OLD BOLTS B 5 TOTTINGTON Res 2
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.
If today was that day then we were ready to sacrifice.
The dew was glistening with expectation, the mist was whispering with excitement and not a breath of wind dare break this day of battle, it was the perfect day for football.
The first three gladiators to arrive at the oldest arena in football were the new kids on the block, Adam "The Horse“ Norse, Jamie “Size seven” Griffiths and Olly “The P-Man” Pimblett. As per usual these committed soldiers were early for battle ahead of the other troops.
As these three warriors bound across the field of battle(car park) to the trenches(changing rooms) there was an air fear and respect from the gathered locals(second team and fans).
And so the other brave comrades arrived one by one greeting each other with manly embraces of men that knew there lifelong calling was about to be realised.
“But wait!” one wide eyed soldier cried. “Where is our captain?” For in the atmosphere of excitement and trepidation noeone had noticed that Captain Roger “The Walsh/Oz Clarke” Milne was late! Probably having breakfast with Kevin Davies or trying to persuade his lady older men were best! Who knows?
Milne arrived and the killing pack of The B Squadron was complete.
The banter in the trenches(changing room) was jovial yet tense. Wesley “The terrier” Davies joked that our new recruit Rob “The Bob” Southern looked like an uglier version of the new superman!
Si “The Bi” Turner mocked Pimblett"s attire exclaiming that his neoprin shorts and t-shirt made him look like fat Yorkshire sausage.
How the jokes did flow; 10 minutes to battle.
As Milne roused the troops with tails of the first world war and the invention of the wheel a strange shadow appeared in the corner. A baseball capped, copper bearded gentlemen had infiltrated our camp. It looked like an ice road trucker had lost his way but upon removal of the afore mentioned cap it was revealed that it was our mascot; James “The Jimmy” Freeborn. We were ready for battle.
Tottington were an unknown quantity sitting in mid table. Their history is respectable with their under 15's and 16"s winning the division 1 championships last term. For the sake of our cod live oiled joints we hoped no one under the age of 40 would be included in their line up!
The game began with some slick midfield and defensive passing that indicated our superiority in both skill and technique. After several minutes our first chance came. A move started from the bowels of the back by a Baresi like pass from this season’s revelation , Pimblett. Beautifully squared to bearded wonder they call Richard “The Killer” Kilburn, the ball was quickly shifted down the right and switched inside to the midfield ghost of Norse. The ball was caressed to the left for the engine that is Griffiths who cuts inside and forces a save from the Tottington number 1.
A collective sigh of inevitability could be heard from the enemy as they realised many of their comrades would be slain on this day.
The enemy immediately resorted to long grenade launches over the top of our defences. Each time the shining helmet of Justin “ The tank “ Tankard would rise like a teenager’s pant at a disco to push the enemy back.
The first goal came in what was later described by Mr Grey of sky sports as;”Make no mistake about, just class football.” A move started from the back, the ball was eased through the midfield like a twinkle toed ballet dancer and sprayed to the left like a fizzing comet. Davies cut inside with the confidant skill of a seasoned wing back to beat his man. The ball was lovingly nudged to Mark “The loop hole “ Brookes who threaded a golden chalice ball through for Griffiths. This chalice was ready to be drunk from and with the outside of an, until now, unused right foot, Griffiths clipped the ball home, 1 nil!
For the next 15 minutes a period of easy pressure was put on the enemy by a cocktail of punch and counter punch that was made in Bolton. It seemed another goal was only a matter of time.
The ball spurted out of the midfield cauldron to the left back Davies who misread Pimblett’s snake like movement and put Tottington’s no. 9 through on goal. Fortunately we had a diamond tipped shot stopper in the form of David “Safe Hands” Sandbrook. Chance snuffled.
Another long ball over the top in hope,
“Dave’s Ball!” Safehands Sandbrook exclaimed.
A gentle seemingly regulation catch for even the most virginal of keepers turned into a nightmare as the ball, clearly layered with some form of animal fat, squirmed through the gloves. 1-1.
Lesser men would mock, less together teams would break but not The B’s.
A cry of “You tosser Dave!” was heard and it was game on.
10 minutes to half time.
Another period of midfield domination with Norse, Brookes and occasionally Milne, showing the gathered fans why this is called the “beautiful game. “
The Tottington left back was seen being physically sick in his own mouth as Turner once again stampeded down the right. Turner a constant threat all game having been told that there were free sunbed tokens laden all down the right hand side of the pitch!
Then a chance, Milne to Brookes, Brookes cuts inside, turns again seeing the run of the human gazelle Griffiths. A perfectly weighted through ball by Griffiths. Is it a bird, is it a plane, no it’s superman himself-Southern to scramble the ball home for the second. 2-1.
Halftime- The crowd erupted in glee.
In all the 89 years since the clubs formation an Old Boltonian’s team has never taken on so much water with 18 litres being consumed in the 15 minutes of halftime. Another proud record.
“Any injuries?” Captain Milne asks.
“My haemorrhoids are playing up and I cant feel my penis!” exclaims Freeborn.
“A common problem” says Milne, “You’ll be on in ten!”
Second half;
The referee blows and immediately a problem that all the troops feared would not arise again. After thirteen hours of counselling and several varying drug courses Kilburn’s “ Bearded Right Back Who Wants To Play Further Forward” syndrome
(BRBWWTPFF) reared its ugly head as he yet again picked on an 8 stone 15 year old for a perfectly good challenge. The referee had words, and Kilburn was given a shot, game on.
Off with the old, on with the not so new. On comes Freeborn for Milne.
The ruby faced trucker has an immediate impact. With his legs splaying all over the pitch, around the ball, over the ball like a confused and slightly drunk emu he somehow cuts a reverse ball through for Griffiths who finishes with aplomb. 3-1.
From the kick off a hopeful ball is sliced through the midfield for Tottington’s no.9 only for him to be met by the outstretched bullet proof barrier that is Tankard’s leg. Another fine challenge.
Turner bounds up the right like a care free deer and plays the ball to Brookes. The ball finds its way to Griffiths on the left who penetrates the defence like a qualified pornstar for Southern to slot home. 4-1.
They score. 4-2.
Then Southern scores his hat trick.
Final whistle.
Ref was twank. We were exceptional.
Move of the game-Pimblett’s dummy.
Onward victorius B’s.
3rd in league, 10 games left. 14 points a drift of leaders.