Alehouse futsal

"I'll have a pint of the Tea Kettle stout," said Hensley.

 

"Good choice," said the barman, "Little brewery in Oxford that's from."

 

"Well I like to do my bit for the little man. Keep small businesses afloat and all that."  He took a sip of the beer. "Hmm, not bad."

 

"Dave, what the hell are you doing?" called a voice from the doorway.

 

"Sorry Steve, didn't see you there, what d'you want to drink?"

 

"I mean what are you doing drinking? We've got futsal practice."

 

"Is that where we run around the pitch for an hour working on technique and set pieces."

 

"You know it is."

 

"So I'll need an energy drink to sustain me then." He took another sip of the Tea Kettle.

 

"Stout is not an energy drink, the clue's in the word 'stout'. Honestly, we're supposed to be a sports team not a drinking club."

 

"Will, it's a pub league, of course people drink. If you want athletes set up a league at the sports centre."

 

"You know very well that there aren't any futsal courts at sports centres."

 

The town of Scrannich had been built by a wealthy Quaker who, as a health and fitness fanatic, had built a number of temperance bars with futsal courts attached - futsal was his favourite sport, an indoor version of football played on a small indoor court with five players aside. Reality soon got in the way of plan to keep them as temperance bars,when the landlords realised that nobody wanted to drink in temperance bars. The futsal courts remained however, and town had the only futsal league in the country, with 17 pubs participating. The Prancing Pony was one of the 17 teams, captained by Steve, who had aspirations.

 

"Another practice cancelled, I can't believe it was just the two of us showed up. We've got a cup match on Sunday, we'll never win if we don't practice."

 

"Never mind skipper, have a pint of energy drink. Mike, two pints of the Tea Kettle. Who've we got on Saturday skip?"

 

"Dog and Gun."

 

"Oh good, they've got cider festival on next weekend, should be a good game."

 

"Oh please, just remember that there's no drinking before the game. You can have all the cider you want afterwards. We're a sports team, not a drinking club."

 

xxx

 

"Morning Steve," said the Dog and Gun captain, Ted Earnshaw, "Pint of cider? They're all on offer, half price before lunch. Try this, Thatcher's Ruin, 9.3%."

 

"Not before a game, you should know that. 9.3%, you wouldn't be able to walk after two of those. I'll have a ginger beer."

 

"You're more disciplined than my team, I'll give you that. They were hear at ten, for the early opening."

 

"I don't know why you encourage drinking, we're supposed to be sports teams."

 

"We're a pub league, I can hardly keep them out of the pubs, it's where we play. Besides, if I banned them from drinking I wouldn't keep a single player, it's a social league not a professional one. Oh, by the way, did you hear, there's talk of a futsal world cup."

 

"Really!"

 

"Yeah, one of the American internet billionaires heard about the sport and wants to make it bigger than soccer. Of course, outside Scrannitch no-one plays, so I reckon some of my lads have a chance of becomming world cup champions."

 

"Your lads, in the world cup! We've got much better players, not one of your team's a patch on Stanley."

 

"Stanley - I saw him at the Duck's Hat last night."

 

"But I told the team not to drink the night before a game."

 

"He wasn't there long."

 

"Pleased to hear it."

 

"He was on his way to the Cow and Artichoke, though on my way home I saw him having outside the Three Jolly Wildebeast. Anyway, world cup material you reckon."

 

"Well I suppose if there was professional money in it the lads might take the game more seriously. Where's your team, I thought you said they were here early?"

 

"They're all in the dressing room. Your boys are here too."

 

"Something like that. Let's have a look. Hey, I wonder if the internet billionaire has sent a scout. We'll have to keep a look out for unfamiliar faces."

 

The scene in the home dressing room was not one anyone would wish a billionaire's world cup scout to see, five men, each mid-way through an abandoned attempt to don football shorts, each slouched in a state of clear cider overdose. Ted tried to revive them but they were all drunk as lords."

 

"Oh dear," said Steve. "It looks like you'll have to forfeit the match. I'll let my team know."

 

The sight in the away dressing room was even worse than that in the home, the five players all slumped near-naked on the floor, pools of vomit flowing in several places.

 

"Rematch?" said Ted. "We could play on Saturday afternoon. That'll give them all six days to recover."

 

"Yeah, go on. I'll email the league secretary. That's the fifth time this season."

 

"Never mind. Fancy a cider?"

 

"Be rude not to in the circumstances."

 

"There's one called Fantasy Futsal, I'll get you a pint of that."