Game 2, Season 35 Hemingway's hags

A southerly was blowing at Raroa Park. JB resembling a member of the Sicilian Mafioso grabbed a chair from his boot. Plenty of junk in that trunk. It was the second game of the season for most. Ross and Gene had shown at Andersons a week earlier for a little game of their own. We peppered Gyles in goal to warm up. Son of God promoted the apple seller across the road. Marky Mark in striped leggings chose the left flank. Above at the window in Malvina Major what looked to be Norman Bates’ mother rocked in a chair.  The next time we looked she was gone. Not long after Kirk arrived in wig.

The whistle blew. Throngs of hags from the days of yore clamoured at the windows. Bloomers were thrown. Once-were-WAGs keened and shrieked. The riddle of who the women who wanted the Bombers were, was answered. The men who wanted to be them formed the opposition. Chances were squandered. JB fell over. While their keeper was writhing on the ground racked with laughter he got up and placed it bottom left. 1-0. Steve rued the day he’d invited him for dinner. Zel and Al showed up early shortly before halftime. More chances.. “There’s two of you with 19 on yer shirts” said one of the Zimmers. In 1979 the average age of a bomber was 19- nah-nah-nah-nineteen. In 2015 it was some number over 35.

At halftime subs occurred. Ross slotted a penalty. 2-0. Marky Mark had a smoke and disappeared. Fish whipped in crosses. Red-Ragg-to-a-Bull Jon went looking for trouble without luck – the opposition were gents.  Nigel saw no need to mow any of them down. Another goal came from an OD throw that the good Doctor brought down for Yakal. One post was hit four times. Hansie, promoted up field, nearly chipped the keeper. It should have been 7-2.

At the Posties I said to new boy Mike, ”Gyles could be your father”. Hell he could be mine. Probably is. JB wanted Joyce but I prefer Hemingway. The bad from two weeks ago were good. But were they good because the others were bad? Or was their goodness innate? Ponder that ageless hags as ye gaze upon the hunks of yesteryear.