Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

17 July 2024

The joint was dim and dark except for four spotlights.

Well Dadi who?

Ah-ha, pre-season friendlies, a time for wonder. There we were down Boston way wondering who that is. Yes, I was looking blankly at Jaxon Blankley late on.

The question on everyone's lips after they'd finished their pre-match three course meal of chips, chips and chips: who is Trialist A? Or was it Trialist B. Or maybe Trialist C. What do you see? I see a sea of faces unseen before. Who's that standing next to Rogers? Henry Fieldson, that's the boy. Who's that bouncy boy with bouncy hair? Joseph Toluwadara Oluwabamirin Temitayo Ladapo, or Freddie's brother for short. And the other one? No idea.

I have no idea why anyone would put mayonnaise on their chips. Wasn't that the whole point of Brexit, to stop that nonsense?

The game, the match, new newness of new players and new things! You want news of the new. I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. A plan of attack with purpose, poise and passing at pace. Interesting, very interesting. New Town tipped and tapped then zipped and zapped with one-touch passes that sweetly swept through the potato fields, but Artell's Artisans are a finely spun silk shirt. Please don't touch it just yet, it may crease. It does look lovely, we'll just have to see whether it can weather the slings and arrows of Big Boy Football.

1st half - Dadi cool
There were moments of "ooh" and moments of "aaaaaargh" as last season's cultural dessert re-emerged with the Ainley-Thompson-Green jazz trio project leaving too many holes, my dear Mozart. Thompson the fulcrum, the instigator, the connector, but who's the assassin? Who has camouflaged emotion in a thousand-yard stare? Ah, Minivan Wilson, a man who's hypnotised in a career rhythm trance.

I know what you're thinking: adjectives of annihilation bury the point beyond redemption. Yes, that's right, a sitter missed. Boston squeezed like old toothpaste, Ainsley rolled and Wilson wiffled wide.

Some cool runnings and cold pressing by the man who's come from the land of the ice and snow. Are we crazy about our Dadi? Oh, we believe in him, we're gonna love our Dadi. Dadi, he's cool as he slip-slided and glided past amberites to slash against the keeper. Carson's corners caused consternation and elation as he elevated cutely. Plans! Movement! Ideas! They've been practicing things down Cheapside for Town just don't float one into the mixer no-more.

Did you say Ehrebung, Bert?

Rogers rather imperious, Carson and Warren tigerish in the tackle and forever flying forward and Fieldson, well, he likes to play football. Rugby and wrestling may not be his scene.

Let's not gloss over those minutes of mayhem, where Boston swarmed and swamped and Eastwood slapped and tickled and Harvey shuffled the ball away from the line. When Pilgrims set sail there were no striped ships to be seen, just flotsam and jetsam.

But there is an offensive method and a style already emerging. It's clear that they know what they are supposed to do, not just hoping something turns up near goal.

Interesting.

2nd half – He kissed the turf and made them cry
Town upped the pace with the arrival of Gorgeous George livening things up no end. McEachran, boy, he got vision, the rest of this part of the world wore bifocals. How do you stop the future? A Mr Potatohead clobbered him eventually.

Ooh, what a night. Entertainment! Chances made, chances missed as the ball followed Green around the Fens, like a feline making a bee-line for the person who hates cats. To you, to me, to Keiran Green and into the rubble, over the rubble and far, far away. Swoon at the sweeping moves, McEachran manipulating, Warren surging deeply and nodding deftly, Green bundling.

Boston barely present, Town breezing past these breeze blocks, passing around, spinning around, just having a good time. Mass substitutions, Khouri the new Thommo, a mystery man with a balding patch, a boy with blondie locks, Janet McCameron…ooh, such gliding grace, the Denver Boot huffing and chuffing and over there there's Mama Cass, like Maher's bigger, hard cousin.

Wright to Khouri, a fizz and whizz, and flick from blondie and Denver's boot sliced through the marzipan. Off hared Ladapo to feign a roll right but rocking low and left. We don't score goals like that. We do now.

Jordan Wright. Big hands, big shoulders, a big booming voice and a couple of big saves. A free kick paddled sweetly aside and a Schmeichelesque swoop upon a lurking Amberite after a series of skittling ricochets and rebounds.

Oh yeah, they did hit the post, they did. Not us.

Other things nearly happened, now and again. There were flicks, there were tricks, and nutmeg was the spice of life tonight. Mmm, tasty.

What's the difference? Pace, that's what it is, pace. In feet, in minds in passing and in moving. This Town, more than any other Town this century, have a clearly defined way of playing football. A set of players following instruction from their coach. If we have nothing else this year, we'll always have Boston.

Boston? They weren't bad, just a little lightweight and, like their floodlights, not quite bright enough to cope.

Interesting, very interesting.