Five minutes to go until kick-off and still no sign of the opposition. My, ahem, slightly-amended directions may have caused them some problems. Not to mention I compound matters by accidentally turning my cell phone off so their coach can't contact me for assistance. The ref is standing in the center-circle, anxiously looking at his watch when a convoy of cars finally pulls in. Their players come streaming onto the field, cold, rushed and unprepared for the start of the game while I jog towards their coach.
‘What kept you guys?’ I ask in my best mock-sincere voice.
‘We must have taken a wrong turn,’ he replies.
‘Well, don’t worry, we aren’t going to start without you,’ I say, pretending to be jovial and friendly while slyly making a watch-tapping gesture for the referee’s benefit.
We score twice in the first ten minutes and our visitors never quite recover from the disarray of their arrival. Another day. Another victory. As we line up to shake hands with them at the final whistle, I’m muttering the words ‘well played, well played’ but battling to resist an overwhelming urge to shout: ‘If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.’ I mean, who doesn’t check the directions given by opposing teams?
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