Phoenix +10, Loyalists 2: The Official Match Report

Good evening.

Perplexed by the final score in Sunday’s disappointing loss to the football club named (horribly so, might I add) “Phoenix”, I, Sir Grufflehahm Oxshire, lament to write that I have been so over come with despair that I have been unable to give a proper recap of what could have been a glorious victory for the lads an evening ago. Even now, as I attempt to sip my Toth & Bridge tea, the usual sweet accent of honey, that I add to liven up my last cup of the day, brings about a pointedly bitter bite causing my face to contort in spasms of decidedly extraordinary distress.

Numb yet with apparently hyper sensitive taste buds, I sit in my study slumping in my favorite worn leather chair, given to my father by the great Lanscroft B. Fellows of Summerset on Walrum. Usually, it is in this place I oft come to find solitude in trying times.

And indeed these are trying times. For an eve ago, I witnessed a match in which the royal blue coated Loyalists looked primed for victory against a team that outmatched them position by position on the pitch. And yet against impossible odds, our proud men stood strong and tall… just as Nelson did against the French fleet at Trafalgar… and put up a worthy fight.

Well deserving of the highest praise was Loyalist Carlos, who faced an onslaught of firepower from the men of Phoenix (whose name I must again point out remains one of the poorest in all of football). Shot after shot, Carlos dove, kicked and smashed away like a man possessed in a raging tempest. It was only during a regrettable and terribly unfortunate run of 5 back-to-back goals, did the ill-named Phoenix crack the seemingly impenetrable Loyalists goal.

And as went 5 goals, so did another, until the score line became better recognizable as a bakers dozen, plus some.

Oh dear friends, I moan at the thought of the final score! Woe… is the pain unbearable. +10 against, 2 for.

I am certain that it is in the enormous variance between goals scored “for” and “against” that the world press will snatch upon this story, and declare the Loyalists “all fancy, and no skill.” But one must understand that the tale of Sunday’s match is truly one of more triumph than disaster.

Of principle note, the great Prince Phillip the Bee scored a thumping goal with hardly any time spent in the match, Earl Brian “the bearded one” roared terrifying shots all evening (scoring one that nearly shredded the netting), and Lord Mark of Birchwood Manor maintained a pit bull-like command of the midfield for long glorious spells. I shall not overlook the contributions of the others… including Prince PJ the P, brother of Phillip the Bee, who was his unusual rhinoceros-self, thundering about the pitch with ferocity and making many of the men of insufferably-unimaginatively named Phoenix run screaming in terror. And then there was “the roman emperor” Franco who led the ladish Nicholas and Matt in defense of the Loyalists final third, forcing the field before them to become an epic battleground reminiscent of the no man’s land at Verdun.

Throughout the evening, these men fought hard like lions for Queen, country and the glory of Loyalists name.

May luck run its course for you on Wednesday.

Now I must retire and rest my weary head.