The Spring sun strobed across the slope at Happy Valley. Veteran Bombers have come to loathe this place. This is their Ypres, their Somme, their Crete. Far back in the mists of time brave Bombers have laid down their youth on this innocuous lawn. New Bombers could not read and could not hope to understand what lay behind the haunted expressions of their elders. The dread ran deep. Eyes moistened softly. The fallen were remembered with silence. Nacho farted.
Missing in Inaction were Zel Boy (more a concept than a Bomber), Tiberius (chairing the annual Satanist convention in Dargaville), Ragg Boy (last seen flying to Sydney for gender reassignment surgery, to fulfill his long held desire to be a man). And Marky Mark, who was rubbing Silvo into his carapace.
The further you stand from a moving object, the slower it appears to be moving. This is a standard ocular phenomenon. So it follows that the closer you get, the faster it appears. Your correspondent could observe no discernable difference in any of the Bombers. Despite the fact that the Island Bay goatsuckers appeared to be a whizz of continuous and exponentially accelerating movement, the Bombers appeared to be in a poorly produced claymation epic. Rings were run around them. With apparent effortless ease.
Within nanoseconds the goatsuckers were up two-nil. It was starting look like one of those ‘lost’ seasons. On the sideline, Doc wept. And wept.
But lo! Who was that spikey-haired banshee stepping through the mud and scoring a neat goal for the Bombers? And what was that odd barrel-bellied form flying economically up the wing, then bundling the ball over the line? And who was that Finnish cult-hero rising like a virgins sigh to head in a third for the Bombers? Defeat was inevitable on this unhappy mire, but the Bombers were firing all their shots and the goatsuckers were going to have to come from 2-3 behind at halftime.
After the all too brief lull in hostilities, the goatsuckers threw themselves at the Bombers, who fell back in disarray. Bodies lay littered across the sward. The prescribed equalizer duly came, then another nail in the coffin. 4-3. Doom approached.
All was lost, until the pelvine JB scuttled after a ball that rested over the line and out of play in the farthest corner at the edge of the world. As the goatsuckers strolled up to take the throw, JB hoofed it to Genome, who hoofed it forward to Jackal, who sliced it to Nacho, who shattered it into the net for the wholly unlikely equalizer.
As the bugler moistened her lips for Last Post, one final sortee forward from the Bombers. Jackal, in full idiot mode, chased a pass into the box. He fell over a defender. Up stepped the Belfast Banshee to roll the ball down the centre of the goal from the spot. Off dived the goatsucker keeper to the right. Bombers ahead 5-4. Last ditch saves were made, bodies lay stacked like firewood. Somewhere a whistle blew, signaling a retreat to the Mess. Beer was drunk. Lies were told. Hansie's butt was pinched. The absent were mocked. Faces softened in the forgiving light. The war could wait another week.