Dispatches from the sidelines of Oxford sport: visions, labour, and inexplicably multiple games happening at once.
If you thought last week was messy, brace yourself: this week it was outright combustible.
The problem began, as problems do, with the pitch. Gingham FC, St. Mildred’s, and Saint Something-or-Other were all present and all vaguely believing they were meant to be playing at the same time. St. Cuthbert’s, still licking their wounds from the previous week, were conspicuously absent, but that did not stop their fans from shouting instructions. Confusion reigned supreme. One child tried to referee by pointing at invisible players and claiming, “God told me to call a foul!” which, under the rules of Catholic school football, was apparently valid.
Mrs Marsden, meanwhile, was perched on the touchline looking like a woman who had consumed one too many curries and several existential crises. She was eight months pregnant, wearing her signature gingham, and muttering about water breaking while simultaneously inflating footballs. She was very clear that no one should panic, except that everyone was already panicking.
Sue, still emotionally tangled from last week’s divorce-versus-football debacle, was trying to manage her team while keeping an eye on Joe, who had taken it upon himself to interpret her distress as a complex tactical ploy. “Sue,” he said, dramatically pointing to a corner flag, “you’re ignoring the midfield!” She wanted to tell him that the only thing she was ignoring was the fact that half her life had imploded, but instead she yelled, “VISIONS, PEOPLE, VISIONS!” The children were momentarily stunned into compliance, which is basically all Sue ever needed.
Mika, having now switched from Hungarian to minor Greek philosophy, had declared herself “High Inquisitor of Fair Play and Justice.” She spent the first ten minutes of the match interrogating a ball boy who had apparently not bowed properly before returning the ball. Her insistence that the laws of football were subordinate to divine law caused one child to faint, which in a Catholic school is technically considered “dramatic effect.”
At some point, someone realised there were three matches happening on the same patch of grass. The referees were nowhere to be seen, so BBKC, the Big Bad Kids Club, were called in. They arrived in matching hoodies and sunglasses, carrying clipboards and a sense of self-importance usually reserved for judges or reality TV hosts.
“Order! Order!” one BBKC official shouted. “We will decide who plays where and when, and anyone claiming visions from God must submit a signed affidavit!”
Order! Order!” one BBKC official shouted.
By this point, Mrs Marsden’s water had not broken, but the curry had exacted its revenge. She waddled off to the bathroom while the teams attempted to reorganise themselves. Sue, sensing her authority slipping faster than a football on wet grass, began yelling instructions in Latin, Hungarian, and something that sounded suspiciously like interpretive dance. Mika applauded this because, in her worldview, chaos is always a sign of divine favour.
Gingham FC, who had been quietly trying to figure out if they were playing football or performing a ritual sacrifice, decided that the only solution was to merge teams. St. Mildred’s, Saint Something, and half of St. Cuthbert’s, who had inexplicably arrived, were now one mega-superteam. The other half of St. Cuthbert’s simply sat on the bench, making visions about the future, which is the closest thing under-11 football has to strategic planning.
And so the match began or continued, depending on your interpretation of time. Balls flew in unpredictable arcs. Children shouted prophecies. Mika issued several edicts from the sidelines. Mrs Marsden returned, looking relieved that nothing had exploded in her absence. Sue faintly remembered why she had come to the game at all.
In short, it was a perfect Oxford under-11 football afternoon.
Next week, someone may actually score a goal. Or not.