Als een versleten, sputterende maar toch hoogst betrouwbare diesel trekken de dikke ballen zich weer op gang na het kerstintermezzo. Om het hoge oudezakkengehalte te illustreren, verwaardigde onze dirty ol’ English bastard Dave het zich om na lange afwezigheid nog ‘ns op te dagen.
Die heuglijke gebeurtenis – we waren zelf niet op de hoogte van ‘s mans last minute komst – was meer dan welkom. Naar aloude gewoonte stonden we 5 minuten voor aanvang van de wedstrijd wezenloos naast het veld te staren met vier man, zonder truitjes en zonder opwarming.
Intussen deed BOB Merlo aan psychologische oorlogsvoering, door de 9 of 10 Merloten lustig voor onze ogen te laten opwarmen. Gelukkig viel alles zoals wel vaker op z’n pootjes, en bewaarden we onze stoïcijnse kalmte tot aan het eerste fluitsignaal.
De sereniteit voor de wedstrijd maakte plaats voor een wilde klopjacht op de goal van BOB Merlo. Een helse slachtpartij ontspon zich naarmate de wedstrijd vorderde, waarbij Maurits en Efrem zich als vlijmscherpe instrumenten des doods leenden door chef-kokgewijs door het malse vlees van de Merlotiaanse goalie te snijden.
Maurits knalde zelfs een echt juweeltje uit z’n sloffen toen ie de score opende: een pegel in de linkerhaak vanuit een scherpe en onverwachte rechtse hoek. Achterin hield Beys over het algemeen een stevig slot op de deur, af en toe geholpen door een pienter keepende JP. Slechts op het eind dienden we twee ietwat ongelukkige tegengoals te incasseren, maar toen was het spel reeds gespeeld. Treffers van Matthias en zelfs old git Dave deden immers de rest, tot groot jolijt van onze Engelse mate die zich aldus in de Goalgetterslijst op gelijke hoogte met aartsrivaal Swinnen hijst.
Bon, al bij al een verdiende overwinning, daar zullen de meesten het over eens zijn.
It is true. There is a lot of bitching going on in these match reports, as a whole. Mildly remarkable, isn’t it? I wonder why the focus is so often on the negative. I would love to break that habit right now, and paint a flowery colourful portrait of the happy-go-lucky adventures of Dikken Bal in the spaciously limited halls of the Rue de la Roue (or Roue de la Rue or Rae de lo Rie), but I will not. This time, not an opponent lacking in fair play, or a pitch more suited for ice skating, or an awfully playing team of voluminous testicles was the issue. Rather, a feeling of having the referee as a second opponent to play against.
He made it quite easy on me, in writing this report. I don’t have to dive deep into the annals of Wednesday’s game to find something to bitch about. Mister Frownypants served me well and allowed me to comfortably stick to the chronology of the encounter, by making our first counter goal arguably the most contestable one we ever suffered. It starts as follows.
The ball crosses the line. On the side of the pitch, I mean. Out of bounds. Yup, guys, it’s out. Kick-in. Resume play. Bring the ball back to the point of departure, please, it has been kicked out. Ah, thanks f–BOOM, goal.
What, sorry? Nope, sir, surely not. The ball was out. A ball that is kicked into the goal after having been so far out of the pitch it probably had time to have a shower, a smoke and a drink in the cafeteria surely cannot qualify as scoring a point. Can it? The what? That term in the title? Must be something out of a science fiction novel, undoubtedly. You’re saying the ball was still in? Man, the last time I saw something so very “out” was my nuts out of my pants when your mother was licking them. (Haha, sorry guys.)
1-0 it was.
Unfortunately, we had another strike of het Zwevend Raakvlak some time later, when I took what was probably my best shot of the season: a ricochet off the top bar, bang, hard into the goal. We were already happily shuffling back to our side celebrating, when the beloved referee announced the ball had actually never crossed the line. Ugh.
And even there, it ends not. Some time later, I was the privileged witness to a first timer in my life: The referee provoking a player, rather than the opposite. I kid you not, dear reader. Our player had probably mildly scoffed at yet another ridiculous arbitrary decision. After this, he had made no discernible physical motion, let alone a grimacing of the face that could be interpreted as disrespectful. Still, it was too much to take for the referee, who inched closer and closer with his hand threateningly reaching for his chest pocket, which was probably ridden with yellow cards anxious to be used. All the while, he was performing the typical head motions of “eh? eh? you talkin’ to me?” one would indeed inspect around the area where we were playing, just not from a senior citizen in shorts. His complete lack of reason reminded me of a golden but terrifying scene in The Simpsons, where Mr Burns orders Smithers to “hop in” to the Spruce Moose.
All this random bickering and floundering and buzzcocking finally cost poor Steve a yellow card for a crime that, in all likelihood, did not outweigh the gravity of raising his eyebrow a millimetre too high.
Speaking of the game, then, which all in all does earn some attention. Jan-Pieter did an awesome job in the goal. It’s safe to say his gifted day provided us with the three pointer in the end. Pino did his usual magic, scoring three times, Efrem was solid as always and also scored one if I am not mistaken. Olivier shaked his fancy feet and Karel is growing to be a reliable part of the squad. I did my weekly laps of the pitch, but am happy to say that it was not all useless, since my annoying swiftness stole one goal away from our opponent’s nonchalant bits of play. Steve was actually playing quite well, until he was violently removed from play.
Thank you for a nice game, BOB Merlo, and for the invitation to grab a free beer. I shall hold my peace concerning the match leader, since I believe I spewed enough venom for one day.
This week’s game took place on home turf again. Metro Simonis! Tiny showers! Dikkenbal, ideal players arriving at the scene of the crime none too early! Me forgetting to take along match papers! In short, the usual pitfalls of a home game.
Not only did we miss our top goalgetter Pino that day, we had to do without JP in goal. Reluctantly, Swinnen took up the keeper’s gloves, and I did likewise in the second half. Luckily Efrem was in excellent shape. Bob Merlo, our unfortunate adversary, was faced with ‘the scourge of Koekelberg’ time and time again. To put it simple, Efrem was involved in most of the 8 goals we scored that day.
One can never be sure, but after their 8-2 defeat, I reckon Bob Merlo didn’t know whether to go bananas or to become as nutty as a fruitcake. Incidentally, the image below is pretty much the first Google Images result for ‘Bob Merlo’.
The proof is there people, Google is clairvoyant. It’s up to you to see what Google has in store for our next victims, de Vaartkapoentjes.
Alright, it’s been a while since there’s been new match reports, so here goes. Honouring old git Dave’s magnificent performance last night, I will be writing them in English. Well, my kind of English. Starting with:
Zuinige zeges
That’s not really English, is it? Just so no one has to head over to Google Translate for a pathetic interpretation of my exquisite alliteration, it means ‘We barely won’. I’m talking about the games versus BOB Merlo (5-6) and Skuadr Archipel (3-2). Both teams hang around in the lower regions of the league table, AND we had Bert as a confident back man in the goal, and still we only barely won the games. The points are in the bag anyway, so don’t let’s complain.
BOB Merlo 5 – 6 Dikken Bal, Ideal
Dikken Bal, Ideal 3 – 2 Skuadr Archipel
A fiver
Last night, five brave soldiers stood up strong against the Sanfing Knights in the pretty decent and slipperiness free Koekelberg playing hall. The opponents were a bunch of sometimes arrogant 19 to 20-year-olds, backed up by a remarkably self-ridiculing squad of cheerleaders and cheerfollowers. Bert worked his usual wonders in the goal, Olivier struggled through his cramps after a full game on the big pitch the day before, Maurits made a fine come back after a week or two of illness, I ran my weekly laps of the pitch–that is not to say our other players did not run well, it’s just that there’s not much else to say about my game plan–and David surprised us all by being a strong presence on the field for a good 45 minutes into the game. If ever anyone needed an example of the super powers that are unleashed after giving up the cigarette, look at brave Dave.
As Bert, our clear viewing observer from the back, pointed out after the game: even though we lost, it was one of our best games from a tactical point of view. The few counter goals were usually not easy to put to a hold and the reason Maurits and myself missed two crystal clear chances from about a meter from an open goal was undoubtedly to be found in our degree of fatigue. Pretty ridiculous nevertheless, so any laughs we take with pride.
Als een versleten, sputterende maar toch hoogst betrouwbare diesel trekken de dikke ballen zich weer op gang na het kerstintermezzo. Om het hoge oudezakkengehalte te illustreren, verwaardigde onze dirty ol’ English bastard Dave het zich om na lange afwezigheid nog ‘ns op te dagen.
Dikken Bal Monk 