A trip to Spain

I write match reports for our middle-aged 7-a-side football matches. We went on tour for this one…

Johan palms beat against the table, providing a rhythmic backdrop to his new favourite chant. It’s all about your mother and sister’s occupational choices. He pauses to sip his sixth or maybe seventh gin and tonic to explain that although he’s singing in English it’s original version is a Spanish classic: “they sing it in all the stadiums.” It’s Saturday night and we’re finally all in the same place. We’ve been joined by Johan’s friend Leyton. He’s driven from Cadiz to reminisce about the glory days for the Swans, disparage gold and dream of a future on Mars.

It’s the first time we’re all together since we lost but we’re still not complete. Early on Friday morning Luisito sent word that he was sick and his house was infested with the worst of germs. There would be no meeting up and definitely no football. Then we heard from Kwame that he’d missed his flight. With Ronan on one crutch, held in his left hand to counter balance his exploded right calf, we were suddenly down three players.

There was not a cloud in the sky in London, as a weather warning hovered over Malaga. The plane needed more fuel in case we needed to divert, so 11 people would have to make way to ensure the weight restrictions were met. A light ripple of applause broke out as one person volunteered to take the €400 and go via Barcelona, arriving at 8pm. Kick off time. It couldn’t be us.

Eventually they had to let the computer decide. Eight names were called before they said “David…..Hardcastle”, followed by three more unlucky souls. A woman was in tears as we walked by her to board. People avoided making eye contact.

We arrived in torrential rain to find that Kwame had tricked us all and had in fact made his flight. Added to a ringer named Raul, we were back to seven players. We talked about Kevin, another player who might have joined us but didn’t. Our taxi driver said they only got days like this a few times a year as we drove at speed past a jackknifed lorry on the other carriageway.

To prepare for the game, we ate chips, sardines and too much calamari. We drank just one beer each, except the people who had wine or had two beers. We then reconvened in the hotel to talk tactics and give out shirts. We were hoping we could manifest being disciplined and patient by talking about it a lot. We should maybe have held hands in a circle and chanted: “I will track my runner, I will cover for a player that pushes up, I will play the easy pass.” Gordon pulled out a Captain’s armband and offered it to anyone who might want it. Nobody took the offer, knowing he didn’t really want us to.

The rain had eased so Kersh, Tom and David walked the 30 minutes to the pitch, while the others took a taxi. We all tried to recreate our pre-match rituals, searching for something familiar.

We arrived to darkness and a closed gate. Ronan went in and we waited in the dark for our opposition to arrive. The lights came on and we became aware of the size of our task. A vast pitch and full size goals, plus a telling off for Ronan for opening the gate. Ronan tried to sweep away a waterlogged section of the pitch, to no avail.

Slowly the opposition arrived. We greeted each man in person, in broken English and very broken Spanish, trying to assess the types of player they were. Some were older, some much younger. We were grateful they had come. Other games that day were cancelled due to the rain. Our large white kits shone as we gathered for a team photo. It was hard to gauge what might happen but we smiled and had hope.

It was finally time to begin a game that we first discussed years ago and would be over in a mere 60 minutes. It felt too short before it had even begun.

The first goal of the game came early as we tried to put some of the tactical talking into practice and defend our first ever corner. It was played along the ground to the edge of the area and steered into the far corner. 1 0 to the locals.

It felt appropriate that our opposition were in dark shirts, as we did little more than chase shadows for the first ten minutes. Talk of defending deep and trying to be cautious was replaced by confusion and chaos. The muscle memory of Wednesday nights in Tottenham is hard to overcome. With the extra space any attempts to press just became opportunities to pick us off and leave us outnumbered.

Every shot they had seemed to go in. One from Carlos into the top corner. He made the sign of the cross to celebrate. They had calm heads in the box and picked us apart, while we snatched at chances and struggled to break them down. Tom and Kwame played a nice one-two but rather than square it back to Kwame for a tap in the shot was smothered. Two headed chances went over the bar, but it was a hard way to win a football match.

It could have been better than 9 2 but they were superior in every way. A harsh lesson for us all. Nobody brought their A game but at least the captain got a couple of goals, one after a classic driving run through the centre of the pitch. He cried out in delight, a weight lifted for us all.

Kersh had one too many balls over the top to chase and his hamstring had decided it was time to stop. We took their sub. He looked less of a player on our team. It would have been nice to have a sub, partly to catch our breath but also to just be able to stop and try to better understand how we were losing. Ronan could see but there was too much to say and no time to say it. We missed Luisito all weekend but his absence was most keenly felt in this moment.

We stayed for beers and posed for more photos as the rain returned. The next day we would visit Alvaro’s bar and enjoy his hospitality. A strong man, with thick grey hair and clever feet. It is easy to give a drink to a defeated foe but the affection seemed genuine. Football is a joyful way of bringing people together who you might otherwise never meet and we should have known that friends of Luisito would be good people.

At midnight on Friday we agreed to stop talking about it. The ratio of talking to playing had gotten out of control and we were starting to repeat ourselves. We’d found all the ways to win we couldn’t find during the game and made lists of the other players we wished had made the plane.

Some people went to their rooms, others needed to dance it off. We did what was required.

We had a beautiful time and now we have to come back to do it all again, this time with our host. We can also try to play a bit better.

Thank you Malaga and Rincon de la Victoria in particular. The sardines were beautiful.

And massive thanks to The Bluecoats for the shirt sponsorship!