Fluke is not just the name of a fish

Midway through the second half of today’s title showdown, one of the opposing players sets off on the type of mazy, self-indulgent dribble that I absolutely despise and have successfully coached out of my own team. Dropping his shoulder, swiveling his hips, he beats, one, two, three, four and, finally, five of my boys before he curls the ball into the top corner from the edge of the penalty box. A total fluke! There’s no way he meant to do that. I don’t mind losing but not to a freakish accidental strike like this.

For the rest of the game, we press and press but our task is made difficult by their cynical tactics. Unbelievably, they start time-wasting all over the place. Their players go down with fake injuries any time we look like we might attack. Clearances out of their defense tend to go for miles so that the ball takes forever to come back. I’m stunned. Not just at how difficult they are making it for us but how well-coached they are. The guy in the charge of them has left no stone unturned. Talk about me being hoist by my own petard!

At the finish, I shake the other coach's hand and compliment him on a job well done. Then I shake the hand of every one of their players. Of course, I make a production of shaking the hand of their goalscorer, a diminutive kid with a faux hawk.

‘Nice goal kid,’ I say as I clasp his hand in mine.

‘Thanks coach,’ he says, the sweat making the hair gel drip down his forehead.

‘If you take that shot a thousand more times, kid, you miss every one of them,’ I continue. ‘That was a total fluke!’

He starts laughing. That’s how fresh some of these kids are. They can’t take a constructive critique. Then, I walk over to where my own disconsolate team is standing and try to figure out whether to start by berating the goalkeeper or the defenders.