Game week 6 of this year’s League Of Ordinary Gowls saw the first of four (or maybe more, depending on playoffs) KavBowl showdowns, in which my brave, intrepid Aristocrats take on the rancid, depraved filth of my younger brother’s Jolly Rogers team. It had, thus far, been a decent start to the season for both, with the Rogers on a 5 game winning streak and topping the table. The Aristocrats, having succumbed to a shock defeat against Dean’s Old Republic, sat in second place in the table with a comfortable points difference buffer. With myself and my brother both having been founding members of our league, KavBowl victory was long established as one of the most coveted prizes in TLOOG. The added dimension this year was that victory was crucial for both sides – a win for me would put me top, neck and neck on points, whereas a win for Dermot would set him 6 points clear and still the only unbeaten side. The form was incredibly close, with the average weekly performance of the squads being just 2.3% in my favour.
And all that would have been that, if this was a normal non-draft league. But in TLOOG, there’s an old tradition of actively screwing each other over through ever-shifting and easily broken alliances. Some of these have lasted just a few weeks, before every coach’s instinctive desire to go it alone kicks in. Some, of yore, have not only lasted entire seasons but been formalised via paperwork. This one, though, this one I must admit came out of nowhere.
Of all the mistakes I’ve made across 11 seasons of draft, I forgot something crucial – Never Turn Your Back On Gary. Our reigning champion, thanks to getting hit by a Mateta hat-trick shaped bolt of lightning to defeat your humble author in the final (I’m totally over it), enjoys four things.
- Liverpool FC
- Masochism disguised as a crucifixion complex (see above)
- Dublin
- Messing with TLOOG, via what he calls “banana skins”.
And so, imagine my mild dismay as the message arrived calling an internal transfer. Gary, probably sore from either being totally adrift in lower mid table (or more likely having seen his Craggy Naggins beaten the previous week by the Aristocrats and the week before by…the Aristocrats), had sent one of his players to the Jolly Rogers in an utterly imbalanced trade, clearly meant to benefit him in no way whatsoever. Why? Because a stronger Rogers squad would have more chance against the Aristocrats.
And who was this player he was willing to give up? None other than Cole Palmer.
‘Fair enough’, I thought to myself, ‘that makes it more interesting’. Obviously, other thoughts like ‘Gary you bastard you’ll pay’ and ‘blood means nothing to my traitor of a brother’ passed through too, but mostly, having run the numbers, I was still pretty confident. Sure, Palmer is a top tier first round pick, but he hadn’t really been lighting up the sky with his points this season. In a quirk of fate, my beloved Brighton were Chelsea’s opponents. Surely they’d put up a good fight, away fixture or not.
For a while, they did, taking an early lead after just 7 minutes. And then, on the 21st minute, this happened:
…and the 28th minute…
…and the 31st minute…
…and the 41st minute…
…becoming the first ever player to score four goals in a Premier League match in the first half of the game, and delivering the highest individual game week in our league this season.
Because of course he did, on a free loan to barely win the KavBowl when there were actual top-of-table stakes. That’s how this league works. Football on the surface, data below that, but absolutely ruthless banter with your mates at the heart. Gary’s Craggy Naggins, of course, lost due to Palmer’s absence. But if you ask any man or woman of this league whether it’s worth losing your fixture to screw someone over? They’ll all say yes, every time. This week we play our second KavBowl of the season, and I can already smell the sulphuric whiff of collusion on the wind.
So what’s the lesson for prospective coaches? A great attacking midfielder can win you games, but nothing can ever prepare you for a well-placed banana skin.
Jimi Kavanagh
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