Yesterday,
I returned to Champion Hill for the first time in 11 months. It was
a day of high drama, an afternoon for which The Stone Roses'
“I Am The Resurrection” would make the perfect soundtrack, and
not just because it was Easter weekend.
The
visit of Leiston marked my season debut at the hallowed ground. The
last time I was at the old place, that wondrous final game of the
2012/13 season against Burgess Hill, the beautiful Xavier Vidal
sparked scenes of wild celebrations with his equalising pile-driver.
That dreamy strike sealed the Hamlet's first championship win for 35
years.
As
has been well documented, the mayhem that ensued that day spilled
over a little in the dressing room after the game and I suffered a
series of horrendous injuries. While rumours of my death have been
greatly exaggerated, it was touch and go for a while and, as I lay in
pools of booze, football boots repeatedly thundering into my cranium,
I wondered if I'd ever again be on the railings at the car wash end
singing 'Edgar Kail in my heart, keep me Dulwich'.
Let
it be known, I hold no grudges towards robust midfielder Luke Hickie
for the pain he inflicted that day and the months of corrective
plasmatic psycho surgery I have gone through since. In fact, the
whole episode has made me stronger. I have grown as the months have
passed, both emotionally and physically. Indeed, some of my old chums
down at the Hill had trouble recognising me, and no wonder - I'm a
good 2ft taller than the last time we danced the terraces together.
Before
the game, it was very honourable of the great man Gavin Rose and his
coaching team to invite me into the dressing room to meet the
players, lay a wreath of leaves at the memorial to my honour in the
shower cubicles and deliver a heart-guzzling team talk to the boys.
It was highly emotive stuff. Clunis and Ottoway, that fancy-dan new
lad with the statement-making surfboy hair, were roaring like lions
and punching the walls. I glanced over to the far corner and Okoye
and Deen were heads bowed, in floods of tears.
I
can only think that had some bearing on events early in the first
half. Our lads at the back had barely got into their stride when
Leiston smacked in the opening goal. Nay bother, lad. The Turkish
magician Erhun Otzumer soon started pulling the strings in the middle
of the park. Harry H-bomb Ottoway with his brilliant locks and
dazzling ball trickery, and Nyren Clunis, the Messi of the Ryman with
his jaw-dropping pace and agility, were on song and giving the
Leiston back four a torrid time. Before long, we were 2-1 up,
galloping towards half-time and on course for the 3 points our
superiority surely merited.
Unfathomably,
we were caught cold at the start of the 2nd half as
Leiston made it 2-2 and we struggled to re-impose ourselves on the
game after that. We went down 3-2 to a stinker of a last-minute
concession as the mighty Okoye unfortunately stumbled when some
pundits may say he'd have been better off hoofing it. But hoofing it
is not our style and I'm happy to continue our pursuit of liquid
football perfection and unprecedented ball art if it means the odd
slip-up at the back. It's not the result the matters, it's the manner
in which you achieve it.
The crowds have gone up quite a bit during my enforced absence from the Hill. The new breed of new-veau are a marvellous bunch of sexy football buggers. They do like a banner (Lord knows what they sleep on – I'd be surprised if they have any bedsheets left) and they sure can belt out a tune. The lady with the drum was my personal favourite for the day. As for moment of the match. I'll never forget the Vornstyle tunnel manoeuvre after the final whistle. A tactical reshuffling of pure genius.
We will no doubt need to emulate such
wizardry in the coming days if we are to salvage a play-off berth and
buy ourselves a ticket to the extended season of non-league festival
football.
Oh.
And we bought a fucking gnome! Brilliant.
#giraffes
at the back
#gnomes
upfront
