Nick Wall's Match Report
As I sit here in A&E nursing my bruise I am forced to look back on the day's events with great disdain.
I'll start from the beginning.
The day started well. I pulled back the curtains in the morning with a huge sense of optimism, masking my longing for the cold embrace of darkness.
We won last week at home against a horrible bunch of *unicorns* and we were given the opportunity to do it again in Chesterfield.
I opened up my 'big dusty book of things to do before I die, alone and miserable in a flat in Small Heath' and quickly crossed off 'visit Chesterfield', situated nicely in between 'touch a girl with her permission' and 'weigh less than 130kg'.
Some facts about Chesterfield:
- Birthplace to the famous George Stephenson - a mechanical engineer who built the first public railway in the world to use steam locomotives. Truly inspirational.
- Citizens of Chesterfield finally mastered the wheel in 1998, paving the way for impressive growth from shanty town to thriving wildling conurbation.
It's *pixie dust*.
After 12 hours of driving with George Bayliss in the car, I truly couldn't feel any worse.
We had a minutes silence for Ali Raza, after rumours he couldn't be with us today, and then Tom Harrison started a speech that can only be described as a speech. Motivational.
BUT THEN, in true Halloween spirit, Ali Raza burst through the door announcing his arrival by scaring the *pixie dust* out of all of us, in his hat and sun glasses wombo combo of dreams - protecting himself from the horrid northern surroundings.
He looked deep in to Harry Peachey's eyes and told him, with no hesitation, that if he didn't speak up people would cum on his back. Harrowing.
We got off to a good start, immediately getting Nick injured so we had no subs and then conceding multiple goals early on. Pattern.
Like last week we got stuck in and battled hard.
5-0 down at half-time. Reaction.
We started the second half well, not conceding for at least 3 minutes.
At some point in the half I tried to block a clearance with the bottom of my shin, forgetting I had a hockey stick in my possession. The ball entered my foot, bounced around a bit inside, striking vital internal organs, and then came back out. It was a miracle I survived.
I popped my severed foot back on and was persuaded by our two physios, who didn't really react, to lie down on the side of the pitch with my head on the touch line, hoping for a severe head injury I presume.
The game finished 13-0 but most of their goals came from one guy, so we all know who the real winners are here...
But we have access to clean water so...
Thankfully, I now feel at home hobbling along the streets of Birmingham, telling someone I don't have any change every 200m. Bliss.
James Clapham - doing more hockey things than other people.
Nick Wall - fat *unicorn*, match report aficionado, cankles and lonely.