Men's 1s v RUMS & Old Boys

RUMS: 4
LSE: 2

and

LSE Old Boys: Too Many
LSE: Not Enough

Article by Spok



The day began like any other Wednesday… Wake-up, shower, have breakfast, wonder if Hayden really is a fag, start thinking about the game. With the season fast approaching its conclusion and the champagne hockey one would expect from such a venerated establishment as the lse hockey 1s still confined to the cellar, one could anticipate an encounter full of fighting-spirit and panache. Frodo summed up the mood in typical fashion by re-sending last week’s email, again exclaiming ‘fellas, this could be the match to shape our season’. Unfortunately it probably was.

With the warm-up consisting of Jacko engaging in puerile frolics with Niall, our own baby-faced assassin, and handing out invites for his next sleep-over at the Never never land mansion in Clapham common, the signs were ominous. Within a minute of the push-back Sharon had already put in the customary token dive and fished the ball from the back of his net. 1-0. The defence was looking particularly shaky and Alan Ball was still coming to terms with using his new adult-sized ‘hockey stick’. Baller had earlier proudly announced that it was a birthday gift from his parents, unfortunately no-one had educated them as to the difference between a hockey stick and a pitching wedge, and once again the team was to pay the price.

With our forwards, Mowgli and Yasser-Abdul-Jafar, slowly getting into the game, the ball was finding our opponents D with surprising regularity and an opening looked likely. Finally the equaliser came. In what can only be described as a truly priapic moment the ball was played to the far post and Mustafa, exhibiting the cunning only acquired through four years intensive training with the Taliban’s finest, stealthily stole in with a reverse-hook finish past the keeper. 1-1.

Sadly this was to be as good as it got. Jacko was directing his efforts at delegating to others the duty of marking his opposite man, whom free from the attentions of our midfield and defence made easy work of adding his name to the score sheet, twice. An attempted come-back was thwarted when claims for a flick, more obvious than FT Boy’s predilection towards men, was turned down. Mowgli had burst uncharacteristically into the D with only the keeper to prevent him firing wide, when a defender, obviously incensed by the man-child’s sudden emergence from uselessness, threw his stick at the Mowgli and the ball (speculation has since arisen that this was in retaliation to Baller’s earlier attempt to amputate an opponents limb, using his newly acquired golfing apparatus). The rational response would be to award a stroke, but the umpire’s cowardly reaction was to hurl abuse at Jacko and allow play to continue, virtually condemning the 1s to another defeat. However, the team didn’t give up and through the commendable efforts of FT Boy, Porter and F#cknut, to mention but a few, Frodo was able to pick up a consolatory goal before Sharon allowed the opposition to have the last laugh. Final score: 4-2.

The experience of travelling to the provincial outpost of Barnes Bridge only to be humbled by a group of plebeian degenerates served to dampen our spirits somewhat and the hockey team’s presence in the Tuns was a muted one. Tesh’s northern ‘charm’ wasn’t fully appreciated earning him dick of the day while Frodo’s solid on-pitch presence resulted in a well earned MOM accolade.

On a lighter note, Sunday saw the return of some familiar faces, true hockey legends including Rolfie, Sharky, BB Dancer and to a lesser extent Rasta, as the first team took on the dilapidated outfit that calls themselves the LSE Old Boys. Jacko had returned from the marble halls of East Grinstead (where apparently they have fashioned an orbital-bust of his likeness from an old silver door-knob) with renewed vigour following his successful sleep-over. The optimism was contagious, fuelled by the sight of pre-match binge drinking and protruding pot-bellies from our opponents we took to our task with high expectations. Depressingly we were humiliated on the pitch by some great goals and some flowing hockey that the diagrammatic illustrations in Tesh’s textbook guide: Hockey Tactician could never hope to capture. Sadly our cause was not furthered by another comical performance from our ‘keeper’ Sharon and Frodo’s inability to navigate the vast expanse between the Shire and Crystal Palace.

A special mention must go to Annabelle’s Jefferson, who was guilty of committing the unforgivable faux-pas of failing to invite the whole of men’s hockey to the tree-hugging, vegetarian, whale-saving recycle-fest that was his thanks-giving lunch. Or for at least voluntarily inviting Tesh as our sole representative. Shameful…