Match Report by Benjamin Turner
Away at Richmond, under a sky the colour of week-old dishwater, the Titans arrived for their damp duel with the Rogues – a weary trudge across muddy football pitches, a wind-battered portaloo standing sentinel behind the astro, all huddled against the grey misery.
The early exchanges matched the weather: limp, messy, and thoroughly forgettable. Playing poorly, we committed one of sport’s great acts of larceny and walked off at half time 3–0 up. Classic, opportunistic Titans – taking on Richmond’s roguish ways and accepting their generosity with a collective shrug of “Well, if you insist.”
The opener came through Greg’s guile at the back post, winning a penalty stroke. Biff stepped up to slot it home: a totally undeserved 1–0. Randall then executed the hockey equivalent of a street-corner shell game: defenders lunging at empty spaces while he twisted and turned and rolled the ball into the goal to everyone’s bemusement. Jatin added a third, struck clean as a whistle.
After stern words at the break, Richmond ran out of puff, while Titans demonstrated their superior fitness – yes, really! We dominated from whistle to whistle, with Greg finishing a slick move for 4–0 and Jatin clinically bagging his brace for 5–0.
The hockey gods, appalled by our first-half display, clearly demanded a sacrificial moment of incompetence in penance, and Randall obliged with the miss of the season: having rounded the keeper and with the goal begging, he contrived to swipe the ball into the abyss.
An undeserved and cheekily roguish win against Richmond, with a first half now locked away in the filing cabinet labelled “Do Not Revisit.” A match we didn’t so much “take” as “receive”, with a gracious nod of thanks.
The return trudge across the drenched football pitches deposited us back at the clubhouse, where we huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, watched the sheets of rain tumble down, and collectively wondered how on earth we had won so comfortably. A delightful tinkle on the ivories from Duncan kept our spirits up. Then the logistical caper, with eight Titans, all their kit, including the goalkeeper’s personal travelling circus, endeavouring to fit into a seven-seater for a mercy-dash to the tube.
Close-quarters camaraderie, several laws of physics defied, but we made it to the District Line and the beer train was officially in motion.
What did we learn? Even playing badly, we can still win 5–0. Rogueish? Absolutely. Respectable? Dubious. Entertaining? Always.