Where to begin? The LAN Internet Support Call Centre Women's Select 11 (try getting that on a shirt) were recently challenged to a 7 a side game by the "people from the airport". Maria, having played that dreadful game "soccer" when living in the states, was keen to be involved. Due to the ugly nature of shift work, the Internet team (later to refer to each other as "Machines") managed to round up a total of 7. The only criteria was a. turning up and b. two legs. Never having kicked a ball was of no importance. In fact, thinking about it, the two legs wasn't stressed that much.As I sat watching the other team warm up, in their matching kit, real trainers, stretching their well toned muscles, taking orders from their coach, I glanced over at "The Machines" stood nervously chatting to each other. Two were looking at the ball. Just looking. There was no running, jumping or passing going on. Plus, there were only six of them. Just before kick off there was quite a lot of pointing going on, towards their own goal. If I could have heard I imagine it went something like "It's called a goal, go and stand in it".
To my horror, the game started. Machine number 7 turned up. After a slick passing movement Airport were one up, 68 seconds on the clock. The machines were broken, unplugged. Kick off - two nil. I couldn't watch. After a few minutes the ball started to bobble around a bit in the middle of the pitch, this was progress, although the machines goalkeeper insisted on giving it to the opposition at every opportunity. Three nil, four nil, but at least now the Machines were getting a foot in, not letting the Airport walk the ball home. Ooops, five nil. Maria, knackered, chose to go in goal, a position she'd never played in before, though the same could be said for the whole team. A string of remarkable, brave saves stun the opposition, me and Maria herself. One minute she's down sharply to her right to push one round the post, followed moments later by a sensational tip over the bar. Half time.
After quite a bit of shouting and head scratching at half time it was decided to change the plan - they would try to stop the Airport scoring goals and try to score themselves. It was decided to change goalkeepers again, this time Karen. The Diminutive was to join the hunt for a goal. Please God just let them score I thought.
Second half. The Airport, not content with a squad of 16 and rolling substitutions, have brought on two ten ton tessie's, bigger versions of Russian shotputters. Unfazed, Maria gets stuck in, telling me later the equivalent of "they don't like it up 'em". Karen pulls of one great save after another. "Asparagus Legs" at the back, so called for her spindly green attired legs, has transformed into a sprightly defender. The Airport now have a game on their hands, they are scoring, but less frequently. One slips past Maria as she is shouting at me to take a photo. Bugger.
Five minutes left on the clock, The Machines, about ten nil down, push out of defence. The ball breaks on the edge of the box and someone punts it towards the Airport goal. The ball hits the keeper, but squirts underneath towards the open goal. The defence are nowhere, it just needs a touch. Suzanna finds herself with the ball, open goal. If she sneezes the momentum would push the ball home. Nothing is certain. She sticks out a foot................
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Machines have scored. The two fellas next to me go mad, I go mad, which is an improvement on the odd pacing I have been doing. The Airport look stunned, their coach looks like he has swallowed a frog. The two ton tessie's are thinking about their tea.
Five minutes later the game ends. Karen and Maria are approached by the Airport to come and train with them, a blatant tapping up. The Machines, grinning from ear to ear, collapse in a heap, then spark up fags and decide where the drinking will take place. The Airport all sit down, sullen faced, to listen to a post match analysis from the coach.
Go Mean Machine!
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