Caps 3 Old Timers 1

The late Bill Shankley, the man who made Liverpool great in the 60's and 70's, once said that "Football is not a matter of life and death; it is far more important than that". He may have been guilty of slight exaggeration, but when you consider the joy, the pure, feckless, unrestrained joy that a hard earned victory over a despised opponent brings then one has to agree that there was more than just a little merit to what the old maestro said. Rarely has this been more blatantly obvious than on Thursday night when a depleted Caps side vanquished the team that gives a whole new meaning to the term "bitter shower of angry bastards", the Palm Coast Old Timers.
Granted this wasn't exactly the Spartans and the Persians going head to head at Thermopylae, but Caps were missing four players, including goalkeeper Meyer, and so the victory was particularly sweet, like the first time the right girl gives you the right look and you know that all will soon be right in your world. Pure magic.
With much of the game being played in the kind of torrential downpour that encouraged Noah to build an ark, Caps went about their work in a business like fashion, showing great discipline and wasting no energy. Hubble was the organizer at the back, moving and positioning his men with the calculated ruthlessness of a Russian chess grand-master smelling check mate. Along side him Coghlan showed that when his job is narrowed down to the single task of kicking lumps out of men not on his team, he can be most effective. Zeits and Shirley dominated the midfield exchanges, with Zeits' beard adding to the overall biblical theme of this fixture. His holy hirsuteness also took his goal in the same way that Paul welcomed the Holy Spirit on the road to Damascus; joyfully. Shirley scored twice, the second a gem of rare proportion; a turn, a flick, a burst of speed and a glorious glancing header that kissed the back of the net and left all who witnessed it awestruck... like the uninvited who watched Noah's Ark glide by, animal packed, dry and destined for religious immortality. Despite having more opportunities to score than a porn star in the middle of a five film contract, Wilson was unable to capitalize but at least he seemed happy and didn't give the impression that he wanted to derail trains by driving the short school buses into them. Baby steps.
DeMartini, fast becoming the league's resident heart-breaker, caused endless problems for the opposing defenders who always seemed to be caught in the dilemma of whether or not to kick her. More often than not the wrong football decision was made, but at least we now know that some of the Old Timers are not the misogynistic pricks we previously took them for. You live and learn. Meyers in the nets took time wasting to a whole new level and will soon be coaching this dying art to young up and coming Italians, for whom this kind of shenanigans is second nature. His performance in the second half and the running monologue he was having suggests that there is more than just a little of the marvellous, psycho bastard about him.
Though this game was not one for the Anson Dorrance coaching clinic it did send the Caps players home with large, shit-eating grins on their faces. What more could you want?

Caps 7 St. Augustine Lions 0

On February 9th, 797 AD, at approximately nine minutes before eleven, King Sigmund IV of Denmark, known to his subjects as The Valiant, to his enemies as the elvish marked, abortive, rooting hog, and to his mother as Lil' Siggy, took a break from his Tuesday morning ritual of frozen troll head bowling, and had an idea; a great idea. Unfortunately while musing on this cerebral bolt from the blue he accidentally wandered into the firing line of his good friend Eric The Flatulent and was instantaneously blasted off his feet by the mighty anal tintinnabulations that gushed forth from this pestilent rear end with all the might and violence of Krakatoa on steroids. The gaseous tsunami launched him across several bowling lanes, finally depositing him on top of a brutally cold and rigid stack of recently harvested troll heads. When King Sigmund regained consciousness half an hour later the idea, alas, was gone. However he did wake up with another idea, and while it certainly lacked the scope and majesty of the one he'd lost it had the advantage of being completely foolproof. "Why not re-invade the peace loving, anti-war, weaponless and rich monks of the isle of Islay? I always beat them," the king thought to himself. And so at first light on the next day off went Sigmund and his merciless horde of war mongering pillagers to kick some monk ass. And so it was last Saturday morning when Caps once again took on and destroyed the St. Augustine Lions in a match that inadvertently paid homage to a Danish king of yore.
No matter the opposition, it is no mean accomplishment to score seven times in a game and Caps did it in style. Wilson, who is scoring like Casanova on Viagra, bagged a hat-trick; Shirley had a couple and Zeits and Meyer rounded out the goals. Howell assisted on all of them and did so with such ruthless elegance and efficiency that if this game was assisted suicide he would be Jack Kevorkian. Even Coghlan was less awful than usual though there needs to be a law banning him from ever removing his shirt at the end of a match. One could get snow blindness and perpetual nausea from looking at his pasty, so white it's blue, Austin Powers chest hair inspired body. It is not good; at all. What if children saw it?
The rest of the Caps team was a mix of the sublime and the ridiculous. Zub's mastery of Mike Reed was sublime; the amount of Corona seeping out of his pores, ridiculous. Hubble's second half performance in goal was sublime; his tolerance for dealing with drunk gob shites on a Friday night, ridiculous. DeMartini's inability to hit the target was tragically sublime; her claims of having difficulty scoring off the field, ridiculous. And last, but by no means least there was Meyers, whose back injury, caused by that always dangerous maneuver, bending over, was sublimely ridiculous.
And so Caps keep marching on, looking every inch the defending seven-a-side summer league champions. Can the Orange Crush be stopped? Only time will tell, but it cannot augur well for all future opponents that fun loving merciless dictator Robert Mugabe's favorite soccer team, the perennial champions of the Zimbabwean league, are also called Caps United! And we all know how in to losing Mr. Mugabe is.