Mark -vs- The World : The Return Leg

If you missed the first leg of this, check it out by clicking here.

So there I am on Tuesday. Finished my exams. Free. Sunny day. No obligations. I can go out drinking in the afternoon if I want. The sun was out. That’s right, the fucking sun was out. On a day where I’m totally free. I cannot stress enough how rare such a situation is. Which explains the staccato style of this paragraph. Emphasis you see. Emphasis.

This doesn’t count as a goal against the world - it was home advantage. So the scoreline is Mark 0 - 0 Cunting World.

I was playing at home in my 90,000 capacity stadium. The fans roaring. Atmosphere had been building all day - even the opposition fans that had travelled over were enjoying themselves. Many came over without tickets, hoping to get some on the black market or just some sort of lucky break. The roar that greeted the players as they exited the tunnel and graced the grass was enough to tell us all that we were in for something special.

I went to Superquinn to get myself a roll. Managed to get there just before the school kids got their lunch and raped the place. Got a roll that was still warm, made up by a deli girl who was very friendly, rather than the usual seemingly suicidal drone I’ve come to expect to serve me. Left for home just as the little bastards were leaving my old school in their uniforms. I felt like I’d narrowly escaped a stampede. Went home and enjoyed the roll thoroughly while watching an episode of Arrested Development.

But still, Mark 0 -0 Cunting World.

I was all over them. Playing them off the park. With 68% of possession and a 90% pass completion rate. 3 corners, 4 shots, 2 of which were on target. I was dominating. It seemed the world just hadn’t turned up that day. I just couldn’t get that final pass to play my strikers in. It was only a matter of time though.

So I decide to go for a walk in the local demesne. It’s actually a really nice place, massive, with paths and a river going through it. So much greenery. There’s also this great spot that I absolutely love. It’s this ledge in the middle of the river, where you can sit with water running either side of you. It’s a tiny bit tricky getting there, but nothing too challenging at all. Was looking forward to going there to sit down for a bit and enjoy the sun.

However, when I get there I see my path to the spot is flooded. Disaster has struck. I don’t understand how this has happened when it’s so fucking sunny out.

Mark 0 - 1 Cunting World.

A routine back-pass from my full back was sliced by my usually reliable goalkeeper. He’s a good shot-stopper but a whole lot less talented with his feet. So the world had a corner, completely against the run of play. Their big centre-back decided to come up for it, and the big galoot went and fucking scored. Rose head and shoulders above my defence, and the keeper, with his now shaken confidence, could do nothing about it. Absolute disbelief on the pitch, the bench and around the stadium. The commentator notes that “nobody ever said football was fair”.

Oh fuck off Hamilton you patronising cunt. Switch on Sky for the match there, I’m sick of that Hamilton and Beglin and their shite commentating.

So I detour a little. Went for some ’splorin’. I found myself walking across this marshy land. Not only am I at risk of getting my shoes and jeans completely wrecked, I’m at risk of totally faceplanting. Suddenly my foot slips on the moist surface and I feel myself starting to go. I somehow manage to regain my balance and continue walking unscathed. I turn around and there’s apparently no witnesses.

The world has a goal ruled out for offside!

Big goal kick from the world, flicked on by their centre-midfielder-turned-centre-forward (due to injuries you see), and volleyed first time by their usual first choice striker. Spectacular goal. Celebrations were short-lived when they saw that the dreaded linesman’s flag was raised. Free out. Replays showed it was a correct decision. “Well done linesman” says the commentator.

What do you mean ‘well done’!? He’s supposed to do that. Don’t ‘well done’ him for doing a fucking simple part of his job. Fucking George fucking Hamilton. Why aren’t we watching this on Sky for fuck’s sake?

But then my venturing to new plains payed off. I found myself in what appeared to be duck central! It was a little spot of marshy land that went into the river. Little patches of grass around. There were ducks all around there, some just chilling out seemingly, others going into the river and some others coming back to what appeared to be their nesting area. The best bit was when I spotted a mother duck (I’ve seen “motherduck” a lot in predictive texting on my phone - never has it been the phrase I was looking for) bringing out her four babies to the river, watching them swim around a bit, then bringing them back. Not sure if they were looking for food or material for a nest or something, but they did this journey a good few times during the time I was there. It was genuinely great to watch. All a few feet away from me. I felt like David Attenborough.

As tough as it is for me to admit, it made me think about how much time I spend behind a screen or using some expensive technology, when there’s great things like this to be seen that are completely free and natural. I was put in such a good mood just by watching those ducks for a while and being in the sunshine surrounded by the river and endless green.

Mark 1 - 1 Cunting World.

My speedy winger was put through clean on goal from a beautiful through pass. He was hacked down cynically by their brute of a centre-half. Uproar from the crowds. Ref blew it up immediately, and strode over to the culprit purposefully, and brandished a red card. Cheers from the crowd. A few claps from some of my own players. No complaints from the opposition. “Well I think the lack of complaints says it all really Jim”, Hamilton quips.

Oh just shut up.

My dead ball specialist places the ball carefully for the free-kick. We need you now son. Now more than ever. He strides up and whips it into the top corner, up over the wall but dipping back down again just in time. A screamer. Keeper didn’t move, he barely saw it. We’re all square. Justice is done. And hopefully now we’ll capitalise on the sending off and bring this match home.

I decide to leave. So, feeling joyous and at one with mother nature, I choose the hard way back (the way I came originally) rather than the new easy path I’d spotted while watching the ducks. It’ll be more fun this way I reckon. I’m more aware of the risk of slipping this time, so I’ll be careful enough to ensure it doesn’t happen.

A shock substitution by Mark!

Instead of going out to seal the victory, for some reason unbeknownst to everyone in the stadium, bar the manager, I took off my best player - my centre-midfield maestro, the talisman. When the fourth official put up his number on the board to be taken off, groans rippled around the stadium. The player himself seemed shocked and shook his head a little, but was too modest to make an issue out of it.

I’m then walking across the marshy land again. Slip!

But manage to regain balance again. For the second time that day I’d narrowly avoided embarrassment in that way. Now feeling invincible, I approached the path nonchalantly. Nature was my bitch. I’d crossed those muddy plains, watched the ducks upclose and was now inches from the path once again.

I slipped.

I did not regain my balance.

I properly slipped.

In the mud.

My phone fell out of my pocked and also into the mud.

It was only my left side that fell in the mud properly, but my left hand, sleeve, and jeans leg were ruined. Covered in fucking mud. My phone was also muddy but thankfully not broken. I felt so enraged and deflated. I’d gone from being utterly content, to being frustrated, embarrassed, and covered in shit. I had to walk home like this. A good ten-to-fifteen minute walk.

Mark 1 - 2 Cunting World.

The dying moments of the game. Corner kick to me. All or nothing lads. Keeper goes up, in a desperate bid to redeem himself for giving away the corner earlier that led to their goal. Corner taken, punched away by their goalie. Picked up by their full back who bombs up the wing with it. All of their attackers in pursuit. My keeper struggling to get back - fitness not his strongest asset either. The full back lays it across and their striker taps it into an empty net. Could have been any of the three that were in the box. It’s all over, and everyone knows it. There’s no coming back from that.

I gambled and lost.

There’s always next year.

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