SEASON OPENER JAPANESE STYLE
I arrived home a little after 5.00 and rang the restaurant number. I knew it by heart. There was no wait. Good. It was 30 minutes to the kick off. I was in Moonee Ponds but the other half of our mortgage commitment partnership was in a taxi negotiating the wee Auckland traffic. She would keep me updated via the ubiquitous mobile phone. The tension made me ravenous. I could have eaten a wing-back. Well, maybe not.
I ordered Sushi, Hosomaki and Ebi, home delivered. Thirty minutes the restaurant said. Thirty minutes to the kick off too. My insides lurched. I just had to have a beer.
The start of any new season must be like landing on an alien planet. You know where you come from but have no idea where you are going. No amount of planning can fully prepare you for the unknown. Before I reached the age of seven my training on the terraces at West Brom had ensured that I would never take anything for granted, would accept any favourable outcome brokered by the soccer-gods with gratitude, and, in short, would forever understand the true meaning of insecurity. Funny that, but when I think about it, maybe Woody Allen grew up at the Hawthorns too. I opened another beer. Ten minutes to the kick off. I tried to imagine the scene in Auckland, but gave up and drank the beer.
The food arrived and I eased the tension by playing with it. (The food, thank you.) Japanese food comes in convenient little morsels; slices of fish (I won't tell you they're raw just in case you have a dodgy tummy), little parcels of rice wrapped in sea-weed (yes, sea-weed), sliced, pickled ginger. The plate was wee North Harbour Stadium. (I concede there should have been some wee chups to go with the wee fush but alas there wussent.)
I arranged the Hosomaki in defence; Deano in goal, wee Douglas, Deans, and a big piece for McPherson. Actually, McPherson was too big, I decided, so I cut a little bit off and made Joey Tricarico. The nastiest piece of fish I could find I reserved for Stabber, the craziest for Lubo (I am certain that Lubo is the lost Marx Brother). Who would Munro play up front?
While I pondered I ate Deano with just a smidgen of a condiment that's greener than Angie Motswhatever and hotter than Della Rocca at a girls' night out. There was one slice of seaweed with a wistful far-off look about it, but the hint of a striking finish; I lined Alex up in the central striking position. (Clever that). I suppose I should have had a kipper, or a cockle or winkle, or even a jellied eel for Slates, but a silky-smooth looking prawn had to do.
The phone rang. I'd been having so much fun I'd lost track of the time. It was she who is never wrong. "Twenty six minutes, Moriera." she said "How? What sort of a goal?" I stuttered. "Dunno, actually I was at the toilet."
I successfully fought back the temptation to tell her to stay there. Better not. While Lyn was several thousand Ks away, she was coming home eventually. I said nothing, but I stroked Alex Livingstone Seaweed affectionately with my fork.
"Ronaldo has been many things, Alex," I said, "but you take the fish-cake today."
Dixie Deans tasted good with a sliver of ginger pickle. Another beer. Another phone call. "Moriera again,Ó Lyn screamed, "he's gone crazy and I saw this one. Through ball from wee Akers.Ó
I took advantage of the half time break to open another beer. Then I lined up Stabber for a brush with my epiglottis but heeding the look he gave me, opted for Tricarico. He would never satisfy my hunger but after Tricarico negotiated his way around my epiglottis I'd never have trouble with pronunciation again. As it turned out it was lucky I'd spared Stabber.
"Just into the second half," Lyn beamed (I could hear her beaming), "Marth just got a touch to the ball." I had visions of a Kingz player dead from squirrel-gripping Stabber, then I realised what she meant.
Piece by piece, wee Akers by Archie, Conroy by wee Douglas, the food disappeared. When Lyn rang to say: "No score, but they've just brought on Jonesy" the wee North Harbour plate lay bare. "Jonesy," I yelled, full of emotion, "you're back, son." And I lined up roast beef, pickle and mustard on triple-decker sandwich bread and opened two bottles of beer. That would do for starters. What a mouth-watering opening to the new season.
Go Blues.
Bluie Stewie.
