Hollywood has often attempted to codify the unscriptable drama of football. Falling on the old cliches of dramatic overhead kicks and sentimental moments larger than the game itself. Surely then you won’t find such things in a meeting between two Saturday leagues teams in a cup final, or can you? In this cup final, there were acts which held such unscripted gravity that they could be written into a box office hit.
Nick Wyver, supposedly, spends his week trawling through the great thinkers of the human race, calling upon the Sun Tzus and Martin Luther Kings of the world, all to prepare for his pre-match team talks. Yet instead of using this tired script, our talisman called upon each individual and what makes them distinct. From Justice’s incomprehensible minerals to Sarly sleeping with two of his teammate’s Sister. So here, we see a an old script thrown out, for a slice of improvisation – something which undoubtedly, Nick had scripted for himself.
Witan themselves were short of a couple vertebrae which normally uphold their spine. Ben Wyver, two weeks prior, had mentioned to the Sturgis brothers “to not get injured” whilst stood on the sideline of Shoreditch Powerleague’s Pitch 5. Today, our captain found himself out with a fractured toe, sustained on the grass of Shoreditch Powerleague’s Pitch 5, one week prior. Danny too was out - injury sustained through a ball and chain. The script suggests it could not be Witan’s day. But then again, the Captain’s armband was just handed to the forever smiling Robbo.
A clash of styles too entered into the day upon Witan’s arrival, the Foo Fighter loving Cathal and co were greeted by the hard hitting bass of Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright” emanating from the Tenisonian’s dressing room. On first impressions they seemed zoned in, together in the changing room, and there before us, all bopping heads in unison. When we entered the dressing room everyone was too cautious or awkward to reach for the aux, all frantic to get changed and get out there. In the pre-match warm ups too there was noticeable disparity. They opted for the more technical and tactical warm up, cones out, bibs on, keep ball. Witan went for the spiritual approach, blasting penalties over the bar before a group Yoga session. Although their mise en scene trumped ours, this was not their film. On this day, despite the assurances of Kendrick, they were not gon’ be alright.
John Huston’s sports – war film Escape to Victory (1981) reaches it’s climax when Pele, after a late substitution, scored a last minute overhead kick to win the game. This piece of film, written by Evan Jones and Yabo Yablonsky, is worthy of a few predictable eye rolls. One could script this, if anything it is the most obvious conclusion to a football related drama. One could not script what happened around the 15th minute for Witan. An incredible Kershaw corner after a blocked header fell to Witan’s Wyver who acrobatically, in slow motion, dispatched a bicycle kick. A truly incredible moment for the man who had been sidelined to goalkeeper for the majority of the season. If Evan and Yabo wrote this it would not have been met with any eye rolls. As the Witan crowd showed, it was met with surprise and elation. Witan 1 – 0 Old Tenisonians.
So we have ticked off the first cliché of the dramatic overhead kick, but removed the eye rolls by making a centre-back score it in the 15th minute. Next we need a poetic, larger than life moment. How about a pair of brothers linking up to score a goal in front of their family and friends in their first cup final together? Theo makes a run down the left, Fred follows the words which his older brother has inscribed in his mind before every game and makes a run across the LB and left CB before running between the defenders. Sturgis the elder plays it through, inch-perfect, and then rather unceremoniously, Sturgis the younger toe-pokes it past the goalkeeper. Witan 2 – 0 Old Tenisonians.
The next hour of play was largely a defensive display from Witan, with the occasional threat on the counter. Whilst this may not be as dramatic as the moments prior it was far more important. Pete Tam being strong in the tackle, as always, the midfield, running themselves ragged to disrupt the flow of the Old Tens. Nick providing a gladiatorial Man of the Match performance. Carl providing a flawless (I said flawless) display. Matt back from injury doing excellently in his defensive work and distribution. Sarly maintaining possession when asked and moving on the play, Justice’s awe-inspiring minerals, Guy and Brandon providing tireless defending from the front. Tom Tamte negating their midfield threats and being so unfairly missed by Fred on a counter attack that should have seen Witan go 3-0 up. Robbo providing a gritty captains display tying it together. Mike providing stops when called upon and excellently distributing from goal kicks. Neesy making sure they had to work to collect their throw-ins from the touchline. Theo dazzling the opponents with his mazy runs, Fred actually defending for a bit, and Ben Wyver providing a Ronaldo 2016 Euros impression from the sideline. Nick’s semi-improvised team-talk became scripture here, every Witan component was oiled excellently and did what they needed to do to ensure that Witan went home victorious, with the full-time score of 2-0.
I think this all speaks to why it is impossible to script a game of football. One would, on attempt, try to shoe-horn in as much drama and supposed magic as they could. The focus would move from the collective to the individual moments, perhaps focusing on one or two “stars”. It would not make time for the togetherness it takes to win a game of football like this. It would not account for Dell and his old teammates standing on the sideline taking 2 minutes to find the camera on their 2010 smartphones. When trying to reach for the dramatic, scripting a football game like this misses out on the irreplaceable novelty and togetherness which made this day so special and so important to everyone involved. At the end of the day, the only thing written down will be Witan’s name on the trophy.
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