Max's Blog
Confessions of a TV presenter
A weekend to forget
Last updated: 06th October 2009
When you see a striker leave a trailing leg to get caught, it's frustrating. But I guess after Saturday, I don't have a leg to stand on, or I do, I just don't care to stand on it...
Max Rushden
Quotes of the week
At around half past four on Saturday afternoon, I was in a quite vulnerable position.
I was kneeling on the ground and a very large man was standing over me hurling vitriolic abuse at me, his eyes widening with every shout, and it seemed to me, much like a Stone Cold Steve Austin film, there was potential for violence.
I was, as I normally am at half past four on a Saturday afternoon, on a football pitch (unless I've been hauled off for underperforming). I was inside the box. And I had just won my side a penalty. In vaguely controversial circumstances.
I'm not very fast. Consequently I don't tend to try and dribble round people. My football teacher at school noticed that, by the age of ten, when I did manage to get past a defender, my lack of pace meant that he could just walk back in front of me and I'd have to do it all again. So when I get into the position to dribble round someone, I get a little confused/excited/surprised.
As it was, I'd nicked the ball past their centre back and taken a slightly heavy touch. Their 'keeper, not a small man, spotted his opportunity. He came out. It soon became obvious to me (and I guess him) that I was going to get to the ball first. It also became obvious to me (and certainly to him) that he was slowly starting to go to ground. I knew what I had to do.
I touched the ball and waited. I don't know where the ball went, but I knew he was too late to get it, but right on time to get me. And he did. And I went down. According to the match report written by our skipper, I "collapsed".
Theatrical
Apparently I was relatively theatrical. I'm not blessed with a huge amount of grace. And, as all team-mates should be, they're not blessed with a huge amount of complimentary feedback. So by the time we got to the bar afterwards, my fall was being likened to something vaguely resembling a beached whale and a milk float.
Regardless of that, the ref instantly pointed to the spot. That led to the slightly unnerving position of being accused by their 'keeper, of being, for that short moment, the worst human being on earth. I'm not so good at confrontation, but I was convinced I was fouled, so I just sat there and hoped that it would all go away.
It did. Nobody hit me - which was nice. And we won. 3-0. I would have taken the penalty, but the wind was against us and I'm not sure I could have kicked it that far. And my strike partner was on a hat-trick.
But in any case, being accused of cheating isn't a good feeling. I spent the rest of the game trying to be really nice and chatty to the opposition, and to be fair to them, they seemed to get over it pretty quickly. And fortunately for me, I've got a bruise on my foot where he caught me (I do bruise like an old woman).
I was caught for sure. It was a penalty. But had a man arrived out of nowhere with a gun to my head and told me to stay on my feet, I probably could have done.
Maybe I'd have scored. Maybe not. So what should I have done? When you see a striker leave a trailing leg to get caught, it's frustrating. But I guess after Saturday, I don't have a leg to stand on, or I do, I just don't care to stand on it...
Confession
It's one thing getting a slightly dodgy penalty in a football match, but I'm even more nervous about my second confession of the weekend.
I've always maintained that I prefer playing football to watching it. I love watching it. But given the choice, I'd always play. I play with the boys in the office on a Tuesday evening, and I've played for the same Saturday team for the past seven or eight years.
Consequently I don't get to see Cambridge United enough. I was a season ticket holder for 12 years growing up. I've seen some great games, and a lot of rubbish ones. But since I moved to London for work five years ago, it's been difficult to get to see them.
So I was very excited that we had a game on a Sunday. A local derby at Histon who - under the guise of my former football coach at 6th form, and ex-Cambridge legend, Steve Fallon - have done brilliantly over the past few years to get to where they are.
I had every intention of going back home to see the game. Then two things happened. Firstly one of my best friends arranged a birthday lunch party at late notice (it's a real sign of age when birthday party's move from Saturday night to Sunday afternoon, but she's pregnant and now 31 and it's her birthday so who am I to argue?).
Secondly, my housemates and I decided to have a spontaneous, and heavy, night out on the town on Saturday. All you need to know about that was that by half past midnight, both of them had disappeared from the bar we were in.
I don't remember when I left, but I do remember waking up on the bus a few stops too late, buying a kebab and getting home to find both my housemates asleep on their beds, in their clothes.
I remember the act of watching Match of the Day. Turning the telly on, finding it on Sky+, eating and slowly regretting my chips and doner meat. But once I'd woken up, I was able to watch it again cos I'd failed to register anything that had happened.
Anyway - my confession is this. Short of the bathroom, and the greasy spoon around the corner, I couldn't really move on Sunday morning. John, the other Cambridge fan in the flat, really couldn't move. By the time we'd summoned enough energy to eat, it was gone one. Kick off in Histon was two. We weren't going to make the game. I listened to us concede a 90th minute equaliser. Gutting.
Tea
To make matters worse, my friend Rachel was having a birthday tea at Liberty. For those of you who don't know it, it's a shop where men should never go. All it has is shoes, scented candles, and wicker. We arrived through the perfume door - arguably the worst place to be with a hangover.
But look, my friends are important to me. So, I sky plussed the Chelsea Liverpool match, and ate a tea cake and a coffee. I was careful when entering and leaving just to make sure nobody spotted me. Terrible for my profile to be seen being even close to such an establishment, especially when there's a big game on.
But I think Rachel appreciated it. In conclusion. Hangover + Friend's birthday = failure to watch Cambridge United. I apologise. I seek forgiveness from the club, and the fans. Maybe if I win eurobillions I'll buy the club to make up for it.
And as that Roadie in the Sky Advert says, "some of you can't be there all the time, but keep the faith all the same". I have faith. Lose at Wembley in the play-off final for the third year running. That's the plan.
Have a good week....
Max
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Comments
Jack B (West Bromwich Albion fan) says...
Had to laugh at the whole penalty fiasco. Hilarious. How could you have missed you own tems local derby though Max? I understand the importance of friends, coupled with a hangover, but that shouldn't be enough to miss Cambridge's big derby - or Ford Super Sunday :)
Posted 20:18 8th October 2009
Jake Manton-conway (Aston Villa fan) says...
funny when your captain said you collasped
Posted 18:56 6th October 2009
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