OFF THE BENCH AND INTO CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE!
IS THERE a finer mode of human contact than the trusty slap on the back?
You can keep your handshake, there's nothing momentous about that old-timer.
The hug is over-rated and can lead to all sorts of problems down the line.
The piggy back is far too exuberant, while the ‘too cool for school’ high five went out with ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel Air’.
The manly shoulder in jest is fine I suppose, providing both parties are of an even weight and approaching the contact on level ground, and the congratulatory slap on the buttocks will do if you're stuck and only at the correct moment. Trust me on this, you don’t want to slap someone’s buttocks at the wrong moment. I’ve been there. I know.
But there is nothing as beneficial to your health, or as boosting to your confidence, as the old celebratory slap on the back.
On Friday night I received a few of them, you see. Oh yes, quite a few. Such drama unfolded at the Junior championship match, you wouldn't believe.
But, where to start, where to start this tale of heroics and heartbreak?
Well, where better to begin our little tale than at the lowest point.
I picked up an injury early in the week. Nothing to be too concerned about I hear you say, seeing as the good old 'Gaz' and the boys forgot that I was even at the last game.
But it was a nasty little injury, a muscular complaint and it occurred at a time you wouldn't imagine an injury should occur.
If there are young children reading they should look away now, given the horror of the details to follow (only joking, there’s no horror).
It was late at night and I climbed wearily into my bed next to my sleeping wife. I flicked through a few pages of my Cormac McCarthy novel before giving in and turning off the light.
A handful of tosses and turns later I found a pleasant position with my right arm outstretched underneath my head (that sounds weird but, trust me, it's not).
And away I go to sleep, to dream about getting my position back in goals and playing a starring role in my club's championship ambitions.
Umpteen hours later I'm woken by a child looking to invade the bed and without even moving I know there's damage.
I'm stuck, welded to the bed, not because of drool from a gaping mouth, but because the muscles in my shoulder are cramped and paralysed.
The child ignores my moans and groans and he climbs over me to the warm centre of the bed. ‘Push over, Daddy,’ he demands. ‘I'm hurt,’ I replied, ‘possible ligament damage,’ I whisper.
‘Push over, Daddy,’ he said more forcefully, ignoring my pleas.
I force my arm out from under me, oohing and aahing with admirable restraint, I felt, but all I heard was a tut tutting sound from the wife and a hurtful giggle from the child.
I suffered through the pain barrier in the days that followed, forcing myself to stretch in the office to ease the pain and to see if my colleagues would make any inquiries as to what the problem was.
Not a single question regarding my health, not so much as a glance in my direction.
But, not to worry, I'll remember that when my coleagues pull out the next three-minute phone video clip of ‘Junior’ laughing for the entire office to view as deadline approaches. I don't forget things like that.
So Friday rolls around and I arrive at the pitch for the game and decide to check in with our physio, David.
Unfortunately though, I have to give way to the starting players so the only slot I can get is when 'Goose' is giving the team talk in the dressing-room but still, it was nice to have the tense muscles kneaded and crushed and grinded.
‘You'll need a lot of work on that,’ said David, a qualified physiotherapist with years of experience. I repeat: ‘You'll need a lot of work on that,’ he said.
The game begins. We start like a train. 3-3 to very little after 15 minutes. Then we fade slightly but finish decently and at half-time we're looking good for the quarter-final spot.
Second-half is on and the bench is quite comfortable, gumshields safely tucked into the smelly sock, and John is playing a blinder.
And then something happens. He gathers a high ball, moves to clear but slips, manages to get the ball away and, amazingly, the referee blows for a penalty. Nobody could understand why.
John protests, as you do, and seconds later the referee flashes a red card high into the evening air.
‘Noooooooooooooo,’ I shout, as the whole world starts to move in slow motion.
Some of the subs start pointing for me to take to the field. I'm fumbling for the gumshields in the sock. I can hear the crowd in the stand above us yelling ‘Come on, Breno, get in there,’ and ‘now, Breno, now’ (some people actually laughed, as if my sporting demise is for public entertainment or something. Oh wait.....) and the ‘Chariots of Fire’ music is filling my head as I take to the field, skipping over the well-cut grass with all the rhythm and grace of a randy bull.
I meet a distraught John halfway along and shake his hand. The man is confused and reminds me of myself after having that one drink too many and suddenly you can't speak anymore but you can make weird noises and you know what direction you want to walk in but your legs can't understand the commands from your brain. He was that confused.
The penalty kicker has lined up the shot as I reach the goal line. 'Beefy' is sacrificed for me (I'll be getting no more jellies on the subs’ bench then).
I jump up and slap the crossbar with both hands (not sure why, seemed perfectly logical at the time, seems very odd now that I think of it in the cold light of day) and then stand and try make myself look as big as possible and not in an overweight ‘Jesus, you’ve let yourself go’ kind of way, more in the ‘Conan the Barbarian’ sort of way.
He steps up and strikes and I guess right but the ball tips my fingers and hits the back of the net.
And then we proceed to collapse. We drop off the men as if they were farting with abandon. We allow them to run at us time and time again. And they're going for goal, oh yes, they're going for goal.
And there's 'Da Breno', diving this way and that, accidentally getting in the way of a shot or two, shouting and roaring and barking and barracking and, after a long 25 minutes, the referee finally blows his whistle and we're through.
And there's slaps on the backs and there's high fives and buttock slaps and manly shoulders and firm handshakes and congratulatory nods of heads all round.
And then there's John, poor, poor John.
Like the pure gent and friend that he is, he offers his congratulations, but he's hurting, and why wouldn't he be?
I shake his hand, slap him on the buttocks, ruffle his hair like a big brother, but it's a lonely place to be, made all the more difficult because of the absolute ridiculousness of the decision.
There'll be an appeal against the card and, if successful, the bauld John, with his socks pulled up to his belly button, will man the line again as we embark on the quarterfinal journey in two weeks.
If the appeal fails, then I'll need to be ready and in ship-shape form so that means no more outrageous sleeping positions until the championship is over.
But, even if I never get back on the line, I'll always remember that game on Friday night, the drama, the tension, and the few slaps on the back afterwards.
You just can't beat a good slap on the back every now and again.
As the lad says ‘it's better than a kick in the …..’.