Well here's your match report chickers
The squeaky wheel getskicked, so when I kept harping about where Chico's match reports
were, the admin basicallysaid, “Do one yourself or shut up.”
Me: “I can't see thematch tonight”
Admin: “That shouldn'tmatter.”
Well, it probably wont matter either that I not only am going to write the match
report without having seenthe match, I don't even know the result or
where it was played.
Who cares? Which isprobably Dyche's pre-match speech. I know I don't
care, heck, it's only theMilk Cup or whatever and the final is always
Chelsea V Sam's PestControl United, takes place during the non-existent
month of February, soindeed, who cares if the match report is written
by a recovering alcoholic who doesn't even know what happened for the last fifty years of his
life let alone the last two hours at Goodison (?) on a Tuesday night
I do know this: Dyche saidt here is a lot of sickness affecting the club for tonight
and I know it ain't“Everton Fever.” A bunch of players probably just caught the
nausea the fans have developed en-masse, so we're going to have
a starting lineup of guys that failed to avoid eye contact with Dyche before
the match
Well, we kicked off before an empty stsadium except for some old fan cardboard cutouts
from the Glory Era of Covid. Dyche was on the touchline in his traditional
hangover green, and rightoff yelling at a bunch of kids whose names
he didn't even know. Infact, I think the only player on the pitch
he knew was Keene, AshleyYoung being rested for his big red card bid this weekend
These nondescript Everton players were following the script of the regular team and were at each others throats
from the get-go, misplaying passes, losingthe ball, and passing backward from attacking
positions to their own goalie
Southampton's game plan seemed to be “Trot around the pitch and see what happens,” and
3 minutes from halftime, something did. Keene passed across goal to some big
scruff who wasn't expecting the ball, or was, but wasn't very interested. It rolled into he path of a Saint's player
who looked like the equipment manager had dug him out of a macky-d's bin scrounging for burgers, but this kid rocketed the ball home past the keeper.
The Everton players, hands on hips, waited for the boos, but the wind whistled,
the cardboard cutouts smiled, and the Public Address lip-synced the
name of the scoring Saint
Second Half
The Saint's kicked off and quickly found themselves up by two goals. I imagine
there was a shot, a rebound, and the goalie and Keene yelled “Yours!” at
each other until it was safely claimed by the back of the net
With a two-goal deficit and the half barely begun I knew it would be 87 minutes
before we would see Beto come on. The camera caught DCL on the bench
smiling handsomely, hair in the newest braids and texting his agent or photographer
Dyche stopped going through the “want ads” long enough to put
Ashley Young into the game to solidify the defence and Jack Harrison came on for some reason or another.
With two minutes left and hope fading while Dysche's hangover tan grew
greener, Beto came out and dutifully chased the ball around in the Saint's
end, got hold of it and let loose a slow roller that worked its
way forward like a fatigued mole before dying at their bemused keeper's feet.
The whistle blew threetimes, Dysche licked his thumb and
looked around like Joe Biden at an international presser, and a
cardboard cut out fell over onto the pitch where a steward
kicked it in the face before stuffing it in the trash
There's the FA Cup to lookforward to. That's the real one, lar.
were, the admin basicallysaid, “Do one yourself or shut up.”
Me: “I can't see thematch tonight”
Admin: “That shouldn'tmatter.”
Well, it probably wont matter either that I not only am going to write the match
report without having seenthe match, I don't even know the result or
where it was played.
Who cares? Which isprobably Dyche's pre-match speech. I know I don't
care, heck, it's only theMilk Cup or whatever and the final is always
Chelsea V Sam's PestControl United, takes place during the non-existent
month of February, soindeed, who cares if the match report is written
by a recovering alcoholic who doesn't even know what happened for the last fifty years of his
life let alone the last two hours at Goodison (?) on a Tuesday night
I do know this: Dyche saidt here is a lot of sickness affecting the club for tonight
and I know it ain't“Everton Fever.” A bunch of players probably just caught the
nausea the fans have developed en-masse, so we're going to have
a starting lineup of guys that failed to avoid eye contact with Dyche before
the match
Well, we kicked off before an empty stsadium except for some old fan cardboard cutouts
from the Glory Era of Covid. Dyche was on the touchline in his traditional
hangover green, and rightoff yelling at a bunch of kids whose names
he didn't even know. Infact, I think the only player on the pitch
he knew was Keene, AshleyYoung being rested for his big red card bid this weekend
These nondescript Everton players were following the script of the regular team and were at each others throats
from the get-go, misplaying passes, losingthe ball, and passing backward from attacking
positions to their own goalie
Southampton's game plan seemed to be “Trot around the pitch and see what happens,” and
3 minutes from halftime, something did. Keene passed across goal to some big
scruff who wasn't expecting the ball, or was, but wasn't very interested. It rolled into he path of a Saint's player
who looked like the equipment manager had dug him out of a macky-d's bin scrounging for burgers, but this kid rocketed the ball home past the keeper.
The Everton players, hands on hips, waited for the boos, but the wind whistled,
the cardboard cutouts smiled, and the Public Address lip-synced the
name of the scoring Saint
Second Half
The Saint's kicked off and quickly found themselves up by two goals. I imagine
there was a shot, a rebound, and the goalie and Keene yelled “Yours!” at
each other until it was safely claimed by the back of the net
With a two-goal deficit and the half barely begun I knew it would be 87 minutes
before we would see Beto come on. The camera caught DCL on the bench
smiling handsomely, hair in the newest braids and texting his agent or photographer
Dyche stopped going through the “want ads” long enough to put
Ashley Young into the game to solidify the defence and Jack Harrison came on for some reason or another.
With two minutes left and hope fading while Dysche's hangover tan grew
greener, Beto came out and dutifully chased the ball around in the Saint's
end, got hold of it and let loose a slow roller that worked its
way forward like a fatigued mole before dying at their bemused keeper's feet.
The whistle blew threetimes, Dysche licked his thumb and
looked around like Joe Biden at an international presser, and a
cardboard cut out fell over onto the pitch where a steward
kicked it in the face before stuffing it in the trash
There's the FA Cup to lookforward to. That's the real one, lar.