Match Report - FOGGIA - 24 Sep 2019

"Cruel mem'ry spurns the joys of maidens kissed,

In place, a tattered veil of chances missed.

We forge our golden hopes with beads of sweat

Then fail to stick it in the fucking net.”

-William Shakespeare. Sonnet 42

As Tuesday comes again, we prime for war,

Six men to play, we have no need for more.

Beardy Dave is fresh from getting flirty

With gardener Barry and his hands, all dirty.

There’s Archer, straight towards the back he comes

So he can stare at all the manly bums.

“Who holds midfield in front of me?” He frets;

Big Robb’s in there to dance his pirouettes.

Up front to score the goals stride Wilkes and Ross

I’m sure their shooting won’t be utter dross.

One player left, oh dear, does this make sense?

To play our 3-foot Craig back in defence?

The ref stands in the middle and starts the play

Then stays stock still right in the fucking way.

All nerves are settled from the very start

With Archer’s slick through-ball, a work of art.

Wilkes slots it home, one minute on the clock,

Opponents’ poor, young faces twinged with shock.

And with that goal, the rain did cease to fall,

And calmness spread across us, one and all.

The teamwork selfless, the passing clean and sharp,

The movement sweet, as if played from a harp.

Each man fulfilled their role with grace and guile,

They pressed as one, they fought, they played with style.

And though we should be happy with our win

It’s true we left the pitch with some chagrin.

For every silver lining has a cloud,

And of our four great goals, we should be proud,

But when the score could have been twenty-nil,

To win by only four’s a bitter pill.

However, that just shows the progress made,

Compared to years back when we first played.

And sure, some of the shooting was quite shaky,

At least twas better than Christian Benteke.