It’s the hope that hurts.

Arriving in boggy Lincolnshire to take on a Bourne Deeping side camped firmly in mid-table, us Cambridge fellows quickly settled into the familiar routine of trying to limit the expenditure of energy in the warm-up (special mention to Dom Stallard - very strong work in this department) and coming up with novel ways to limit Ron’s pre-match oratory. With Tom Anns’ innards taking care of the latter, we were ready to go.

Well, it worked! Our three forwards managed to get us defending from high up the pitch, the home side cheaply coughing up possession on several occasions, and we got into the circle a couple of times early doors. At the other end, it was fairly comfortable to be honest, as the boys at the back were given an armchair ride by the leg-work of the rest. Our goal was simplicity itself, a picture-perfect short corner injection from Venner, a slick trap from our glorious leader, and a confident flick from Tom Cosford past the accommodating goalkeeper, who had shown the good grace to lay down several seconds earlier.

The only other moment of note in what was a solid first half performance was provided by our own goalie, Lino. There may have been an opposition player in our half. There certainly wasn’t one anywhere near the D. Anyway, as the defence calmly watched an aimless through-ball wend its merry way off the touchline, Di Lorenzo was off, scurrying along with all the abandon and grace of a myopic puppy. A moment later and clearly invoking the spirit of Derek Redmond, he was down, hamstrung by a loose blade of astroturf. Some mothers do ‘ave goalkeepers.

Our attempts to control the ball and by extension the game lasted some fifteen seconds into the second period. So, 1-1 and game on. In truth, we didn’t look half so good thereafter, as passes went astray and the home side, buoyed by the dastardly use of their subs bench, got on top. A shortie was slipped left and walloped at Anns, who demonstrated admirable hand eye co-ordination to deflect the ball onto his foot. Sadly, the resultant stroke was ably flicked past Lino, who made a pretty decent effort for a man on one leg.

With ten minutes to go, we roused ourselves and gave it a bit of huff and puff, sliding a couple of things across the face of goal but probably with more thrash than finesse.

Roll on, St Ives. Can we play for 70 minutes?