‘A win’s a win.’ (Satnav 2017) – Men's 1st vs Falkirk 1st 04/11/17
Posted on November 06, 2017
With Raven preoccupied by his weekend job flying about the Tower of London, all we had for motivation were the deeply philosophical words of our captain Satnav. As the match begun, ‘come on boys’ was still echoing inside our heads, and maybe that was the reason we got off to a good start. 10 minutes of decent hockey were duly rewarded by a goal from Satnav, whose GPS guided him to the perfect point for a deflection, perhaps inspired by the bat-wielding boys he mixed with at the Cricket Ball.
Despite a generally solid press, Falkirk had some success on the counter-attack (don’t trust the bald-patches and wrinkles), and it was thanks to a combination of the Innkeeper’s keeping and the Ghoul’s long-limbed, at times violent, challenges that the score remained the same.
The phrase ‘a good bad one’ is probably the best way to describe Shelly’s hit that led to the second goal, topping it disgustingly. But just like many-a lamb shank, what it lacked in style it made up for on flavour, bobbling through a few red shirts and being found by Satnav, again. 2-0.
We don’t need to talk about their goal. 2-1. Half-time.
There were great expectations for the second half, with hopes and dreams of as many goals as there are balls in the building site/hockey-ball graveyard. Did we manage a #goalfest? Of course not, this is a St. Andrews hockey match and not a Disney film; dreams don’t come true. Instead, Snitch got a green, Quirrell squared-up to a Falkirkian and one of their players almost lost his head, literally. Even Forrest’s umpiring test couldn’t prepare us for this week, and we still understand the rules of hockey about as well as the freshers’ understanding the rules to the games on a Wednesday night, KB giving away a foul for being ‘too low’, and mini Hog, feeling the pressure of Mr and Mrs Hog’s spectatorship, not taking his mask off quick enough.
Quick ball. Counter-attack. Satnav through on goal. Surely? Dribbling wide and looking up for a sweaty cross with Adam waiting by the goal, we all believed. The backswing. The swing. The miss. Not wide or anything, just a clean miss, air as fresh as this match report (if we weren’t already feeling sick from the hangover, we were now). Rewind. Try again. Hit. Connection. Adam slaps it into the backboard. 3-1 final score. Some say Griggs had even made it to the pitch by the time the last goal went in.