ISFA Cup Round Two
Merchant Taylors', Crosby
On: Tuesday, 11 October
Venue: Away
Result: Won 5 - 3
After a brisk evening stroll in Aintree (to and from the magnificent Aintree Tandoori) and a competitive morning training session at Liverpool's Academy, Charterhouse deported themselves to Crosby. And they got there by train. And taxi. And after cacophonous preparations in the changing rooms, they emerged, blinking in the Lancashire sun, peering over the West Lancashire golf club towards the distant Irish Sea. They mused as a murmuration of starlings exalted themselves in the north-western skies and they pondered awhile as a number of sleepy Merseyrail services deposited their fare in the Hall Road station and set off for Southport and Liverpool respectively. An irate wind occasionally threatened to spit bloody thunder and, off to the East, the Lancashire plains rolled and murmured. But this is mere backdrop; nothing more than context; the whim of fancy; the protestations of irrelevance. On the pitch, Charterhouse were called upon to be resilient, especially as the home side were given a boost after a mighty swing of the right boot sent an arrow past the despairing Barlow and Merchant Taylors' took an early lead. But Charterhouse buckled themselves in, buckled down and - in the interest of consistency - refused to buckle. They thereupon stood firm, remaining steadfast and unflustered and working their way back into the contest. It was rather like Peter the Great after the first battle of Narva, Merchant Taylors' very much looking down the road to Moscow but failing to press home their advantage, diverting themselves in the internal machinations of the Polish hereditary monarchy. And so Charterhouse - like Peter - rebuilt, with some subtlety at first, but slowly, tentatively, and almost apologetically, before the hero of the day, Orlando Allen, uttered his first lines on the stage. At first a scuffed shot, which squirmed underneath the diving Merchant Taylors' keeper to draw Charterhouse level. Then a real beauty. A cross from the left volleyed with the sort of precision and finesse usually associated with an Audi advert. And Charterhouse were ahead, nosing in front like a French Filly in her prime. And still the trains continued to plod through as the starlings teased the wind and the sky began to grow wearisome. But suddenly parity emerged, and we wondered again whether cruel fate was due to visit upon our house. Half time. 2 - 2.
But this Charterhouse side have a backbone longer than a Brontosaurus and they weren't done. And before long Jojo Hammond - who spent a considerable portion of the afternoon engaged in ideological discussions with his opposite number over various accepted social niceties - had given Charterhouse the lead. And then Garrard made it four, with a glancing header. And then there was Allen, stomping around and running the show like a genuinely mercurial theatre impresario, and scoring a fine goal to top off a memorable hat-trick. Ah. Breathing space. Well nearly. First there was the story of the left back, the centre back and the other centre back, all of whom failed to clear their lines, resulting in a free run on goal for the Merchant Taylors' centre forward. Then there was the story of the questionable Garrard tackle. Which actually wasn't that questionable given that it resulted in an utterly stonewall penalty. And finally there was the unfortunate Barlow own goal, the ball hitting the post but rebounding off the goalkeeper's legs and in to the goal.
And so the match finished 5 - 3 to the visitors. Charterhouse progress. Charterhouse endure. And as we wind our way back to Godalming, we look forward to the draw for Round Three on Thursday evening. Our relationship with the cup seems firm. But the ISFA cup is canny. At once friendly and dismissive. She's a tempestuous and fickle companion and she hates being taken for granted. So we'll have to work hard and find an edge, otherwise we'll be tossed aside in favour of a rival. It's the chase that drives us onward and the constant tension of elimination that tickles our heart and wrenches our guts. Or it could be the curry.