Towerblock Rovers Vs FC Mexoc
Saturday 15th October 2011
Venue: Liverpool Council estate next to Nelson Mandela House.
The setting was perfect. The sun was sort of out, the pitch was sort of flat, the grass was sort of short and the used condoms and syringes had been cleared away. Mexoc had changed in a garage and with the instruction of the gaffer ringing in their ears they started the long march across the desolate savannah to the pitch. After a brisk warm up they were off, well Tower Block Rovers were anyway as Mexoc stood and watched in amazement as they proceeded to run about quickly kicking the ball to each other which seemed a little unfair. As if not tackling, passing, running, talking, or trying was not enough Mexoc also kindly decided to help them score a few goals with a special mention going to the magnificent defence splitting pass played by J Williams to Perry Groves Junior to score.
In fact in the first half the only reason Mexoc were not further behind was some stubborn resistance from ‘Keeper Kevin Travolta. First making a good stop from close range and then turning a drive from distance behind before watching helplessly as Phil Brown managed to slice the ball off his own bar from 3 yards out. The ‘Keepers finest moment came as Perry Groves Junior ran through on goal once more. Travolta had three options, would he pick the ball up with his hands? Would he clear the ball with his feet? He decided to do neither and instead ignored the ball and proceeded to kick the attacker as hard as he could instead which soon stopped him scoring and to everyone’s surprise the referee waved play on despite the ‘Keeper giving away the fact that he had fouled him by rolling about holding his leg. Another attack repelled.
Mexoc’s only attacking threat came from a breakaway goal which was completely against the run of play. Frost was out on the right wing looking for his phone and trying to work out where he was when one of their players dribbled into him and gave him the ball. Frost couldn’t believe his luck. Last thing he could remember he was in a pub enjoying a quiet pint with work colleagues and now he was standing in the middle of a council estate with no phone and a football at his feet. His life flashed before his eyes as he tried to piece last night together ‘Hangover’ style. How had he got here? Had he really met Mike Tyson last night? What was that ringing noise coming from up his arse? These philosophical questions would have to wait. He kicked the ball away and continued looking for his phone and the ball nestled in the back of the net.
It was then half time so after a brief team meeting it was decided that the best idea was that Mexoc would start playing. This plan seemed to work. Players started running about and passing to each other. Defenders started marking and tackling and Paddy stopped being outpaced by a fat peter Kay look-a-like on their right wing. Once they started playing Mexoc realised that they were quite good and they started to create chances. Smith had a shot blocked, Regan hit the post after eluding his markers at a corner by walking slowly into the area, and Causley fired over from distance. Surely the pressure would tell. It did when Faulkner fired in from the edge of the area. Mexoc could sense that the game was there for the taking and pressed forward but could not force an equaliser and were probably lucky not to concede on the break.
At the end of the day Mexoc were sick as parrots as it really was a game of two halves and they could reflect on an abysmal first half performance follow up by terrific improvement in the second half. After getting changed it was with surprise and delight that the entire squad found that all their cars were still there and in one piece and they could escape to civilisation. Surely their luck would change in the pub. Unfortunately not after an expensive game of bylino’s (due to extortionate cap tax) where the money was stolen by Faulkner in cruel fashion when Chelsea scored on halftime the majority of the team lost to a girl at darts. In really was time to go home.
Paul Regan
