Picture the scene: Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner are in the Colombian jungle, looking for

her sister, or something. Why they’re there doesn’t matter. Anyway, there’s a scene where they’re
being chased by gunmen through said jungle and they think they’ve gotten away. Cue turning to
each other and nervous, relieved laughter; before suddenly, the ground gives way beneath their
feet and they slide down a mountain.

That they end in an hilarious head between legs pose with Turner at her most appealing and
Douglas’ massive chin waggling in the wind should not distract from the fact that they so nearly
got away with it. This weekend, we came even closer to escaping.

Though some important players were absent, the team we put out was certainly strong enough to
deal a fatal blow to our opponent’s title hopes. Mike “Clean Sheet” Gowland was in goal, as agile
as a cat, as sure footed as a mountain goat and as comfortable with a high ball as David Niven.

Pat King was in at right back and was as comfortable as an old pair of shoes, bombing forward
with drive and vigour while putting in tackles to which the written word cannot do justice. Chris
Little imperiously dealt with any ball launched forward, assisted by Rooney, a defender of some
class who comfortably swept up all loose balls at the back. Ginger Rob was a player and a
gentleman at left back, a renaissance man of huge quality be it in attack or defence.

Jimmy Mellor continued his run at right midfield and patrolled the right had side like a watchdog,
shackling their left hand side and making dangerous runs and crosses. Across the pitch, Amish
was getting his silver boots white, hugging the touchline while getting forward and doubling up to
help Rob with any defending that was needed. The centre was dominated by James Perkins and
the enigmatic Dave, who was a dervish of energy and industry.

I was partnered by Jake, who powered through an ankle injury to lead the line.

The game set off at a ferocious tempo, with SCB, perhaps assisted by the later kick off,
recovered from any hangovers/sleepless nights and charging amongst the enemy like the bulls at
Pamplona. We won our 50/50s and we won their 60/40s. The opposition were no weaklings
though, and held their own, forcing a couple of corners which we did well to defend.

Their defence was susceptible to pace and the long ball, as Jake and I stopped them winning
Mike’s clearances. Amish beat his man, but his cross was blocked, winning a corner. In the
ensuing confusion Pat King drove the ball across the area, but I couldn’t turn it goalwards. We
were causing them trouble every time we crossed the half way line, and I inadvertently blocked a
drive from Jake after we had passed the ball around well on the edge of their box. The game was
end to end and the defence was soon called into action, Chris stealing the ball of the attacker’s
foot as he shaped to cross.

The game ebbed and flowed, with both sides attacking in numbers, but it was a breakaway that
broke the deadlock. A long pass was played to Jake and he cleverly flicked the ball into my path. I
ran unchallenged from the half way line and made no mistake with the finish.

One became two in a matter of heartbeats as we attacked again, stringing together a series of
passes along the back and midfield before Rooney chipped a cultured pass into Jake, who
controlled the ball, turned and shot the ball into the bottom corner quicker than you’ll manage to
read this sentence in a goal of such quality it brought cries of praise from the opposition
defenders.

We were 2-0 up and looked threatening. I stole the ball off their kick off and Jake drove forward,
denied only by some fortunate defending. One more would probably put the game to bed. Mike
pulled off a great stop to beat away a fierce low drive from a free kick to stop their celebrations
dead in the air. From the corner, Pat King, heedless to his own safety, got himself in the way of
the ball.
Pat and Jimmy then combined to free Jake on the right and he lofted a dainty chip over the
defender to the edge of the box. I bust a gut and a hamstring chasing for it and threw myself in a
desperate lunge to get there first, only to put the ball narrowly over both the keeper and the
crossbar.

I hobbled off to be replaced by BBD, making his first appearance in several weeks. Ben nearly
scored with his first touch, as Jake again bewitched the opposition, but he put his chance wide.
As half time approached, it seemed only a case of when, not if, we would score again. They were
clinging on as the half time whistle blew.

The half time talk was simple. Don’t over-commit. Play the ball into the channels. We can beat
this lot.

The second half began just as the first, with chances falling at both ends. Mike pulled off an
improbable stop as the ball ricocheted around from a corner as the opposition began to exert
more pressure. Jake was becoming increasingly isolated up front as we sat deeper, unable to get
the ball out of defence for longer periods. Our effervescent striker could not be held back for long
and after Amish had charged forwards, beating his men with ease until cruelly struck low, Jake
curled a free kick that was destined for greatness until their keeper managed to tip the ball onto
the crossbar. Amish, following in, threw himself at the ball, getting there just before the keeper,
but couldn’t control the rising ball and it went over.

Amish was then a forced withdrawal, clutching his ribs and was soon joined on the injury list by
Jimmy Mellor, whose ankle could take no more. Ligio and Ade joined the fray. By now SCB were
clinging on. Pat, Chris and Jake had all been carrying knocks going into the game and the injuries
were beginning to take their toll as over of a quarter of our outfield wasn’t at 100%. BBD was
dropped back into midfield to add an extra body, but it was to no avail, as we sat deeper and
deeper, entrenching ourselves and trying to play out time. Jake still challenged up front, but was
now being triple marked and we were sitting so deep that Ligio and Rob couldn’t regularly get
forward to assist.

They attacked again and there was havoc in our box, with first Pat and then Rooney and then
Mike throwing themselves in the way of the ball inside our six yard box, but the ball didn’t end up
out of play, only out on the right. Ade was beaten to the ball and it was crossed in, taking fateful
deflections off shins, knees and thighs before arriving at their striker at the back post, who
thundered the ball into the roof of the net.

We were 2-1 up and had our backs to the wall. A tiger is most dangerous when it has it is
cornered and their goal sparked us into activity as we mustered some attacked, with Jake coming
close from a tight angle, hitting the outside of the post. Ben, feeling the effects of no football in a
long time, collapsed in a heap, giving us four men who were pushing themselves beyond the pain
barrier for the cause. Ben picked himself up and got back to defend a corner, throwing himself to
block a shot, with Pat King blocking the follow up. Ligio headed the ball off the line as the
attacked again. Chris pulled out a last ditch slide tackle as the trigger was being pulled. James
and Dave were running themselves into the ground as we hacked the ball away time and time
again. Another corner came in, and Rob did brilliantly well to challenge for a ball he couldn’t win,
forcing his man to header wide.

We looked like we were in desperate trouble, but also like we were going to hold on. Surely no
team could make so many blocks, last ditch tackles, goal line clearances and wonder-saves and
not hold out? How could we not? We had done enough defending for three games, let alone one.

But fate is a fickle mistress. She can hear your unsaid thoughts, knows your most intimate hopes
and dreams and can dash them in a second. Pat put in his umpteenth challenge and the ball went
out. The referee awarded them a doomed corner, the last action of the game. It looked like a goal
kick, it felt like a goal kick and it was with a sense of horror that rose like the bile in my throat that
I saw them line up for the corner, pouring forward a horde men with scant regard for reason. It
was Cliffhanger when her glove begins to slip. Just as Uri Geller (and the rest of us, you spoon
breaking charlatan) knew that Gareth Southgate was going to miss his penalty (At least he took
one. I’m looking at you, Paul Ince. I’m looking and I’m judging. Call yourself the guv’nor do you?
Don’t think you can hide either, Anderton. You scored in a World Cup), so we knew something
terrible was about to happen. The ball was fizzed in high over everyone but the giant at the back
post. 6’ 6” of towering heading power connected with the ball and it snuck inside the post, despite
the attentions of three SCB defenders in the proximity.

And that was it. The whistle for kickoff turned into that for the final whistle. It was only a draw, but
it felt like a defeat after playing so well for so long. Had it not been for the injuries we’d have
surely pushed on for the win, but we’ve had to settle for a point. We’re not top of the league any
more, despite having two games in hand, so this weekend’s rematch is vital. Revenge may be a
dish best served cold, but playing them while we still have this week’s wounds will make victory
all the sweeter. The title’s outcome is still in our hands.