Acrimony is etched into it. There's a violence in the hearts of men that seeks expression in groups. The rancour and explicit antipathy was shocking, and the levels of bitter interpersonal abuse were off the scale.
That's how it is these days when the Bombers assemble before game. This time is was against the Darwinian puzzlers from the scree reaches of Eastern Hutt, a match that has become the new arch rivalry in NZ football, perhaps even matching the Hatfield and McCoy dimensions of the the Bombers against Brooklyn in the 90s.
As the chill Southerly swept the Newlines plateau, the Bombers took comfort in the fact that Tiberius, Stent, Sceatsy, Doc and longterm limp-artist Bodo were not playing. This might just work, give or take the fighting. On the demerit side JB was back from pretending to be overseas.
The game began and their ten fat, bilious, puce-veined troll-men proceeded immediately to score a soft goal. Not long after, Hilda wandered confusedly through the statuesque defence and prodded past the simian but oddly effective keeper. There were a series of disagreements and an episode of belly barging, and then there 11th man appeared and the Bombers knew they would have to throw Mingus under the train is there was to be any hope.
Another soft goal arrived on schedule, but losing to abjectly dreadful teams sometimes seems to affect the Bombers, and they were starting to press and coming close to an improbable goal. Never closer than when JB scuttled through on his fat little leggies to find himself one-on-one with the shortest keeper in the land, who was hopelessly overcommitted at the edge of his box. He couldn't miss, and the wee reedy voices of the Bombers support were already shrieking with joy. It was a weird reprise of the glory days of the 80s. JB looked up and guided the ball straight into the keepers arms.
After the futile half time scolding the Bombers resumed the lost cause, forcing save after save from the little keeper. Then the Bitch Goddess, ever the trickster, allowed JB to slip the offside line again near half way, and shamble forward with just the keeper - again over committed - to beat. Something went wrong and JB curled it beyond the dwarf and inside the post. He then immediately retired to soak up the disdain of the Bombers support. "Fucking cheats" roared the visitors, and how sweet it was.
The equaliser, or perhaps the altitude, had broken the visitors. As time flowed sadly onwards, a goal mouth scuffle ended when Genome, all Bambi-on-ice with odd limbs going in all directions, scooped the ball over the defence and into the goal from a metre out.
Asst Gardener make a couple of expected but welcome saves, Nintendo ran all over, Ragg Boy fell over. Mingus trotted around like a drunk pony. Jackal huffed and puffed. Danny slid and swept. Hilda owned his space. Mikey Mike was solid and safe. Marky Mark photobombed the left flank. Iggy hurt his quad. Hansie (expendable so made to referee) only blew the whistle once all half, which was to finish the game and ensure a long sad trip home for the visitors as they rue missing an evolutionary stage and one or two chromosomes. 3-2 to the bold boys in black.