6-1 v Dynamo Tehran
CB, SB(1), DC(4,mom), CG(gk), JM, AW(1)
154 days. The time it takes to gestate a goat, or a sheep, or a marmoset. Almost 6 months. That’s how long the author spent on the side lines. Arse Coaching, yes, but not a touch of the ball for nigh on half a year. It’s a long time and more than a few observers opined they might never again see the Nannas leading goal scorer return to the field of battle. But lo and behold, here he is, strapping on the UltraAnkle® and heading into the fray. again.
Holy hell though, it was actually quite scary taking my delicate little* ankle into the swirling maelstrom of a full contact sport. Yikes. There were a few moments when it felt like my right foot was in its own little personal k-hole, refusing to respond when requests to tackle opponents came from the frontal lobe. This made it something of defensive liability but thankfully it was a little more responsive up front.
And what a game! 6 in the net and but a single consolation goal for the opposition. The Nannas™ were totally on point, repeatedly cutting through the Persian defence, it could easily have been 10-1.
The first goal came on the counter, Chassy running through the centre, drawing the defender and laying off to the author on the right, who struck it pretty sweetly back across the goal, if he does say so himself. The second was an absolute belter from Sol, running in to space, I was on the right again but Sol went himself and smacked it from well outside the box, 2-0. The exact sequence gets a bit blurry from there, but I think the third came at the start of the second half, the ball was bouncing around on the left and I managed to head it on pass the defender and then finish with the outside of the boot, the goalie made a bit of a hash of it. The 4th was the feintest of touches from that old frontal lobe, denying Gilla in the process. A clinical finish from Andy the backdoor surgeon, first time low and hard from a crazy acute angle, keyhole colorectal purity, had us on 5. The Persians had scored their consolation by this point but I can’t remember the details as my neural pathways were too busy finding space to remember our 6th, a near post smuggler on the left put on plate for the author by Mercernary James, happy days.
Great game. It should also be noted that it was played in a great spirit too, kudos to Dynamo Tehran (and The Nannas™), it was a well contested match but almost** no argey bargey. Well played.
Then to Sushi Ten at Sol’s suggestion, delicious as usual, but super busy, and somehow Gilla’s spicy mixed don order slipped through the cracks, doh. Drank a style beer I have never heard of, Helles, courtesy of cosmopolitan beer sommelier James Mercer (on a brief hiatus from the Heaps Normals). The Mixed Dons were followed by a round of waters at Punters and some surprisingly good jazz (the jazz cigarette may have had something to do with that), taking 15 minutes to write a text to Miri on Chassy’s phone as mine had died (5 of those minutes spent narrating Chapped Penis’s recently used emojis (blame Taffy Brodesser-Akner)), then discovering I had lost my car keys, fecking idiot, only to have Gilla, like a true goalie, know exactly where they were (at the bar, something to do with a key party joke gone wrong). Wal was angling for a whiskey scrabble nightcap at the Woolly Beaver but we called it a night, like freaking middle aged dads… it was a lot!
ps. Everyone needs new boots, the cushioning, the grip, omg!
pps. Trump got inaugurated and the world-fucking began in earnest. Elon kind of did a Nazi salute, twice – he’d had way too much raspberry cordial – and then later accused Sam Altman of smoking crack. Zuck’s hair just keeps getting better every day, unlike Bezos.
* actually still quite swollen, I’ve got a freaking cankle god damn it
** Sol, I’m looking at you buddy, go hard, just 2 clicks not quite that hard