THE ONE WHERE WE PULLED HAMSTRINGS INSTEAD OF CRACKERS

Before I start I’ve just been on a diabetes website and it asked me if I accept cookies. Is that a trick question?

It’s weird when you look at old photos and realise everyone in them is now dead isn’t it. Wow! last Christmas got REALLY out of hand. That said, Christmas in the Statto household is usually ruined on the day itself, so imagine my consternation when a perfect storm of yuletide coccydynia swept away all before it AND there was still a week of crud to go.

To be honest the day hadn’t started well. Propped up in bed, perusing the morning papers, my eyes fell upon the horoscopes. Years spent assuring the various Mrs Stattos (should that be Sattoes? I’ve never been too sure) who’ve drifted in and out of my life that: “Of course Saturn, Mars and Venus give a crap about your life dear. Why wouldn’t they?” Mine was:

Leo (22 July - 22 August)
After days of grave and anxious discussion, the stars have decided that it’s better you don’t know.

I didn’t get chance to let this digest when the latest Mrs Statto burst through the door (luckily Wicks have a deal on at the moment, so she’ll get to spend last years Christmas present I got her finally) and announced “I’m leaving you...” I was still mid-whoop and most of the way through a passable cartwheel when I saw the look in her eyes and the colour drained from my cheeks. Smiling, she continued “... this article from New Scientist which proves that ancestors of the comb jelly were the most primitive creatures to exist, and not sponges. Ha!”

Shaken to the very root of my being, I read on. Apparently, so-called scientists at the US National institute of Health in Bethesda, Maryland sequenced the full genomes of the five most primitive animals that sit at the base of the evolutionary tree - sponges, jellyfish, comb jellies, placazoa and bilaterians and found that Earth’s first creatures were indeed made from jelly. I have spent the whole of last year studying the wrong buggerin’ animal. Bugger.

Slumped at the edge of the bed, head in hands, staring at the debris of my life, in pieces about my feet, I felt a comforting arm around my shoulders. “Just accept that life is sad and cheer up, it’s not forever.” Said my wife. Without looking up I asked quietly “Just why did God create women?” “Because hopes and dreams won’t crush themselves.” Replied a chipper Mrs Statto a little too brightly for comfort.

I was still pondering this world-shattering news when I was leaving the supermarket later that morning. Once again I felt hands around my shoulders only this time they weren’t the gnarled, gulag-wrecked digits of Mrs Statto, these were smaller but dug in just as tenaciously. The hulking security guard stared at me menacingly as he pinned me to the wall.
“I meant to put it back." I stammered. "I just forgot.”
He didn’t believe me and now I’m due to appear before the judge in January on a charge of gross indecency.

Finally home I slumped emotionally drained in front of the computer. The cursor hesitated over the email icon before I ploughed on, reasoning that whatever fate had in store for me couldn’t be any worse than what had already befallen. I was wrong.

A message from the U13s coaches came through inviting the great unwashed, and me, to a Post-Xmas training session on the 29th December... yay! I now owned the box set of grudge.
So as the red red robin of time goes bob-bob-bobbing under the snow plough of destiny, and the sage and onion stuffing mixture of fate is rammed up the eternally unfrozen turkey of damnation we all rolled up at Grove Park, lured by the promise of a nail-biting contest... presumably followed by a nose-picking contest and the unsubstantiated rumour that there may be sausage baps.

A SHORT TREATISE ON SAUSAGES
(excerpt taken from the Journal of Neurosurgery, November 2013)

Women’s brains are hard-wired for sausage, Manchester Rugby Club have discovered. When one U13s mum wrote on her social network page that she’d “swapped a hefty, chunky Cumberland Sausage for my first-born” the club quickly moved to issue a statement offering the following guidance: “If you’re ever on the touchline and you accidentally move between a Manchester U13s Gran and a sausage you should drop to the floor, curl up in a tight ball and lie perfectly still. It won’t save you, but at least there might be some bits left to put in a coffin.”

The teams lined up. To the right, our battle-hardened boys, the living embodiment of Leonidas’ 300 Spartans at Thermopylae. Standing in the mud at the side of the pitch I knew that leaving my son in the lost property bin beneath the Shop window at age seven for the Manchester coaches to teach him discipline, athletics, survival skills, hunting, weapons training and how to endure the pain was the right choice, and glancing about me, I knew other parents felt the same. After all, many of us had abandoned them on a hillside for the wolves several years earlier anyway and were frankly amazed that they’d survived that!

Standing between them and glory were the Dads. Not the most edifying of spectacles at the best of times. I mean, if all those people were born in the same village, you’d blame a toxic chemical spill, wouldn’t you?

I had arrived in time to see what appeared to be a spirited ‘Haka’ by the Dads but was in reality just a desperate attempt to stave off the ravages of time, angina and a single case of blue tongue disease that must have found a way to jump species...

FIRST HALF
The match final began with a clever short punt by one of the Lads. It was, in all honesty, surprisingly well fielded by one of the dads, who unsure of what to do with it pumped the ball into touch, which left the expectant wives asking whether there was a pair of quick hands or a brain between their husbands. Indeed, it was the sort of jaw dropping stupidity that makes you wonder if they actually know how to breathe in and out.

Amazingly they managed to steal the Lads line-out, but then a dad gifted possession back to the boys with a bizarre knock-on: in plenty of space, he had the ball in his hands and simply flung it forward.

The boys began to crank up the pace and power which had the dads reeling. Through desperate defence - including one heroic double handed tap from a flailing parent who miraculously evolved a new blowhole in the process - they simultaneously halted the youngsters’ charge just inches short of the try line and provide final proof of Darwin’s theory of evolution. Great work asphyxiating fella!

There was a pause in play as one of the dads received treatment for reaction time. Was this welcome breather tactical? It certainly meant that the dads returned to the fray, with four minutes gone on the clock, with the bounce back in their step. They made this break count with a wonderful surge by one of their team, who scampered across the gain line, side-stepped past one boy before he offloaded in the tackle to a gasping team mate struggling to keep up, who swearing under his breath, stuck his head down, drove for the whitewash and, under pressure from a swarm of U13s boys, planted the ball right in the corner! But was his left foot in touch? The video referee was asked to adjudicate. Oooh the tension!

“Try” announced the ref, bringing furious boos and veiled threats about withholding stuff I hadn’t heard of from the crowd.

The second try for the dads was just as controversial. Despite over a dozen double-handed touches a dad sped off, cradling the ball like a new born, close to the touchline and within raised pitchfork distance of the baying mob. He still had a lot to do though, but a huge hand off allowed him to scoot around the opposition player on the outside and dot down.

From the kick off there was some enterprising stuff from the boys, who tossed the ball around and, after after one of them dropped his shoulder and rolled a desperate challenge, forced their way into the opposition 22. There were more scenes of unrest with an effigy of one of the dads torn apart by the increasingly maddening crowd as the dads were unpunished for an illegal, and senseless, block deep within their own half. The lads riposte was courageous and mordant, as they chewed up the ground once more and penetrated the 22. One brave U13 earned some hard yards before recycling the ball to a waiting team mate. But two of the dads combined forces to bowl him to the ground and the ball squirted loose to safety. And with that play the referee blew for the end of the half.

Overall thoughts for this period were that haunted French pancakes give me the crepes.

Stats for this quarter are as follows: The boys had no hypertension whilst the dads had three cases, losing one. The boys developed several successful rolling mauls whilst the dads developed weird skin blotches, hair loss and impotence. The lads had five penalties but only half the dads had any shred of dignity left. Stats showed that in this first period the ball got out to the wing seven times and there were nine nervous breakdowns.

Dads 10 Lads 0

SECOND HALF
With just half an hour to go before they could pull on some comfortable cords, crack open a four-pack of Carlsberg, listen to their Sting albums and face death with dignity, the dads stumbled and groaned their way on to the park once more. “God help us if there’s ever a war.” I thought to myself bitterly.

A scuffed kick from the previous generation was superbly caught by a Manchester U13s player who set off at the gallop and what a stunning run it was! Superb break! He was eventually hauled down 15 metres out due to a combination of last man tagging and a pact with the devil but that was absolute class from the lad. He danced through the whole Dads team, it seemed. The pressure was still on. The mesmerising move from the Lads was finished off by a wonderful decoy run from two players leaving the Dads defence in disarray. The move ended with one of the boys sprinting over for a wonderfully-worked try.

From the kick off one of the boys made a cracking carry into the Dads half. The U13s were really on the front foot now, gradually advancing towards their parents 22 line and were certainly looking the more pumped up of the two sides this half.

We were then treated to one of the great Manchester U13s tries of the season! A lad sprinted down the far touchline taking the ball to the Dads 10-metre line, beating three men then had a one-on-one with a coach, absolutely skinning him to cruise over into the corner. Two tries apiece, game on.

Oh my word. Oh. My Word. Another breathtaking counter from the lads straight after the restart sparked by a quick series of passes which finally found a waiting U13. He streamed upfield, running most of the length of the pitch down the line before drawing a dad perfectly and flicking a short pass to a supporting teammate. The player took the ball past what turned out to be his own father and scooted over for a quite remarkable score. The match had been turned on its head. It was all Lads now thanks to that sportsman’s friend: momentum.

There was another break in play for those that needed to use an oxygen tent to do so. I glanced down the line at the row of mums, concern in their eyes as they read and re-read their spouse’s life insurance policies. Snatches of conversation drifted down to me as calls were made to Saga, Age UK insurance and a precautionary one to check her husband’s Co-op Funeral Plan:
“It appears my husband’s made history by becoming the first rugby player to get the bends... Is he covered?”
“I think it’s his hamstring. Am I okay to have him put down. What!!! They do it with race horses.”
“We could split the money 50-50...”

Overall thoughts for this period were that who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong, except maybe for all those police officers, the high court judge, and a horrified jury of your peers.

Stats for this period are as follows: The boys passed well whereas most of the dads were well past their expiry dates.

Dads 10 Lads 15

THIRD HALF

So as the dads took to the field a man down with one of the pack finding religion and currently having visions on the cricket pitch, the boys began to control the tempo, keeping the ball moving neatly around the centre of the pitch, looking for a gap in the defence. Try four started with a great pass from a melee in the middle of the pitch for the onrushing player to run through the centre of the Dads defence and score. Next from a Lads penalty (given for overuse of medieval torture techniques in a maul) the ball was swiftly passed out to the wing for a player to sprint quickly down the touch line and score the U13’s fifth of the match. Try six was the result of another foray deep in the Dads half. The ball was fed into the centre of the pitch where an U13’s boy crashed through to ground the ball.

The game (like some of the dads) should have been dead and buried by now, but remarkably (and possibly dangerously) back came the lost generation. The boys were now firmly ensconced in the opposition half, but a scrawpy and probably impossible (without the use of performance enhancing drugs) move saw a short pass to a dead on his feet dad who, catching the lads napping, charged and forced his way over the line in the corner. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard of a lifespan.

Three more very dubious tries for the wizened ones followed. Is rendition legal in the laws of rugby?

As the game tottered and wheezed towards a draw a lad suddenly spotted daylight (or a rip in one of the dads shorts) and threw a wide pass to a player on the 10-metre line and the winger exploded into action, roasting the Dads defence and handing off a poor attempted tackle by one of the coaches before touching down over the line. What a try! “Jiminy Crickets!” I yelled “That was Beta Test! He hasn’t even played rugby for two years!” Forgetting myself, I hugged the wife. “Yes” said Mrs Statto, as she released my hand from her steel-tooth capped jaws. “But he does have psychopathic tendencies.”

FINAL SCORE
Dads 30 Lads 35

So what did we learn from all this? To the winners the spoils, to the losers defibrilators.