On a frosty morning we assembled. Well, most of us. Pearson was running late thanks to tractor-related issues - perhaps he should have called up farming expert Troll for advice.

As I sat on the edge of the pitch kitting up, Uni emerged from their power ballad-fuelled pre-match ego-fest. I couldn’t help but notice that they appeared to have brought a few more than eleven to the game. This was going to be hard work, at least for the rest of the team. Poor sods, running around like headless chickens for seventy minutes. It looks like awfully hard work.

Luckily, Graveling was busy making friends with a local drug addict to even out the numbers. Combined with sideline support from some dedicated Southerners and the local javelin team, we finished our warm-up confident and ready to go. Scanning the side of the pitch, you’d think it was the Eurohockey final. It was positively bustling.

It was a close game, hard fought all the way. Uni played as expected: well-drilled, lots of movement, fast pace and aggressively pushing forwards to claim short corners. Combined with a seemingly endless number of substitutes and their youthful legs, they were certainly a force to be reckoned with. But their endless enthusiasm was no match for the wisdom and resilience of South. Every attack was countered, every pass intercepted, every substitution watched with just a hint of despair. Possession was fought over and sticks clashed, but you’ve heard all this before.

I often get asked what it’s like to be a keeper. Cold, mostly. But it’s a good chance for some thinking time away from my phone for a couple of hours. Occasionally there are few moments of high-intensity action that flash by, followed by a reassuring shout of, “All day long.” Then it’s back to thinking about how John Wick justified to himself murdering so many people in return for just one puppy. Last gift from a dying wife or not, he must have killed over one hundred people. I wonder if that keeps him awake at night. As I pondered this, I glanced across the pitch. Lots of panting and shouting. South had it all under control, nothing to worry about. I lent on my stick and wondered if the clubhouse would be able to do a cup of Assam after the game.

Shortly afterwards, in spite of the heroic defence, a stray teenager got to the edge of the D and wound up his strike. I was lost in thought at the time, deciding what to cook for dinner: pasta bake or fajitas? I did have pizza on Friday so maybe the fajitas would be a nice change of cuisine? He swung a powerful strike across the goal. Ah, but I don’t have guacamole. I need guac if I’m going to have fajitas. The ball flew across the D; a stick rose up and deflected it, mid-air, towards the back of the net. Pasta bake does make enough for several days, which would save on cooking time for the rest of the week. I batted the ball away. Ah, I do need to use up the remainder of the parmesan. Pasta bake it is. Why is everyone patting my back? Odd.

Uni had few other attempts. I remember a drag flick from a short corner which sailed over the fence and into the field behind. And another where Rosselli went arse-over-tit on the slippery pitch. Colin banged the post and shouted “READY” a lot. South were defiant to the end and didn’t give them an inch. Consequently by the end of the match I had my whole weekly meal plan sorted.

The final whistle went. We were pumped; they were dejected. Our jubilant mood was soured somewhat as, in our post-match debrief huddle, Jim reminded us that draws don’t get any points. Oh well, at least it was a good game.