Friday 17^th November. The new and very useful clock in my kitchen is taunting me. It seems to think that it is past my bedtime. I don't feel tired. A little queazy. Light headed. Occassional palpitations. Not tired though. Take charge. You're a partner now, remember. What would a partner do? I stride over to my cocktail bar, flip open the northern hemisphere and pound myself another mojito. Loosening the button on my smoking jacket, I recline into my armchair and drink deeply. Better. I just need a plan.

6.50am. My phone vibrates me back into consciousness as the team banter starts to flood into my WhatsApp. Ow, my neck hurts. I click on the first message and the phone speaker springs into life; Stallone singing Eye of the Tiger. I need paracetamol. And a plan. I look down. I didn't crush my lucky shamrock in my sleep so there is hope.

11am. My phone vibrates me back into consciousness. 'Sake, it's that 2s reject pestering me to bring the shirts again; give it a rest, mate. Still I guess I should probably make a start. There are meticulous preparations to be made. Oven is after some important input too. I'll say one thing about him: as a manager he knows how to handle a muffin tin. I think chocolate chip today and fire off a message to that effect before stepping into the shower.

Damn, I'm running late already. Five minutes down the road I have to turn the car around to go back and pick up the shirts. I contemplated briefly making the 3s play in skins but I know Kaptain Korn would only use it as an excuse when they lose. I'm starting to feel a lot happier about the game though. The insecurities of last night have been washed away. We've won five in a row against better oppo than our own 3s. We're in our rightful place above them in the division. The season is going well. The 2s season that starts in mid-October if not the "official" "league" season.

Arriving at Long Road I smooze pitchside. My team are here and ready. Or at least they will be ready once they're out of their vintage stone washed jeans and in their kit. I do hope none of them get injured today. They are like Samuel L. Jackson in that Unbreakable movie only without the great hair and lines. I smile politely and shake hands with the Kernel. I mention in passing that he's doing well to have four of his lads here already; only nine more to arrive and still twenty minutes until pushback.

The atmosphere is tense as the first whistle approaches. Spectators are starting to gather on the sidelines for the "big one" as the 3s propaganda machine would have it. Business as usual for the 2s.

The smoothly oiled machine glides into motion. Possession. Territory. Short corners. The Mann-Menzies machine chews up another defence and spits out a goal! I thought the 3s would have been wise to that one. It's the only one we have after all. We've even practised it against them in training. Still, I'm not complaining. I start whistling, "When You Wish Upon a Star".

I'm not entirely sure the 3s have got the memo though. Every time we give the ball back to them they insist on shifting it back down our end in double quick time. It is all our robust and speedy defence can do to squash these upstarts back into place. Okay, so there are a few slip-ups here and there: the odd back pass, the big defensive air shot, a little friendly physicality.

Still, we reassert ourselves. Darren pulls off a couple of great saves. Anns and I keep our noses clean. Barney, Walshy and Douglas are looking strong. Menzies, Mann, Owen, Max and Pawson are making the passes and moving up the field. Steed Jr is using his youth to stretch the play if not their keeper. Even Angry Dom is keeping his green monster in check. Unfortunately NBM choses this game to express his mischievous side and does a bit of astro rolling in the oppo D.

The crowd is building now, with thirty plus people standing pitchside cheering along. I can't help noticing that they are mostly cheering for the underdog. What's wrong with a bit of well placed and well deserved support for the overdog?!

It is with the greatest shock that suddenly the 3s are swarming upfield towards our D. They use their centre forward's pace and guile to break through, pass, and then put the ball in the back of our net. One-one with the clock counting down and the crowd cheering.

Efforts redoubled, we win short after short but inexplicably slip the ball to their defenders or keeper.

Game over. A draw. With the aftertaste of a loss. All that remains is to retreat to the ladies' changing room and listen to the cheering through the wall. Barney bursts into tears. You mustn't judge though until you've walked a mile in another man's T-shirt.

Now the real hard work begins. How am I going to persuade the 2s to go to the club social tonight?