Post by gazz on Dec 3, 2013 12:08:50 GMT
Romiley Eagles
downunderhatter
Yet another team I had many battles with over the years in the SDSFL. Still being run I believe by a top guy called Malc who is a good guy off the pitch. I used to enjoy having a beer with him at the meetings. Once he crosses that white line though, it's all out war.
The story of this particular game starts at training on the Thursday before. Four people turned up. I've been playing the game long enough to know who are good people and who are good players. If you're lucky, some people are both. It's amazing how many players "pull a hammy" in the last minute on a Sunday thus rendering them unavailable to train on a Thursday but OK to play the following Sunday. I don't know of anyone who got injured in the last minute of training....yadda yadda yadda... you get the idea.
Training was cancelled that night, I went home all grumpy which carried on on the Friday morning. Then I was informed that Mrs. Downy was being rushed to hospital where she spent the next week. My blood was beginning to boil.
I turned up on the Sunday (hey, I'm not a doctor, what could I do?) with the kids in tow. They weren't exactly that pleased to be dragged out on a cold Sunday morning to watch dad shout and bawl (I was player/manager) at a load of over-aged kids kicking a bag of wind. Tough.
Sixteen players plus myself turned up on the Sunday so I picked the team by starting with the keeper, the three others at training, the night workers and the ones who were at a funeral on the Thursday. Unfortunately this meant that two superstars (a striker and midfielder) had to start on the bench (they'd never even been to training once). I didn't even get a kit.
My team talk consisted of telling them that I've never been so embarrassed to have 30 players signed on but only four could be bothered to train. My response to "Great team talk" from the left winger was "Shut the f*ck up" which obviously didn't have the desired effect of influencing the team into a great performance as we were 2-1 down at half time. At this point I noticed a pair of rolled up socks and shorts back on the sideline. Obviously someone was sulking. Lo and behold it was superstar midfielder fully dressed again. He had to stay around because he came in the same car as one of the players and the sub striker. I thought "f*ck it" and went to my car to get my boots. I sorted the kids out to be babysat by one of the other subs and got changed.
Ten minutes in to the second half, I put myself on up front (just to piss off superstar striker) and put my fellow striker in on goal with my first touch. He finished it to make it 2-2. A little later I was in loads of space screaming for the ball in acres of space. Our left back passed it straight past me to that same striker who lobbed the keeper to make it 3-2. Headlines were being written in my head. "Roy Of The Rovers is real!" I thought. I was in full-on smug mode.
In the closing minutes, a Romiley Eagles free-kick from the half-way line was knocked hopefully forward to my "mate" Malc. He won the header knocking it square across the box for one of their players to smash into the roof of the net.
Oh joy of joys. A 3-3 draw.
Failed again.
RAIN, no ROOF and the REEBOK
3rd April 2001
Listening in on the radio earlier this week to the Bolton-Spurs match, I was reminded, with some astonishment, that County were making a regular thing of visits to the Reebok Stadium just a little over ten years ago. Not only that, either...our first two jaunts there, both during 1999, saw us come away with three points each time - while the third, and most recent, occasion, which is the setting for this tale, saw the unbeaten record maintained courtesy of a one-all draw.
The third of the Reebok trips took place on a Tuesday night in the Spring, just as Mrs Macc was taking delivery of a sports car - a Toyota MR2, affectionately named 'Patsy'. She ('Patsy') was positively gagging for her first football-drive, and, with our mode of travel agreed, off we set in the balmy early evening.
'Patsy' was not what you might call a spanking new, high-performance drop of motor - and, indeed, there is a much sadder tale to tell about her eventual demise when we get to Chapter 'W' - but she was a bit flash for all that. And, although the clip-on roof was devilishly tricky to instal and remove, the Maccs were ever ready to take the opportunity of striking a good pose, so off it came before we headed north to the land of Horwich Parkway. With the warm breeze in our hair, our Foster Grants positioned at the right angle, and the sheer and summery sounds of the Beach Boys on the tape deck, we could easily have been on the Pacific Highway - rather than the A6, followed by the M60 - just so long as we allowed our imaginations to go a little crazy...
...and then we hit the M61sad.
Almost immediately, at this point, the sky turned from blue to black - barely stopping at grey en route. The rain came teeming down upon us, and worse still, there was nowhere, between where we were and the Reebok, to stop and to address the less-than-straightforward challenge of getting the car-hardtop back on. Certainly, the hard shoulder, in what was by now terrible visibility, wasn't an option if we wanted to see in our next birthdays.
And so it came to pass that, ten minutes or so later, 'Patsy', with two drowned rats for passengers, sploshed her way into the Stadium car-park. We had no changes of clothes with us, and the prospect of sitting around in a drenched state until gone 9.30 that evening was not one to savour.
Still, at least our plight brought a little sunshine into some lives...those of Bolton's car-park attendants. While they laughed like drains on watching us emerge from our carriage and reunite her with her roof, their leader (well, we guessed he was, on the basis of his peaked cap) walked across to us with a broad smile. Ah, this looked promising...perhaps he had taken pity on us, and might conjur up a couple of towels so that we could dry off just a bit. But, no, his eyes were very much on the recently-restored hardtop:
"Left that a bit late, ey? Daft bl**dy southerners from Stockport."
And, with that, and still chuckling, he turned on his heels and off he went.
I'm not sure who was the more offended...me, for feeling a complete chump, or proud Yorkshire woman, Mrs Macc, over what was, for her, the ultimate geographical insult...
downunderhatter
Yet another team I had many battles with over the years in the SDSFL. Still being run I believe by a top guy called Malc who is a good guy off the pitch. I used to enjoy having a beer with him at the meetings. Once he crosses that white line though, it's all out war.
The story of this particular game starts at training on the Thursday before. Four people turned up. I've been playing the game long enough to know who are good people and who are good players. If you're lucky, some people are both. It's amazing how many players "pull a hammy" in the last minute on a Sunday thus rendering them unavailable to train on a Thursday but OK to play the following Sunday. I don't know of anyone who got injured in the last minute of training....yadda yadda yadda... you get the idea.
Training was cancelled that night, I went home all grumpy which carried on on the Friday morning. Then I was informed that Mrs. Downy was being rushed to hospital where she spent the next week. My blood was beginning to boil.
I turned up on the Sunday (hey, I'm not a doctor, what could I do?) with the kids in tow. They weren't exactly that pleased to be dragged out on a cold Sunday morning to watch dad shout and bawl (I was player/manager) at a load of over-aged kids kicking a bag of wind. Tough.
Sixteen players plus myself turned up on the Sunday so I picked the team by starting with the keeper, the three others at training, the night workers and the ones who were at a funeral on the Thursday. Unfortunately this meant that two superstars (a striker and midfielder) had to start on the bench (they'd never even been to training once). I didn't even get a kit.
My team talk consisted of telling them that I've never been so embarrassed to have 30 players signed on but only four could be bothered to train. My response to "Great team talk" from the left winger was "Shut the f*ck up" which obviously didn't have the desired effect of influencing the team into a great performance as we were 2-1 down at half time. At this point I noticed a pair of rolled up socks and shorts back on the sideline. Obviously someone was sulking. Lo and behold it was superstar midfielder fully dressed again. He had to stay around because he came in the same car as one of the players and the sub striker. I thought "f*ck it" and went to my car to get my boots. I sorted the kids out to be babysat by one of the other subs and got changed.
Ten minutes in to the second half, I put myself on up front (just to piss off superstar striker) and put my fellow striker in on goal with my first touch. He finished it to make it 2-2. A little later I was in loads of space screaming for the ball in acres of space. Our left back passed it straight past me to that same striker who lobbed the keeper to make it 3-2. Headlines were being written in my head. "Roy Of The Rovers is real!" I thought. I was in full-on smug mode.
In the closing minutes, a Romiley Eagles free-kick from the half-way line was knocked hopefully forward to my "mate" Malc. He won the header knocking it square across the box for one of their players to smash into the roof of the net.
Oh joy of joys. A 3-3 draw.
Failed again.
RAIN, no ROOF and the REEBOK
3rd April 2001
Listening in on the radio earlier this week to the Bolton-Spurs match, I was reminded, with some astonishment, that County were making a regular thing of visits to the Reebok Stadium just a little over ten years ago. Not only that, either...our first two jaunts there, both during 1999, saw us come away with three points each time - while the third, and most recent, occasion, which is the setting for this tale, saw the unbeaten record maintained courtesy of a one-all draw.
The third of the Reebok trips took place on a Tuesday night in the Spring, just as Mrs Macc was taking delivery of a sports car - a Toyota MR2, affectionately named 'Patsy'. She ('Patsy') was positively gagging for her first football-drive, and, with our mode of travel agreed, off we set in the balmy early evening.
'Patsy' was not what you might call a spanking new, high-performance drop of motor - and, indeed, there is a much sadder tale to tell about her eventual demise when we get to Chapter 'W' - but she was a bit flash for all that. And, although the clip-on roof was devilishly tricky to instal and remove, the Maccs were ever ready to take the opportunity of striking a good pose, so off it came before we headed north to the land of Horwich Parkway. With the warm breeze in our hair, our Foster Grants positioned at the right angle, and the sheer and summery sounds of the Beach Boys on the tape deck, we could easily have been on the Pacific Highway - rather than the A6, followed by the M60 - just so long as we allowed our imaginations to go a little crazy...
...and then we hit the M61sad.
Almost immediately, at this point, the sky turned from blue to black - barely stopping at grey en route. The rain came teeming down upon us, and worse still, there was nowhere, between where we were and the Reebok, to stop and to address the less-than-straightforward challenge of getting the car-hardtop back on. Certainly, the hard shoulder, in what was by now terrible visibility, wasn't an option if we wanted to see in our next birthdays.
And so it came to pass that, ten minutes or so later, 'Patsy', with two drowned rats for passengers, sploshed her way into the Stadium car-park. We had no changes of clothes with us, and the prospect of sitting around in a drenched state until gone 9.30 that evening was not one to savour.
Still, at least our plight brought a little sunshine into some lives...those of Bolton's car-park attendants. While they laughed like drains on watching us emerge from our carriage and reunite her with her roof, their leader (well, we guessed he was, on the basis of his peaked cap) walked across to us with a broad smile. Ah, this looked promising...perhaps he had taken pity on us, and might conjur up a couple of towels so that we could dry off just a bit. But, no, his eyes were very much on the recently-restored hardtop:
"Left that a bit late, ey? Daft bl**dy southerners from Stockport."
And, with that, and still chuckling, he turned on his heels and off he went.
I'm not sure who was the more offended...me, for feeling a complete chump, or proud Yorkshire woman, Mrs Macc, over what was, for her, the ultimate geographical insult...