In football parlance I was 'Over the Moon'. In reality I was ecstatic! We'd done it! The small team that I managed had actually made it to the Final of the Intermediate London Football Association County Cup. OK, so we weren't going to be playing at Wembley and we probably wouldn't even get a mention on National TV, but locally we were heroes. I'd been interviewed by the local newspaper and the amount of support and sponsorship that we'd got from local people and businesses was truly heart-warming.
In the Semi-Final we'd beaten a team three divisions above us, it had been a close run thing, I had no fingernails left but we'd done it and now we were in the Final. Our opponents would be easy meat, they were only two divisions above us, or so the local rag would have it. We would be playing in a real stadium, one with stands rather than an open, windswept field and we'd been promised lots of local support on the day.
Our league form hadn't been good, we were mid-table and although we weren't going to be relegated neither were we going to get promoted, and it was looking like a mediocre season for us. Then we'd gone on a cup run, the like of which happened to someone every few years, beating a succession of bigger teams, everyone in the team pulling more than their weight. Of course I was only the manager, the lads had done me proud. When I say 'lads' what I really meant was 'lassies'. Upper Merton United were a ladies team, derided by most of the footballing world but heroes to their families and friends.
How did I, a forty something, divorced father of two young men get to be manager of such a team? Chance of course. I had played football to quite a good standard in my youth until dodgy knees from too many dodgy tackles had forced me to hang up my boots, then my sons had followed me into the game and my wife and I had stood on freezing touchlines watching them as under tens get thrashed 16-0 week in, week out in the local Cubs league.
When they got too old for that we had formed our own club to play in local teen leagues and as a former player I had been made Head Coach (actually only coach), was put in charge of putting up and taking down the nets, and my wife made the corner post flags. We enjoyed a little success, but mostly it was done for the pure enjoyment of watching them enjoy playing.
Neither one was particularly good, but they progressed until they left school and headed off to university when basically the whole team collapsed, most of the others following them, the rest finding that wine, women and song were preferable to freezing your nuts off every Sunday morning. And so I retired, looking forward to less stressful weekends, Sunday morning lie-ins, perhaps taking up something where I could satisfy my own wishes.
It didn't quite work out like that, my wife and I split up, perhaps it was just the kids holding us together, perhaps it was 'me not you' and perhaps we'd just fallen out of love. We were still friends, still saw each other around, had the odd drink and family time with our boys but we were officially not 'together' any more.
Then one of the Mums from the boys' former team approached me. She played football for the local ladies side, a struggling team that bounced up and down divisions going nowhere in particular. "Would I be interested in managing them?" she asked.
"Definitely not." I replied, and two days later I was being introduced to the rest of the team. I'd never been known for my strong will, and was actually a founder member of the Easily Led Club.
I watched a few of their matches, and saw that actually they had some promise, one or two of the players were quite good, notably their Captain and main striker, Jenny and their goalkeeper Sally, both attractive blondes. In between was a mixture, but what they seemed to have in abundance was enthusiasm and a will to work. And work we did. I introduced twice weekly training sessions, much to the annoyance of various husbands and boyfriends, and in a couple of cases, wives and girlfriends, and slowly we got better. I learnt about periods and sports bras, I was used to teen boys developing two left feet for a year or so as their bodies outgrew them, but some of the women developed two left feet every month and that had to be factored into team selection.
They were great about it though, they all accepted me as their manager without question and even made me feel like an honorary lady occasionally. Of course I had to be careful, I couldn't just wander round the changing room as I had been used to, much as I'd have loved to, and when an injury occurred on the field I always made sure another female was in close attendance as I waved the magic spray over the affected area.
I swear they taunted me a bit as well, on numerous occasions I had to avoid looking up the legs of shorts at the often skimpy panties that they sometimes wore, returning to pitch-side with the beginnings of an erection from the sight of errant pubic hairs, or even on one memorable occasion an outer labia that had escaped the gusset. But by and large it worked and then came the cup run, and I was not only a local hero, but their hero. There seemed no effort that they were unwilling to put in and now we were in the final.
We tried to leave nothing to chance, we were playing in a stadium about 50 miles away and had booked rooms in a hotel for the night of the match, a dinner had been arranged for the players and partners afterwards, win or lose this was a huge achievement for the club and we were going to celebrate it. A new strip was bought by a local business man in exchange for having his company name emblazoned across the chest of the players. Best place to get maximum publicity I told him. Champagne was purchased and a coach arranged to take us from the hotel and back the day of the match.
On the field we practiced corners, free kicks, even penalties and finally I thought we were ready. One question stumped me though, at our final training session the Thursday before the match on Saturday I was asked, "What about sex? Can we have sex the night before the match?"
I looked at a sea of expectant faces and decided to make light of it. "Of course you can, but I can probably only manage two or three of you!" We broke up to huge laughter, the question still unresolved.
All went like clockwork, we were at the stadium in plenty of time, the players all went into their changing room and I was allocated a share of the Officials' changing room. The opposing manager was a lady so she had the advantage of being with her players during the build-up, I had to rely on the natural leaders in the team. Then the whistle blew and it all started to go wrong.
Simply we were being outclassed, not playing as I knew we could and we were soon one goal down, then a second. We rallied a bit and kept it to that at half time. Fuck propriety I thought, I needed to be with my players and went back with them to their changing room. How was I going to play the half time talk? I could try the Alex Ferguson hair dryer approach, I could try my best Churchillian speech.
