Carshalton

It’s more difficult to reckon it out in the immediate aftermath of a Monday night game when one isn’t feigning abstemiousness and is just enjoying a night local with pals and the game and a pint.

I’m looking at the words behind me for underlined wisdom, the automation of telling me I’m wrong. Misdirected thumbs, nothing more.

It’s one oh four. The Stripes degenerated me this evening, challenged me to go up against the actual important things and spend time chatting wham with other man who share this borderline unhealthy fixation.

The Stripes on a Monday vs a team we can’t beat in a cup we can’t win. Spoiler alert- we win neither the cup nor the tie. Spoil it alert- we gave neither an inch or a fuck.

Here, here are the men that we wanted. Imperfect but thirsty. There was our goal, their mistake capitalised upon, our lead. There was their equaliser, distant in the cold night of Surrey suburbia. We cared not a jot.

There was Mario, scoring. There was Nate Best, being the guy we want him to be. There was Blake, dear Blake, who will become a man whose name we’ll chant in the Bog End. Doing his work.

Look, I’m meant to be in bed. These words are written illicitly. Here we are.

Tonight is the minimum. Tonight is lads taking on the mantle. It’s men saying “we know what you want, here it is- or our best version of it.”

It’s Dom Ash. It’s Callum Porteous apologising. Brother, no. Don’t apologise for your best efforts, for your straining. It isn’t necessary. It’s Nate Best telling me, to my face, that the goals are coming. Nate, after your last two games, when you say these things I believe you.

After tonight, I believe them all.

Marcus, Sid, Mario, Nate, you all-

I believe you.

I believe you boys.

Fuck Carshalton.

Get us up that league x

📸 Tim Marcus