Cup Final
By Terrence Oblong
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They say that it’s the balls in the back of the net that count, but that’s rubbish. The game’s won or lost way before a ball’s netted, before you even step onto the pitch. You’ll never get the ball in the back of the net if your head’s not right at the start of the game.
Football’s all about attitude. You have to have the want, the need, the desire. Take my lads, oh they’ve got skills, as good as any in the league, some really flash guys, but they turn up on a Sunday morning thinking of the beer they’ll be drinking at lunchtime. They go through ninety minutes of pre-pub penance, winning just doesn’t enter their heads.
Take Chris; there’s no-one like him in the division, he’s got real flare: he can turn a ball on a sixpence, dribbles with the dexterity of a Barnsley-woman’s tongue and can just smell his way to the net, pure instinct. Highest scorer in the league, even though half the time he turns up hung-over, often still pissed.
But not today. Oh, please not today. The final. We, lazy, incompetent, unfocused idiots that we are, we have got to the final. Okay, just to the final of the division cup, but if we win today we go through to the regional finals; a few more wins after that and we’ll be playing Man United.
All we have to do is take it seriously, to want to win. That’s what I said in the training session on Wednesday, if we want it bad enough we’ll win that cup. That’s what I said on Wednesday, to THREE BLOODY PEOPLE. The others didn’t even turn up, the last training session before the cup final. It makes you weep.
Bloody Hell! Fifteen minutes ‘til kick-off and they’re not even all here; half the bloody team’s missing. “Kevin, I see your missus in the stands, tell her to put her boots on, she’s going to be in the team at this rate.”
“Na, Boner, she’s too good for this fuckin’ team.”
Laughter. They laughed at a comment like that, just before kick off in the biggest game of their lives. They don’t care, and I’ve got to give a team talk that’ll make a difference to this bunch of drifters.
“Okay lads, a laugh’s a laugh, but this is serious. You’ve done well to get here, really well, but don’t blow it. This is a chance to get to the regionals. The regionals!
“Rory, keep it tight at the back, don’t go walk about like last week.”
“There was a space in midfield.”
“The only space was between your ears. You left the bloody barn door open for that albino to walk through. We’re playing The Oak today, if you leave a gap wide enough for a fart to get past they’ll score. I want it tight, tight, tight.
“Oh my god, they’ve remembered to turn up. Chris and Damien, the guys who turned lastminute.com into a match plan for the cup final. Thank you for joining us lads, somebody steal your alarm clocks?”
“Don’t be cheeky Boner, we’re ‘ere, what more d’yer want?”
“Well,” I said, optimistically I know, “sober would be a start.”
“Yea, sober as a judge. Mind you, the judge was pissed out his head.”
“Just tell me you didn’t go out boozing last night, that you had a nice early night ready to be at your fittest.”
They looked at each other, smirking like little kids caught stealing. It was Damian who answered, Chris‘s shadow we call him as he never leaves his side.
“We did have a couple Boner, but not many, we left the club early.”
“The club? You went to a club? The night before we play the Oak, the best team int’ league and you went clubbing. I needed you sober. Sober, sober, sober.”
“We’re sober, ain’t we Chris?”
“Dead sober Dame, I’ve never drunk so little on a Saturday. I still had change from me tenner at the end of the night.”
“You started the night with sixty quid Chris.”
“Ten, sixty, same fuckin’ difference. Well within me limit anyway.”
I wish I could complain, drop them from the team as punishment, but I’d have to drop the whole bloody team.
“Okay lads, it’s time. Go out there and give it your best. Think about the cup, think about winning the cup.”
“Yeah,” said Chris, “think of all the fuckin’ beer we can fit in that cup.”
xxxx
“Chris the Piss they call me, cheeky fuckers. Team’s nowt wi’out me. Two goals I scored int’ final, that penalty and then the winning goal, twenty metres out, their goalie didn’t know what had hit him, like Wayne fuckin’ Rooney I am. Man o’ the match and man o’ the tournament. It’s t’ regionals next, just line ‘em up I say.
Old fuckin’ Boner can’t take the pressure. Had a fuckin’ heart attack right int’ middle o’ game, we stopped for ten minutes waitin’ for t’ ambulance.
We played on though. ‘Eed have fuckin’ killed us if we didn’t . We’re on the way t’ hospital now, wit’ cup and all. It’ll either cheer the old bugger up or finish ‘im off. I don’t care either way, we’ll win the next match with ‘im or wi’out ‘im. As I said to Dames, ‘The only trainers I need are the ones on me feet.’
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Yeh, played in some great
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