Saturday 24th October
Saturday is here. Hockey is here. Eager with anticipation, I arise, hopeful for an improved performance from the snatched draw from last week, and fearful of another tongue-lashing from coach Jon Snow.

Arriving at Windsor Boys at 9.32am, I am informed that there is a 5-minute grace period for late fines, but this doesn’t start until next week. Slightly perplexed, I turn my attention to the warm-up, and the ensuing game. Oxford start strongly, but two goals from Ali mean that we reach half-time with a delicately poised 2-1 lead. Early in the second half, isolated on the right touchline, I attempt an ambitious crossfield pass. The execution is a little wayward, and I end up in a heap at the half-way line. As I rise to make my apologies, I catch a glimpse of Charles’ face staring at me for slightly too long. I can’t work out the expression on his face. Sympathy? Disappointment? Lust? Perhaps he is still rueing his missed ‘deliberate’ lob in the first half? I would have my answer in short order.

The rest of the match is a blur; suffice to say that our performance deteriorated, and Oxford ran out 5-2 winners. I depart, dejected at the result, but entirely oblivious to the coming storm.

At 12.55pm my phone buzzes. Charles has commenced the Man of the Match voting which the team had eschewed in the aftermath of the mauling. Understandably, a vote for Ali. And then it happens:

“DOD - Martyn (you sack of SOCKS)”

Sack of SOCKS.

Sack.

Of.

SOCKS.

The realisation hits me. Charles’ expression. This is what he was thinking. That I am nothing more than a sack of SOCKS. I attempt to laugh the message off. But the damage is done.

Sunday 25th October
“Sack of SOCKS”. The words haunt me. I wake with a start, and pick up where I had left off the night before - attempting every reasonable keyboard combination to see if Charles had simply mistyped his message. I find no plausible alternative.

Tuesday 27th October
For the first time since ‘the event’ my thoughts do not immediately turn to ‘the message’ upon awakening. For a short time, I live in blissful forgetfulness of the whole affair, until this bliss is shattered by a message from Dev:

“Happy Birthday @Charles Lambert”

And it all comes flooding back. The pass. The look. The message. Happy birthday Charles. Love, the Sack Of SOCKS.

Wednesday 28th October
By this point I am a gibbering wreck and I can’t face training with my aggressor. I concoct an excuse for my absence and return to my dark room, and darker thoughts.

Saturday 31st October
Saturday is here. Hockey is here. It is time to face my demons. And one demon in particular. Making use of the now-live grace period, I arrive at Ashford at 12.34pm. I converse with my antagonist, but never reveal the extent to which his words have blighted my week. The game begins. Windsor make an impressive start count, scoring through a deflected Ali Parkes short corner drag flick. The solid defensive unit of Pascal, Kai, and Dev is keeping the Ashford attack at bay, and long-serving keeper Dive has had little to do.

Captain Sean signals for my arrival from the bench - Kwesi makes his way over to the halfway line, and I step onto the field, ready to prove my worth, and banish the ‘sack of SOCKS’ label. Immediately the whistle blows, and Sean is summoned to the umpire. “That sack of SOCKS number 53 ran onto the field too early,” I hear the umpire say. Green card. Dejected, I trudge off. I can feel the piercing gaze of Charles in the back of my head.

Down to 10, Windsor achieve the improbable, and snatch a goal on the breakaway. I strain my eyes to see who is celebrating the score. Of course, Charles.

The umpire sees pity, and allows me to join the fray. Ashford lose their discipline, and before long they are down to 10. Moments before half time, the ball hits an Ashford defender on the line of the D. The indecisive umpire calls a free hit just outside, and as I begin to remonstrate, I hear Charles, screaming at me “get the ball you sack of SOCKS”. The half-time whistle brings scant relief from the torrent of abuse raining down on me.

2-0 up, Windsor seek to bed in and keep possession early in the second half. Ten minutes into the half and the score is 2-2. Heads are dropping, and minds are racing with concern back to last week. Not again. Solid performances from newcomers Ben and Ryan, along with predictable reliability from Jack and Harley, is all helping to steady the ship, but the breakthrough isn’t coming. The tension is running high, tempers are beginning to fray, there appears to be no means through which to break the deadlock. And then a sweeping move through the middle of the pitch and out to the left suddenly sees Ryan put me clean through on goal. Time slows, and I am hit with a clarity I never thought possible. I didn’t need to banish the ‘sack of SOCKS’ label. I need to own it. I needed to become one with the ‘sack of SOCKS’. Scoring the winning goal from this straightforward position might have given me personal glory, but the team needed the belief. It was time for me to become the ‘sack of SOCKS’. Carefully, I miscontrol the ball, allowing it to slip under my stick and out to the edge of the D. I pursue the ball, and at the precise moment for maximum effect, overbalance and come to stop, prone on my back in the D. I lie in wait. And then the denouement comes. Laughter erupts from all corners of the ground. The tension is broken. The shackles fall off.

Almost immediately following my selfless act, the Windsor attack begins to terrorise the Ashford defence. My nemesis feeds me the ball on the left of the D, but a swept shot glances off the outside of the post. It’s coming. Ali ducks and weaves and earns a short corner. His drag flick is marginally wide. And then finally, the ball breaks again in the Ashford D, Ali gets space on the reverse and hammers an angled shot into the goal. 3-2 Windsor. Victory.

MOM: Kai for a performance beyond his years
DOD: Martyn for the ‘pencil dive’ (but little did they know the true meaning)