Plans were made for Nigel.
In the pantheon of the great overlapping fullbacks - Carlos Alberto, Maldini, Breitner, Andreas Brehme, Tony Lochhead, - the highveld of Raroa Park welcomed another entrant to this glorious club. Nige “I’m not counting” Beckford caressed home no doubt the most elegant strike of his storied career to ease the Bombers home and into second on the table. Gliding in effortlessly at the far post, a Tiberius on-a-platter cross arced invitingly and was dispatched with aplomb, 4-1 and points in the bag. Carl’s bullet of a header and the author’s dalliances on the ball for a brace simply not worthy to be mentioned in the same goalscoring breath. The anguish will abate. Patience, my sons, patience.
Stats sometimes matter little, but the euphoric cry of “That’s my fourth goal in 41 years” echoed around this pantomime theatre of dreams and caused uproar within Malvina’s corridors and ablution blocks. The stern-faced sideline devotees erupted into applause. Cue the Steve Austin-like run to the rapturous embrace with Asst Gardner, and it was a seminal Kennedy moment – where were you when it happened?
In this age of immediacy it was revealed that plans had already been made for a dash to Camp Nou this week, as the Catalans seek to regain Euro Cup supremacy, or if not then the comparatively easier feat of one-nation independence, and good luck with that. But a marauding, nay, bombing, 60-year old left back with an eye for goal that goes back four decades could be the answer – given the other left footed prima donna never looks interested these days. The mooted player exchange – with cash of course – is locked in management wrangles. Season ticket holders pray that Nige’s last chance for a lucrative retirement contract won’t be derailed by inflated demands from the gin-slinging old dodderers of the Bombers management, even if Messi is coming the other way.
(Messi couldn’t do it on a cold wet Saturday afternoon in Naenae: Ed)
The rest of the day’s carnage is merely padding and fluff to the main story. So what if we bullied and battered but remained scoreless at half-time, fists flailing angrily at the frustration of it all, as if the football gods would listen, instead remaining amused by life’s contrariness and the bitterness they could engender. Asst Gardner, pushed to his limit, contemptuously mouthing “I’m bored” as he removed himself from the fight at the interval, to be comforted by steaming Bovril. Step forward the heir apparent…Big Mike commanded the parapet from on high, driving mighty arms into the heavens to punch balls that were evil incarnate, commanding his gladiators, mopping up the enemy and occasionally setting up attacks with Neuer-like distribution. But from such defiance came the most delicate weakness, as the defensive citadel was breached to allow a triple-bouncing-rebound time to trickle into the rigging from a sweeping high-altitude corner. Travesty.
Time to unleash the press, and so it was. Not the Fourth Estate, but a surge of energy rippled through the team, years were rolled back and distant muscle memory drove leaden feet to move with pace. Resistance was futile as the floodgates were unleashed. A left-wing cross, an erratic bounce and driven finish, 1-1. More pressure, corners piled up. Well, two. Tiberius delivers, defenders depart and Carl and nuclear fission meet as one. 2-1. More pressure. Stent is seen running; alarmingly so is Sceats; (B)Ruce eviscerating anything in midfield and driving the ball with venom. Peripheral vision catches Nige marauding, a portent of things to come. Carl in perpetual motion mode, Tiberius dominating the flank. The pincer movement is complete. The cross, the catch, the turn, the shot….3-1. Surely rest from this damn hell. But all is simply prologue. Why did Kennedy have to perish? Would the world really have been a better place? Time stands still…the shot that was heard around the world…Nigel….4-1 and we are transported back to a simpler time. There is hope. There is beauty.
Or until the deafening reality of cruel life shocks us awake. A Sissoku-like handball and there is no argument. And there can be only one Highlander. Graham steps up to propel the dagger that will put the beast to sleep, and top spot. The cruel gods look down again, and smile mercilessly. Fools.