10-4 vs left footers
Tk (goals), CB 3, TW 2, GF 3, RH 2, JH
CB MOM

It was hot but not as hot as the week before.

We were taut. The taut six. Tighter than the week before.

The opposition were a bit shit. A bit shitter than the week before.

We had the Tokyo terror in goals who brought the composure and distribution that we needed at the baseline.

We had sleepy-eyed Hannan, his stoner evangelism dripping off him like anal leakage and causing the opposition to slide disconsolately into oily befuddlement.

And we capitalised on their befuddlement with goal after goal after goal after goal after goal after goal after goal after goal after goal.
That made 10.

Myself and the lumberjack littered the goal mouth with a hat trick a piece. The captain and the purple head knocked in two each.

The opposition were enthusiastic and hungry although lacking in skills. Somewhat like the nannas you might think? But what do the nannas have in spades that this team lacks?

EXPERIENCE! That’s right kid, the nannas have experience. WHERE IT COUNTS. Under the hood. When the nannas actually manage to get that creaky engine to work, it hums, it glides, it purrs, it sizzles.

And there’s only so far hunger and enthusiasm can take you when you’re toe to toe with the hummingglidingpurringsizzling nanna meat machine.

That’s how we won it. We got our engine on. Thanks in no small part to the captain’s stirring halftime speech. Which was received in it’s entirety without the outrageous slings and arrows of interjection. Swallowed whole into the collective nanna cerebellum like a guinea pig into a gryphon’s putrid maw.

Example: the writer, from the sideline near the D; “Hinkley, header!” The ball sails the distance of the court, kisses the captain’s precise forehead and boo.. Yaah! Goal!

That’s all for now. Drinking with cocky and Rhian for cockys fortieth.