ISFA Cup Quarter-Final v Royal Russell
Date: Wednesday 7 December
Venue: Away
Result: Draw 1 - 1
Lost on penalties after extra time 3 - 1
ISFA, like some sort of petty thief, stole our dreams and broke our hearts in the darkness of a penalty shoot out. As Royal Russell rolled in their winning penalty and delirium descended on the home side, Charterhouse slumped to the ground, victims of a second penalty shoot-out exit in three years. On the sidelines and pitch, Desolation spat, Despair brayed and Depression foamed. We’re out. Our relationship with the ISFA cup is like the experience of a first love. We fell in love too quick; it was intense and emotional; and the finale was like being hit by a ton of bricks in the gut, especially considering the haste with which she transferred her affection elsewhere. I thought we had something special! ‘Tell me you love me’ crooned Chris Martin, ‘if you don’t then lie. Oh lie to me.’
I tell you what though, if this was first love, then in future years ISFA is going to look back on our failed relationship with genuine fondness and, I would venture, more than a tinge of regret. We were absolutely magnificent. Relentlessly glorious. Gutsy, ballsy, classy and full of quality. Every man jack was a hero. Our back four were resolute and put up the sort of line not seen since Andre Maginot came up with a plan to hold back the Germans, complete with underground canteens and a railway. And frankly even if Royal Russell had come at us through Belgium or the Ardennes, I’m still confident we’d have resisted. Well okay we weren’t that good because we did concede a really soft goal from a long throw. But other than that we showed the sort of strength normally associated with Brian Shaw or Zydrunas Savickas, depending on the year that is. In midfield we were tenacious and tigerish, Margarson and Raber patrolling like East German border checkpoint guards, vigilantly demanding to see papers and just holding everything up in a haze of bureaucratic red tape. In front, players’ player Orlando Allen was a constant threat, while Hammond and the two Platts boys menaced the Royal Russell back four, creating numerous chances and stalking around like crazed Pamplona bulls looking for tourists to gore.
Jamie Platts secured the equaliser with a headed goal from an Orlando cross and from that point Tension swept off the bedsheets, dressed herself in a ravishing outfit and started to flit around, slowly at first, just making small talk and sipping at a cocktail, but then more obviously, so that soon she was dominating proceedings and nobody could take their eyes off her. The second half crept on, chances coming and going, mistakes potentially threatening to be more and more costly. Challenges became tastier; bookings were brandished. Heads were hot; tempers were bubbling. In the final minutes, Charterhouse had a glorious opportunity, but the Royal Russell keeper saved with Raber clean through. On it went into extra time, with chances for both sides, by which point Tension was stretched out on a chaise longue, casually picking at olives and grapes and raising an eyebrow in a quizzical, yet strangely alluring manner. And so penalties. Penalties. The old twelve yard test of nerve and skill. After four penalties it was 0-0. After nine penalties it was 3-1 and Charterhouse were down on bloodied knee, scanning the battlefield for surviving compatriots with whom to commiserate, searching for solace, craving consolation.
So difficult to take, especially after Ardingly two years ago. Once again, just when we were starting to dream that the cup was within our grasp, it was cruelly snatched away. Charterhouse were very much like Cedric Diggory in that regard, though without the horcrux and inevitable death at the hands of the Avada Kedavra curse of course. The relationship is over; she’s gone. It’s going to be tough for a while. Buy a tub of ice cream, call up your mates and tell them you’re back on the social scene and would they mind taking you back? And when we’re out in public we’ll bad mouth the whole thing and claim we never wanted it anyway, even though we’ll be dying inside. As Justin Bieber put it:
‘This is personal, this is for me and you. And I want you to know that I still love you. I know the seasons may change. And sometimes love goes from sunshine to rain … And you know I don’t wanna lose that. I still believe in us’.
She’ll call us again next year when she’s bored. And we’ll pick up the phone once more and start chatting and laughing about the old times. And after that who knows?
