On a day when a defence compromising of Victor Lindelof and Scott McTominay conceded three goals to West Ham, one man had to step up. One man had to save the image of central defenders worldwide. Cometh the hour, cometh the man…

Somewhere in or around Bristol:

He rolled over, letting out a low, murmuring grunt, his hand reaching out for his phone that he hoped he had put on his bedside table after falling in to bed in the earlier hours of the morning, fully clothed with a can of half-drunk French lager perched against his torso. Thankfully, it was there. Another groan fell from his rasping lips as the realisation of the time slapped him across the face. 11.30. Time to drag himself up.

As he took his first glug of the Argentinian Rutini Apartado Gran Malbec of the morning (there was no brie in the house to pair it with), a thought crossed his mind for the first time in what felt like a long time- the Cambridge South M2s. The edges of his split and hungover lips twitched although not quite enough to form a full smile. Barney Stuttard hadn’t smiled properly in a long time, not since he last pulled the treasured purple playing shirt over his head and the mesmerising scent of a ripe tube of Deep Heat had engulfed his nostrils. He took another swig. How he missed those days- surely it could not have been less than a year ago? How were they doing now? Did they remember him? The thoughts sloshed around his head momentarily, much like the third gulp of the full-bodied red in his mouth, but, as if in unison with the emptying of the first glass, the thoughts disappeared so quickly that some would have even doubted whether they had even been there to begin with…

Somewhere the other side of the country:

Captain Simon Cooper readied himself in his usual pre-match way, a solo game of draughts - his favourite. He knew he would have to have his angles on point today but how to bring his consistent control of the draught pieces onto the sandy fortress of Wisbech’s astroturf? Mulling over the conundrum, he made his way into the kitchen and began buttering his toast when, unfortunately, with it fresh out of the dishwasher, the knife was too hot for the hapless butter and it fell straight through it, not allowing it any purchase and thus, making the process of spreading the butter a near impossible task. ‘Well I never! What a pickle ol’ Si Si is in here!’ he explained, referring to himself in the third person in his usual odd fashion. But as with Newton and the falling apple, an idea slide into his mind. He had a plan!

The M2s arrived in Wisbech, having (even after many worries that this would be the case) arguably taken too long to arrive, some taking physical detours, others taking detours back in time to memories of a rather more moist nature (Chris Walsh). The skipper set out his plan- a solid start with lots of aggression. The team responded in the changing rooms immediately with an early aggressive onslaught on the one porcelain facility although there was need for improvement in relation to the ‘solid’ aspect.

Now on the pitch, and with the team finally all present (those that had taken the physical detour as opposed to Walshy’s sloppy one had now arrived), it was decided that it was too hot. This was annoying as it was also agreed that running around when it is too hot can make you hotter- not ideal.

The match began and South kept hold of the ball nicely, passing it around with confidence with all players on the pitch involved.  The build up of pressure led to 2s debutant, Rob Hartle, putting the visitors ahead with a crisp finish after a well worked move. 0-1 to the purples. The start the skipper had wanted!

As the half continued, the match ebbed and flowed, South playing the ball around well. With the ball in the attacking right corner, the M2s worked the ball all the way back and around, creating an attack on the left hand side that culminated in Dom Reeve sweeping the ball on his reverse into the backboard- a great team goal that involved nearly every member of the South side. 0-2.

As the half drew to an end, it was again confirmed that it was too hot but also that the team were playing well and should continue to do this (play well, not ‘be hot’). The focus would be on building more pressure and being clinical in the D.

The second half continued much like the first but with some loose errors edging their way. South’s forward line managed to strike the left post on several occasions but were unable to put the ball over the line again.

Suddenly, it became very apparent that South were in desperate need of a goal. At 0-2 up, the game was in the balance and without an immediate goal for the away side, who knew how they would get through the game. Thankfully, they won a short corner. But the injection was off… It flew to the right of the injector, the Ian Poulter-like Tom Anns (the Ian Poulter of Ryder Cups, not of PGA Tour). He swiftly glided to his right to receive the ball without a seconds thought or delay. Glancing up, he was met by a wall of defenders rushing towards him. Surely there was no way out? A near impossible situation. What was there to do? The team needed something, something miraculous. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

‘You have to choose between power and placement’ they said. ‘It’s impossible’ they said.

With the precision of a Glenn McGrath delivery in a Perth test match in the early 00s and the power of John ‘two-chests’ Regis, Anns struck the ball from the top of the D millimetres inside the left post, leaving the post-man no change whatsoever. Crash! The ball cannoned into the backboard! One spectator described the strike as a guided thunderbolt from Zeus himself. The match was back on track and South were saved! 0-3 rather than the hugely precarious 0-2.

The critics said the M2s had a short corner problem. What short corner problem? Even with the eruption of one of the most joyous images ever seen on a hockey pitch, Anns and his comrades kept their composure and professionalism and jogged back to the halfway line- it was business as usual.

Somewhere in or around Bristol:

He had finished on the bottle of Argentinian Rutini Apartado Gran Malbec and was about to uncork the 1971 Chateauneuf de Pape when he stopped. He didn’t know why. He was rooted to the spot, paralysed by something, something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something had happened, something that meant something. For the first time in a long time, Barney Stuttard smiled a proper smile. It was all going to be okay. The world was right again.

The match went on. Standard M2s occurrences occurred: Dom had a hissy fit with the opposing winger and Jimmy got a green card (something along the lines of him being fouled, complimenting the opposition on all of their positive attributes and then relieving himself up a tree while the match carried on).

It was as the match ebbed and flowed towards the final quarter that Simon remembered the hot knife through butter incident from earlier that morning in his kitchen and from the left touchline (why he was there is a point that will have to be debated at a later date), he delivered a warm metallic blade of a pass through the buttery Wisbech team, all the way to Jon Mann on the attacking right-hand side - another swift South counter- attack.

The South attacks continued with the whole team putting more and more pressure on the Wisbech defence. With roughly 10 minutes to the final whistle, Walsh hit the ball goalwards from the top of the D. In front of the keeper, a fluffy haired Owen Russell skilfully deflected the ball through his legs to beat the keeper and bring the scoreline to 0-4. The goal was finished off with an Alan Shearer-esque celebration and three laps around the pitch. Nice goal, nice celebration.

In the dying moments of the match, a call rang out around the South team: “Now let’s keep a cleanie!” Subsequently, with some tired bodies out on the pitch (was it mentioned that it was needlessly hot for this time in the season?), Wisbech scored…

1-4

Not long after, the final whistle went and both teams made their way back to the clubhouse, some for soothing Badedas shower gel-lathered shower(spreading tranquillity since the 1970s), some to be scolded by a couple of the world’s most irrational showers and others to tuck in to some beans and chilli (not helping the pre-match ‘solids’ and aggression situation for Sunday but tasted good nonetheless).

Meanwhile, with the images of the Anns wonderstrike echoing into eternity, another cause for celebration came to be. A new Kenzie was welcomed into the world - surely a future South legend if he is as well-endowed with ability, pace and power as his father. You heard of him here first: George Kenzie! Watch out ladies and opposing hockey players of East Anglia.

*A note from 1st team vice-skipper, Harry Chalk: “You’re my hero, Annsy.”