through a crowded penalty area for our third, before Ali charged down a panicky clearance from the keeper and headed the ball into the empty goal to round off the scoring. 4-0 it finished, although I didn't really think a there were four goals between the sides.
SBA FC 0-0 Scunthorpe
After this fillip, morale was (understandably) high. However, the next game was a completely different kettle of carp. Scunthorpe only needed to lose by less than a four-goal margin to qualify from the group but they obviously had rather loftier aspirations than this and, after we'd put some early pressure on and gone close on a couple of occasions, we were pegged back for pretty much most of the game. Our second Leeds ringer up front, Dave, had to spend most of his time tracking back and Pete pulled out one fine stop towards the end of the first half to keep the scores level.
The second half was much the same. A dancing run from midfield by one of the opposition was comically foreshortened when Ross, tracking back from a foray upfield, ran in and, with the air of a man who thought this was a perfectly legitimate thing to do, kicked the poor lad up the bum. The only reason I can imagine why the referee didn't whistle was because he couldn't believe his eyes; I certainly didn't. The game finished goalless and, disappointingly, we hadn't really given Scunthorpe much to worry about. We emerged as group winners, but Tim and I felt there was some work to be done if we were to produce a better performance in the knock-out stages. Our main concern was the lack of shape in the centre of the park and, to remedy this, we decided to bring the sobering influence of Mick Hibberd into the middle, whilst I would take over the right wing-back slot.
SBA FC 2-0 Beesotted
Another selection difficulty reared its ugly head as our quarter-final with Brentford loomed: the entire Lards squad had decamped to the pub, so we needed to get a ringer in from elsewhere. Thankfully, Joe from Scunthorpe agreed to help us out, despite having played two games in a little under an hour. We slotted him into the back three and put John McCutch up front.
Although we now looked to have a better shape across midfield, we looked a little tentative in the opening stages, perhaps having had our confidence dented by the second group game. Brentford looked pretty fit and well-organised, but our defence were coping with everything that came their way. The game remained goalless until half-time, when we took stock of the situation. We resolved to try and get more pressure on in the second half and force some errors.
Finally, we took control of the game: no defensive errors, but a wonderful waltzing run from Lanie which took him to within shooting range. A mistimed challenge from one of the covering defenders threatened to halt the Inca Llama, but somehow he kept his balance to curl home a slick shot with his left foot from the edge of the box.
As well as this piece of Peruvian wizadry, we were also putting our plan of pressure football into action. Mistakes were coming and a bit of an error at the back allowed John McCutch in behind the defence. The erstwhile centre-half coolly held off a challenger before despatching his shot under the keeper to make the game safe. At this point, most sides would have shut up shop but, after our lacklustre display against Scunthorpe, we wanted more from the game and kept attacking until the final whistle. A great win against a good side and a place in the semi-finals beckoned. A word of praise for our ringer, Scunthorpe Joe, who was absolutely rock solid at the back and put his foot through anything that came near him (ball-wise, at any rate.)
The Brentford web site's account of this match incidentally describes us as "Tournament favourites", which gave me a good laugh when I read it.
SBA FC 1-0 Internet Owls
So, into the semi-final against a very disciplined Sheffield Wednesday outfit and a game that, I thought, produced our best performance. We had Leeds' Ade back up front and there was a good mixture of graft and guile throughout the side. Our best chance of the first half fell to Lanie, who came close to touching in a cross-come-shot from the right (ie- me.) Nevertheless, we weren't having things all our own way: Sheffield Wednesday attacked as a unit and forced a couple of corners, but the SBA held firm.
The game seemed to get a lot tighter in the second-half and I think our only chance was a free-kick from just outside the area. However, the game seemed destined for penalties before some late drama. Martin burst into the opposing box, a defender lunged in (fairly unnecessarily) and the referee immediately awarded a penalty. Pitch two suddenly became quite a noisy place: a few of the Wednesday players felt quite put out by the decision, whilst myself and Joe were discussing who was going to take the kick. Pete, seeing that Martin was surrounded by players accusing him of going down too easily (which wasn't the case), sent Ross up the pitch to "get Martin out of there". Ross, slightly misinterpreting this, made his way up the pitch and started applying his own brand of diplomacy by telling the Wednesday players that it was a penalty, so there. Ali, meanwhile, is exchanging phone numbers with the lad who made the tackle and the goalie and myself, despite the tension, are having a good laugh about all of this tomfoolering.
Finally, the debate subsided and I was able to take the penalty: the keeper went early to his left, but I had put the ball the other way and, with very little time left on the clock, we were able to hang on for the victory.
SBA FC 1-0 Whosh FC
And so to our second appearance in the Land Ut Gods final against a Luton outfit who were also previous holders of the trophy. The first half was quite a tense affair: I think both sides were very conscious of what was at stake and everyone was also bloody well knackered after the previous four games. We produced a couple of long shots, without really putting too much together, but we stifled the opposition pretty well; everyone stayed focussed, Tim kept the encouragement going from centre half and we came off the pitch at half-time with honours pretty well even. There was nothing really tactical to say about the game, just a case of "Get back out there, get stuck in and GET A GOAL."
Although we were playing uphill in the second half, the game remained pretty well poised, with very few chances for either side. We still weren't creating too much and Ali and Ade were restricted to chasing upfield punts, which they did uncomplainingly. By my reckoning, we had more of the ball than Luton, but couldn't find a breakthrough. The whistle sounded for the end of normal time with the match still goalless.
Extra-time, declared the referee, but not Golden Goal. "Fantastic," I declared, "we've got time to bang in a couple." Realistically, one goal was likely to settle the match and, when it arrived, it was a peach: a quick throw-in from the right, Lanie seized the ball and, before the defenders could close him down, delivered an absolute belter of a shot which, although the keeper wasn't overly slow going down, whistled under his body and in at the near post. Pick it out.
Although there was widespread merriment amongst the Sky Blues, we all knew that our efforts would count for nothing if we slacked off now. As soon as Luton kicked off, the entire attack and midfield surged after the ball, determined not to give the opposition a chance to get themselves back in the game. We reached the midway point in extra-time a goal up, and we were five minutes away from reclaiming the trophy.
I expected those five minutes to seem like an eternity, but they were actually over in a flash: just as before, we took every opportunity to attack, instead of trying to get behind the ball and protect our lead. Ade latched onto a ball over the top, but his well-struck volley dipped just over the bar. Then Tim, Mr Dependable himself, goes on a brief Sabbatical, deciding that this would be an ideal time to visit the opposing penalty area in support of an upfield break, prompting horror and hilarity in equal measure from the SBA.
Thankfully, the ref brought this tomfoolering to a timely end with a good sharp blast on the whistle. At this point, Pete hinted that he may have been imbibing a bit freely and, when I checked my new bottle of Bushmills, I found it was half empty! Rather galling, but it's nice to know he had something to do in goal...
After a lengthy delay (and a bottle of cold water down the back in the shower, thanks John) we decamped to the local Cricket club to be announced Land Ut Gods winners 2003, and I fulfilled a long-held ambition to do the "Dirty Sanchez" celebration with a large trophy :-{p
There was still more tomfoolery to be had, though: me and Tim started gathering in the votes for POTT. Highlight was unwrapping one such chad to be confronted with Ali's name. ("Who voted for that c-") then unwrapping one that said "Tim" immediately afterwards. Diplomatic silence from the Tiger, disbelieving silence from myself. After all twelve votes were counted, prizes were dispensed from amongst the keepsakes we'd picked up on the day. Third place went to Ross for his commanding display at the back, and with it the Scunthorpe pennant ("Since you hoofed one of their players...") Second place and the Brentford pennant ("For no reason other than that it's ever so slightly larger than the Scunthorpe pennant...") went to Midfield Mick. Finally, the Luton pennant (since we wanted to keep the Huddersfield one) and coveted mantle of Player of the Tourny went to that man Stan, for a fine day's work, a couple of picture book goals and a welcome improvement on the wretched luck he's suffered in previous Land Ut Gods (plural). Heartwarming stuff indeed, but we wanted last orders in the Clarence, so it was wagons ho ("Take a good look lads, this is the North and we're getting the hell out of here.")
After a hair-raising ride down the M1, me and Tim could relax and reflect on the day's triumphant achievement:
"Fancy a curry?"
"Funny you should mention that..."
Flukey bastards- back please