Whit Sunday

I hadn’t seen the West Ham Ladies for a while. They had been playing away a lot and the 500 mile round trip to Plymouth seemed less attractive to me than walking 50 yards from my house to their home ground. If I climb over my fence I’m only 2 inches away from their home ground. That’s close. I decided on the long way round to avoid splitting my trousers or being arrested for gate crashing. 

   Talking about gates, today’s attendance seemed quite low. I’d already made my mind up that I was going to shun the verbal season ticket so as to help support the team with my fiver, and also avoid anymore embarrassing ‘Who did you say you were?’ moments at the turnstile. 

Cutting it fine as usual, the girls were already on the pitch doing the customary shake hands routine. Then the announcer (nice bloke) announced there would be a minute’s silence. Immediately I thought…Jimmy Hill? They won’t know who Jimmy Hill is. The minute’s silence however was for someone else altogether. A local man who was involved in sport. In silence I slowly walked to a position where I could photograph the ladies. After all…. that’s what I was there for. As I passed a man I heard him say, ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to stand still for a minute.’ 

The ludicrousness of him breaking the silence to scold me flashed through my mind, and unswervingly I maintained my dignity so as to record the event in pictures. He should carry the magic fucking boomerang around with him next time (you have to be about 50 to get that reference)

The match kicked off and early doors Plymouth looked the sharper of the two teams, with some neat one twos and plenty of running off the ball. Plymouth’s captain was head and shoulders above the rest. Literally. The royalty named Katie Middleton was an intimidating opponent, plenty of power coupled with a deft touch. She reminded me of when you get an African schoolboy player with a dodgy passport. My son had one in his team. Hench. I think that was a nickname though. On his passport his date of birth made him out to be 10 years old, but he had the beginnings of a beard and quite a deep voice. Now I’m not suggesting for one minute that Katie had stubble or could give the 3 tenors a run for their money, but she was all but an unfair advantage.
West Ham Ladies began to get a grip on the game and Pinna was put through only to see her shot whizz past the post. (I actually videoed it thinking it was going to be a goal and ended up with the worst action footage in the world). In the 12th minute the eagle-eyed referee spotted Katie Bottom flattened in the box whilst awaiting the delivery of a corner. It was the sort of foul that often goes unpunished…. but not this time. Both teams seemed to be bemused by the decision but it was one the WHL gratefully accepted. Romina Pinna (wearing, the most confusing. Headley on her shirt) stroked the penalty home to get her memorable day off to a good start. The WHL forward line were causing problem after problem for Argyle, Romina and Shevvy with their intuitive partnership and Whitney with her immense work rate terrorising the fullbacks. Whitney apart from the defenders had another obstacle to overcome. There was a guy standing near me, and every time Whit (that’s what he called her) kicked the ball, run for the ball, looked at the ball, thought about the ball, or just stood there, he was giving her instructions, a kind of coaching from the touchline XL. ‘Run Whit,’ ‘Move up Whit,’ ‘Go forward Whit,’ ‘Whit! ’ ‘Press Whit,’ Come on Whit.’ I was sure it must have got on her nerves. It was getting on my nerves. A bit. I didn’t want to rub anyone else up the wrong way after my’ not playing statues’ fiasco and Danni jokingly threatening to get me banned for taking comedy photos of her (I think she was joking). Whit came within earshot again. ‘Make a run Whit.’ ‘Shut up,’ she exasperatingly  replied. ‘Oh,’ I thought. If he was a coach methinks she is going to be in a bit of bother. Later she explained to me that he was her dad, and then it all made perfect sense. I’d have been saying the same. Maybe worse.
WHL continued to dominate. Aditi could have done a Sudoku to pass the time. More superb play from the diminutive Romani and in the 28th minute it was 2-0, her shot flashing past the air grasping Devonish damsel in distress. Dark clouds were looming. Not poetic ones. Real ones. The heavens opened up to unleash torrential rain onto the pitch. It seemed to spur the Plyms on and WHL looked worried. I’m not sure whether they were worried about having frizzy hair in the morning or about stemming the attacks led by the marauding Katie Middleton. Some sloppy play led to WHL getting caught in possession allowing the irrepressible KM to rain on our parade and drill the ball home. 2-1. Game on. The whistle blew, the rain stopped and we could all relax for 20 minutes.
I’d just like to give a quick mention to a lovely fellow (forgot to ask his name) who provides the music and announcements from a shed-like (shed?) using quite antiquated equipment. Before anyone starts thinking - turntable - large horn - dog sitting in front of it, it’s not that old. CDs but no usb’s , PCs or mp3s. Anyway I’d just like to say he’s a nice man doing a grand  job. My thoughts turned to the coffee stall. I wanted one but my thoughts were mainly for the people that run it. There were probably only about 30 spectators in the whole stadium. Understandable. Christmas shopping and all that. I always like to patronise (pay-tron-eyes not pat-tron-eyes) small businesses. I had one once…. and it’s hard. All sympathy went straight out of the window though, when I rounded the corner to see a mob of punters waiting to be served by the lone waitress who was on her mobile, oblivious to the mass hoards (7/12).  Instead I took refuge in the warmth of the lounge bar where they didn’t sell coffee and I had to settle for a pint of coke with an iceberg in it. Doesn’t time go fast when you’re enjoying yourself. I was merrily Tweeting away info on the first half to anyone that could be bothered to read them and missed the start of the second half. Something was missing. The Haverettes. They had probably plumped for the rich pickings of Romford Market (can’t blame them), and the A augmented seventh flattened ninth chord they usually end on is my signal to head back to the match. I hadn’t missed much. For some reason at the last few WHL matches, the players come out for the second half a bit lethargic. Maybe they relax too much. Maybe they’re drinking Ovaltine instead of tea. I even had time to chat to the subs whilst our motivation inability took hold. Plymouth attacked wave after wave, not really threatening Aditi’s domain. Hannah Wheeler and co stood firm and repelled (booted) the ball as soon as it got a sniff of their goal. Katie Middleton crunched Aditi and Aditi came not only off best, but unhurt (apart from her nose and having her foot trodden on accidentally).
With less than 10 minutes left Romina was put through and rounded the keeper to claim a hat trick and to make the points safe. Before you could  sing ‘Can we play you every week?’ the Argyle lot replied. I didn’t see who scored but I can bloody well have a good guess. 3-2. The game had burst into life. West ham were cutting through their defence like a knife through I can’t believe it’s not butter. Next it was Shevvy’s turn to pop up and dink one in. 4-2 This girl makes it look so easy. Three goals in four minutes. At last I had something to photograph other than Upminster windmill and some giant conifers. WHL were coasting now. Whitney was through. In full flight she beat the defender, ghosted past the goalie, placed a nice controlled shot towards goal and…………hit the post. I couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. The crowd (?) couldn’t believe it. ‘Whit…….. chase back,’ heckled her dad.
The match was fizzling out and I made my way back behind the Argyle goal, just in case we scored another and I could get a different angle. ‘You can stand next to the pitch if you want to get better pictures,’ one of the ground staff informed me. ‘Mind you…. you might get your nice boots muddy.’ It was the 88th (bit fucking late) minute and I said I would maybe go there next time but thanks. Anyway it would much more than getting closer for me to get good pictures.
Final Score 4-2
Message to West Ham Ladies: If I do get to stand pitch side, please try not to boot the ball at me. Thanks.