“Alright, Baz?”
“Hello, mate. How you doing?”
“Not bad, bit of a nightmare getting here, had to catch a replacement bus at… Oh, ****ing hell.”
Yes, we were 1-0 down in less time than it takes a hummingbird to climax. Even before I’d managed to publish the first post on Bluesky announcing the game had started, Louis was picking the ball out of his net. Fifty-five seconds. I’ve enjoyed longer sneezes.
In post-match interviews, managers always throw the players under the bus for conceding an early goal. “We told them how important it was to stay tight for the first ten minutes,” they complain, as if they’re some kind of undiscovered managerial genius, a class above all those managers who tell the players to go out and ship eight goals in the opening quarter of an hour for the shits and giggles.
Ten minutes later it was two. Dan Smith, apparently the fella who scored the first, whammed in a second. A cracking hit from the edge of the box that Buck Rogers wouldn’t have stopped, let alone Louis Rogers.
“Start the car, lads,” said Irish Stu, slightly worryingly, as he was the nominated driver.
Somehow we managed to scrape through until half-time without conceding further. Celebratory Bovrils all round.
A half-time chat with Essex Dan revealed his Dad was missing the game because he’d booked two trips to the tip. The lucky bastard.
The second half started on a much more positive note. We were knocking the ball around, creating half-chances. The only worry was Louis in our goal, who was clearly struggling to see in the piercing Kent sunshine.
The ever-resourceful director and club secretary, John Peel, had a solution. He quickly scooted around to our bench, handing over his baseball cap to pass to Louis. He came back a few minutes later, slightly crestfallen. “He didn’t want it,” John told us, as Louis battled on, one hand permanently attached to his forehead, like Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.
Only the rubbish keepers need both hands, anyway…
Seven minutes into the second half and we’d pulled one back. Danny Basset squelched a ball through to (who else?) Devonte West, who tucked inside a defender and planted it into the bottom corner.
Now we’re all over them. Their six has turned into a nervous wreck, smashing the ball out of play every time it comes within ten feet of him. Their keeper, with a voice like Sean Dyche with a hangover, is barking at the defence to push out. The Stodgebusters are getting acid reflux from their lunch, such is the tension.
Then we miss a smashing chance to draw level. A ball is pinged right across the face of goal and it drifts past about nine players before finally landing at the feet of Ryan Bernal. He just needs to smash it home but he tries to place it and Sean Dyche on Strepsils saves it.
Moments later the ball is lofted into our box. Louis seems to lose it in the (yes, you guessed it) sun and it eventually it drops to Olopade to larrup it home. John Peel sets fire to his baseball cap. They score a fourth just before the stewards arrive with the fire extinguishers.
It’s Canvey at home next week. How do you spell massive?
Lewes: Rogers, Bernal, Hamstead, Puemo, Kpakpe, Christian-Law (Richardson), Muirhead (Booth), West, Bassett, Walker (Allen), Unwin (Roberts).
Sub not used: Budgen
Supporters Club man of the match: Record Label Andy gave me some stick on the terraces for constantly giving man of the match to Devonte West, so today’s bubbly goes to Michaela Strachan.
