When discussing Character, the disgraced President Nixon is probably not the most appropriate

touchstone, but he got it right when he said “You’ve got to learn how to survive a defeat. That’s
when you develop Character.” The path that lies before us is clear; we can brood on this defeat,
letting it consume us like bitter fire, or we can move on, cleansed, with the rage and shame out of
our collective system, to finish this season as strongly as this season deserve.

The arid plains of the Bromleians pitch were as wide and dry as the Nazca plains, with large
expanses of baked earth in lieu of grass. The mercury was pushing the hitherto unheard of 20,
but Mike Gowland, the best stand in goalie since Iker Casillas in 2002 Champion’s League Final,
again donned the gloves and slinky tracksuit bottoms to do his utmost.

Not that he was left exposed like Paris (Hilton when getting out of a car? of Troy? – this report
caters for all tastes) by his defence. Scott Meyern was a comforting presence on the right, having
been struck low by a 24 hour Jagervirus before last week’s game. His cultured reading of the
game helped to largely shackle their left winger, the outlet to most of their attacks. James
Perkins, whose self-imposed hiatus was delayed by a week due to volcanic fall-out, partnered
Chris Little at centreback, and the two of them towered over the game like Mycenae’s Lions.
Robbo Robinson was at home in the left back position, unafraid to maraud forwards when free to
do so, but never neglecting his defensive duties.

Jimmy Mellor and Dan Higham were our wingers, like Castor and Pollux (Winged heroes from the
Argonauts? Lazily named characters in inferior John Wu venture which would have had the
phenomenal Tony Leung shaking his head in disbelief about Nicholas Cage’s shameful attempts
at portrayal of a man trapped in another’s life? Again, the choice is yours) Providing width on the
enormous pitch, they scuttled up and down the wing to great effect while Jimmy showed great
discipline to stay back at times to help Scott keep their left sided flyer in shackles.

The centre of midfield contained Barry Langford and Scottish. We all know about Barry’s skills.
His cool finish away at Old Wokinians shows he has ice in his veins, but his tackling, passing and
industry in the centre of the pitch meant that his summer will be replete with overtures from
James to become a permanent fixture in team SCB. He even brought a fan club. Scottish, for that
is how we know him, was seriously good in midfield, getting forward at every opportunity and
linking up well with Jake up top.

Jake, playing through the pain of a damaged hip, was, as ever, a dervish of energy. A wronged
soul at times, Jake was again on the unfair side of a couple of contentious decisions. He was
partnered by Chris Lock, playing out of position through severe ankle woe, but Chris held the ball
up well and showed that quality is quality, wherever it is on the pitch.

As befits what was essentially a scratch team, we started somewhat slowly. Their rudimentary
tactic was to smack the ball over Scott for their winger to chase, and at the start it paid dividends.
Mike was called into several sharp stops and their diminutive mop-haired striker provided what
can only be described as a harrowing miss. Were it not for Chris Little’s commitment, they would
have surely put a chance away but he got the block in bravely. Scott soon shackled his man,
putting in the only slide tackle of the day, and after 25 minutes their man saw neither ball nor joy.
Barry and Scottish were combining well in the centre of midfield as we began to get a proper
foothold in the game. With their left hand side being stripped down to one fearful ginger full back,
we began to exert telling pressure. Scottish, Jake, Jimmy and Barry combined with some exultant
one touch football but we couldn’t produce the final ball. Dan Higham was a one man army on the
left, going on a series of wiggling runs before being bundled illegally off the ball, but the free kick
came to nothing. Jake did some great work on the right with the aid of all the midfield, and the ball
bobbled to Lockie on the penalty spot. The keeper did excellently well to get out fast enough to
block his shot, but, although we were denied this time, it seemed that the second half would bear
fruit.
Half time arrived and we were confident of getting a result, and we continued where we left off at
the end of the first half, with vast amounts of possession, reducing the opposition to hopeful long
ball which were fielded by the defence or flagged offside. The game got a little testy as Jake tried
to block a clearance, only to catch the man. He went down with such a wailing as to make us fear
for his long-term future, but was up and fine after the referee pointed out that he wasn’t going to
book Jake.

What Mighty contests arise from trivial things! The game pivoted on an innocuous decision. Barry
was thrown off the ball, a clear foul, even in the trenches of midfield play at this level. The referee,
maybe blinded by the sun’s glare, allowed play to continue and suddenly our defence was, well,
defenceless. Rob got in a great tackle to dispossess their striker, but, as sometimes happens, the
ball bounced through to their striker, who could not repeat his finish if given 20 further attempts, a
thunderous drive that gave Mike absolutely no chance as it crashed in off the post.

We reeled like a boxer who had been cruising along until being caught by a blind shot and for a
while we were in disarray, like Napoleon’s troops after the Siege of Moscow. Tackles were
becoming last-ditch, blocks were becoming desperate and appeals for offside were becoming
more and more hopeful. Rob pulled off a great stop to break up an overloaded attack before
James plucked a pass which he had no right to intercept, with several slavering players waiting
behind him. The referee gave us a very generous offside, with one of their players thinking the
decision was against him, despite him being in his own half. I’m sure FIFA’s laws of the game
vindicated the referee’s decision, but the man next to me on the touchline was unequivocal in his
opprobrium.

We were just beginning to settle down when the ball was worked out to their tricky winger, who
managed to get a shot away that Mike, off balance, couldn’t keep out. It was a crushing blow, but
in many ways it seemed to galvanise the team. Just as in Wordsworth’s Prelude, the sight of the
size of the task was horrifying, but unlike the poet we showed great fortitude to get back on top in
the game.

The last 20 minutes were frantic. Chris Little had injured himself attempting to block the
goalbound shot and was replaced with Alan Thomas (playing under an assumed name) on debut,
who hustled and bustled down the right, causing panic in the oppositions rear (behave) on
several occasions. Jimmy Mellor withdrew to the centre of defence where we continued his
admirable performance, turning his skill to destruction, as opposed to creation, like Vulcan in rage
or Shiva in mourning. Barry and Scottish were having large amounts of the ball and we were
exerting heavy pressure on the opponent, but couldn’t get past the edge of the box. They were
reduced to hacking the ball clear, but like Canute with the tide, the inevitable loomed large and
threatening as the Sword of Damocles. And so it came to pass, when Rob was fouled charging
forward down the left, Dan Higham lofted a ball into the box and, with the defence static, Barry
nipped in to head us a goal and to throw us a lifeline.

There were but 5 minutes left in the game. The home fixture had ended with us conceding in the
final breaths to draw 2-2 and there was no reason why we couldn’t return the favour. Chris Lock
very nearly shimmied his way through their entire defence, but couldn’t get a shot away before
being closed out. In the dying seconds, as we threw forward man after man, charging forward in
search of the elusive equaliser, we were exposed on the break, with the ball squared for a simple
tap in as our players struggled, stranded up the pitch like a whale on a beach.

And so it finished 1-3. It wasn’t a vintage performance and it leaves us at a crossroads. We have
but two games left and we can still win the league, or we can fall apart, a ship dashed on the
rocks. Henry Ward Beecher said; “It is defeat that turns bone to flint; it is defeat that turns gristle
to muscle; it is defeat that makes men invincible.” Oliver Stone has a talent for making somewhat
bloated, but occasionally excellent films, and he used that idea when he wrote this, which is either
the best motivational thing you’ll ever hear, or the worst. No one ever learned anything about
themselves walloping someone 6-2. We’re going to lose games. Every season we are going to
lose games and if we go into an orgy of self-flagellation and blame every time we lose a game
we’re not going to learn as a team and we’re going to lose games we should win. We lost. It
happens. It’s how we react that matters. We’ve got 2 games left this season and should have
confidence and faith that we can win both them and the league. As the good people of High
School Musical say; we’re all in this together.