Filed by Cub Reporter Marky Mark,
You know you've passed your best when those crunchy thingsstuck to your buttocks, while gingerly leveringout of the Executive Lay-Z Boy, are not potato chips, but lumps of rotting dermis, making spirited bids for freedom from a sinking ship.
The centre cannot hold...
Jump cut from badly aging roue, Marky Mark, muttering Lear-like, to his kidnapped geranium family, in his charmingly un-appointed garage pied-a-terre, to Macalister Park, on a forebodingly pleasant, sun-drenched winter afternoon.
Hold shot for 20 seconds of silence. Fade in music from Jaws...
Jump cut back to interior of midlifecrisis Jeep: Ragg and Marky are chattering animatedly about girls' bottoms and the probable trajectory of late-period capitalism. The traffic treacles. We are caught in the funeral cortege for equality in New Zealand. Ragg giggles winningly, and points out his Newtown rental property holdings, as we crawl towards Adelaide Road.
We are now in the changing rooms. There is testosteronalbanter. There are athletic supports. There are no mirrors. Tiberius sulks and refuses to play. We tell him he is a GQ cover manque, and he relents.
Today the Bombers Machine is a gap-toothed smile. So many creaky heros are AWOL.
We can't go on, but we'll go on...
Besides, it's family day! Tiberius' daughters are here to slowly freeze, as the sun slinks over the hill, and learn a life lesson, where the Inuit elders, no longer able to contribute to the seal hunt, are set adrift on an ice floe, for the survival of the tribe. Such a caring father. NZ Biz is surely safe in his expensively- manicured claws.
Also, a delightful Skeatson and concubine, to enliven sideline society. With children, and Danny, about, normally robust supporter badinage is severely de-salinated.
Who would have expected the words ' heck', 'golly', 'crikey penis' and 'by Jove' to pass Marky's nicostained lips!?
After 15 sun-stealing minutes of faffing about waiting for nets to go up (how precious!) the leather Orb of Dreams is set free! This unreliable rapporteur missed the first goal through sideline intercourse. A powerful long shot from fuckatone, or suckmyvongole or takeamymummylikea dogliataliemanaged to evade the arthritic paws of Assistant Gardener. 1-0, after only 3 or 4 minutes. Mama mia! Was this to be the al dente tip of a starchy tsunami?
Missed their second goal too, through sideline intercourse. No idea. Sorry.
There was ebb. There was flow. We were committed, and doing ok. But giving away too much easy possession. We had chances. Gino had a good shot. Raggster hit the bar, and their left back, repeatedly, in the head. Matinee idol, Hansie Valentino, retires, limping pitifully.
Think it was 2-0 to the essential food group at half time...
Team huddle. Contradictory tactical suggestions. Eyes avoid eyes. Feet shuffle. The usual unsound and mystifying contributions from JB and his wounded glute.
Half the second.
We are still competing well. But they are very composed. They are relaxed on the ball. They have time. And the lion's share of possession. And you need possession to score. And they did again. But (you guessed it) I missed it due to sideline intercourse.
25 minutes in. A perfect corner from Tiberius finds the unmarked head of the Stentbeast! Absolutely splendid strike. 3-1. We are back in the hunt!
More too and fro. Nintendo is everywhere, unleashing his inner left winger! Between brief stints on the sideline, reviving his weakling pre-hypothermic brood, Tiberius stalks the upper third of the field like a wolf with piles. He will not be denied. His increasing frustration is channelled into constructive advice to his teammates.
Nintendo shows his appreciation , after their 4th goal, kicking the ball towards Cook Strait and jeopardising his standing in the fair play awards. A very poignant moment, straight out of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. George (Nintendo) makes Lennie, the slow-witted gentle giant, (er, AG) traipse off to retieve the crushed kitten. Such is Bombers football. Such is life.
As the Bada Bing social club says, 'whatcha gonna do?'.
Ming is holding the line. Stenter is tireless in midfield. Gene is pushing forward. Skeatsie is the schoolyard bully, playing up to the gallery. Radio Danny continues to broadcast … continuously, even after the continent has fallen.
Surgery survivor, Fishboy, comes on for an effective 10 minute cameo, then reires and pronounces himself alive, to the breath-bated sideline rabble, who may or may not have been taking bets on the resilience of his piscene ticker. Welcome back, escapee from the drift-net of mortality! May timeless goals continue to fill your kete with kai moana.
Doc makes an awkard challenge (how unusual!) and does his hammie. Exit stage east.
Ten minutes left and Maradonnatella steps up to take a 35 yard free kick. He strikes the ball so sweetly. Long shot. Slo-mo. This thing should have filed a flight plan. And still it floats...dips miraculously and kisses the underside of the cross-bar. Confusion, until Michael Michael arrogants the ball over the line, like a blonde panzer division, purring on the Polish border, on a cold morning in early autumn 1939. (See. You do learn things from Bombers match reports. See also 'Garbanzola').
We push hard for the last 12 minutes. They score a soft, completely unnecessary, 5th goal. Which I missed due to... (see also, All Blacks v Samoa. What were they thinking!? The quality of mercy was most definitely not strained.)
5-2. Well done pasta boys. A disciplined performance.
Too many long balls, Marky muses later that post-match night, glimpsing his gravity-riven scrotal
sac in the full-length bathroom mirror...
Life imitates art.
There was beauty. Comedy too. And, ultimately heartbreak.
We drop two places, to fifth on the table, on GD. ('Table? We have a table!? I rub my naked anoos
up and down on your steenking table', curmudgeons JB).
We are no longer goal positive.
Loins will be girded against the Karori fenian tide to come next Saturday.
At our house
The puggy earth