Loan Wolves 25 - 21 triBold Titans
There is a fragmentary Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse, a bit of heroic battle poetry, sometimes called "The Fight at Finnsburh".
Inspired by this coincidence, and a conversation with Matt after the game on Wednesday, I composed the following yesterday, as a change from the usual match reports...
The Fight at Finsbury
Now let us listen to the story
Of Loan Wolves with the Titans at war!
TriBold were that tribe who travelled
To war with the Wolves who loan.
“Titans” they named themselves together
In shirts of white, with sleeves of steel.
Not willingly would Wolves let them pass;
In the rainstorm they stood ready,
At Finsbury Park was the pitch where they fought.
Some warriors from the win two weeks past
Remembered the reaving of Raiders Red.
Others were fresh to face their foemen,
Young players yearning for glory yet unknown.
Good was their war-gear for that gathering:
Bats for battle, with barrels bright,
Gloves of light and well-laced leather,
Shirts as gold as Summer sunset.
Blasebalk bore the captain’s burden,
Loan Wolves’ leader under leaden skies.
Mighty on the mound stood Manjiv,
Pitching proudly for her team.
Williams the Warrior wielded
His bat like a berserker’s axe.
Valiant Victoria for victory seeking,
Raced and ran throughout the field.
Grim stood Gareth taking guard,
Then lashed the ball long over Left Field.
Alison an assassin in orange
Took no prisoners tagging the foe.
Kevin the Cricketer was keen for the contest;
He sprinted bases at sprightly speed.
Faustina flew fleet as a falcon,
Skipping, screaming to the skies.
No mouse was Mavy in her moments
At bat or fighting in the field.
Matthew was Catcher, keen for glory,
Uplifter of hearts at a heavy hour.
Late came Alexander Allen,
Runner of bases and batter of ball.
Not silent was Paul on the sidelines,
Coaching and calling his commands.
Kate most cleverly kept the scorecard,
Clear-sighted and calm amid the chaos.
Julian, gentle of speech, was joyful
To see his fellows fight so well.
The two teams bravely rushed together,
Under the umpire’s eagle eye.
TriBold’s men hit both hard and heavy,
Home runs herding their heroes round.
Matched were the sides in might and main,
Grappling grimly on that green field.
Then nine runs in one noble inning
Gave golden Wolves a grip on the game.
From then both sides fought with fury,
As tempest tore across the tree tops
And black clouds gathered to see the close.
Though limbs grew weary, will grew stronger,
Until the last inning arrived
And TriBold tried to turn their fate.
Runs then did brave Titans race for,
Angrily attacking the pitches anew.
Yet fielders did not flag or fail,
Nor did tenacious Tigger tire -
Her last strike-out ended the strife.
Then merry were the Wolves in the mead hall,
Telling tales of the trial passed.
To Darren, doughty league director,
They made their boasts of battle won.
Loud were their victory songs, and long they laughed.
Late they stayed, drinking lager and ale -
In vodka they toasted that victory.
Inspired by this coincidence, and a conversation with Matt after the game on Wednesday, I composed the following yesterday, as a change from the usual match reports...
The Fight at Finsbury
Now let us listen to the story
Of Loan Wolves with the Titans at war!
TriBold were that tribe who travelled
To war with the Wolves who loan.
“Titans” they named themselves together
In shirts of white, with sleeves of steel.
Not willingly would Wolves let them pass;
In the rainstorm they stood ready,
At Finsbury Park was the pitch where they fought.
Some warriors from the win two weeks past
Remembered the reaving of Raiders Red.
Others were fresh to face their foemen,
Young players yearning for glory yet unknown.
Good was their war-gear for that gathering:
Bats for battle, with barrels bright,
Gloves of light and well-laced leather,
Shirts as gold as Summer sunset.
Blasebalk bore the captain’s burden,
Loan Wolves’ leader under leaden skies.
Mighty on the mound stood Manjiv,
Pitching proudly for her team.
Williams the Warrior wielded
His bat like a berserker’s axe.
Valiant Victoria for victory seeking,
Raced and ran throughout the field.
Grim stood Gareth taking guard,
Then lashed the ball long over Left Field.
Alison an assassin in orange
Took no prisoners tagging the foe.
Kevin the Cricketer was keen for the contest;
He sprinted bases at sprightly speed.
Faustina flew fleet as a falcon,
Skipping, screaming to the skies.
No mouse was Mavy in her moments
At bat or fighting in the field.
Matthew was Catcher, keen for glory,
Uplifter of hearts at a heavy hour.
Late came Alexander Allen,
Runner of bases and batter of ball.
Not silent was Paul on the sidelines,
Coaching and calling his commands.
Kate most cleverly kept the scorecard,
Clear-sighted and calm amid the chaos.
Julian, gentle of speech, was joyful
To see his fellows fight so well.
The two teams bravely rushed together,
Under the umpire’s eagle eye.
TriBold’s men hit both hard and heavy,
Home runs herding their heroes round.
Matched were the sides in might and main,
Grappling grimly on that green field.
Then nine runs in one noble inning
Gave golden Wolves a grip on the game.
From then both sides fought with fury,
As tempest tore across the tree tops
And black clouds gathered to see the close.
Though limbs grew weary, will grew stronger,
Until the last inning arrived
And TriBold tried to turn their fate.
Runs then did brave Titans race for,
Angrily attacking the pitches anew.
Yet fielders did not flag or fail,
Nor did tenacious Tigger tire -
Her last strike-out ended the strife.
Then merry were the Wolves in the mead hall,
Telling tales of the trial passed.
To Darren, doughty league director,
They made their boasts of battle won.
Loud were their victory songs, and long they laughed.
Late they stayed, drinking lager and ale -
In vodka they toasted that victory.