The history of western civilisation is bespeckled with tales of the homecoming hero. Some mythical, some factual. All inspirational. From Odysseus' famous return in Homer's Odyssey, through Simba the Lion King returning to Pride Rock, all the way to ET going home and the fantastic journey of the Salmon as it returns thousands of miles to the place where it was spawned. Well now you can add one more to that list: Keith 'The Rock' Porter is back. Like the Homeric hero of Greek literature, Keith arrived fashionably late – not the ten years of the Greek warrior, but a mere minute – and the players strained their eyes in the gloom to see if they could still recognise him. He bestrode the hallowed green turf of the sportspark like a colossus (in the strictly metaphorical sense), imbibing a sense of awe and dread in equal measure amongst the younger members of the gathering who had only heard of him talked about in hushed, reverential tones by the more senior players who had known the pleasure of sharing a back four with 'The Rock'. Keith took a deep breath and surveyed the green expanse before him – a majestic vista triggering memories of so many former triumphs and mistimed tackles. Yes, the hero was back alright – and you should see the battle scars!
Your correspondent picked the teams, surprisingly well given his track record in that department. It turned out to be something of an oldies vs youngsters affair with The Rock reforming his fabled defensive partnership with fellow greens Tim, Peirs and Shaughen. Guy, Mark and Dan filled up the midfield and Pistol Pete and Stubbsy headed upfield to worrying glances from the opposition back line that consisted of Joe and Tor. That was all. In front of them Chib, Geir, Darren, and Joe's mate. Ploughing a lone furrow up front for the colours was Red Joe.
It didn't take long for the game to find its pattern; a continuous assault on the green goal from all sides that would have had Michael Caine and Stanley Baker quaking in their boots wishing they were back at Rourke's Drift with the Zulus bearing down on them.
Such was the ferocity of the bombardment. The greens fought a terrific rearguard action with several last ditch tackles on Joe, Chib, Geir et al as they seemed odds-on to score. The colours took an expected lead with Joe and Chib notching goals. The Greens dug deep and with the ever-steadying influence of Guy Armando Myhill strolling through the middle of the park, they began to dictate play. Pistol and Stubbsy fought for everything, Mark weaved on the left and hassled like a terrier but Tor and Joe were making life difficult. Constant pressure paid off though and a rush of goals came seeing the greens surge ahead. Suspecting the worst, a tactical change was made by the colours, fearing that age and guile would trump youth and inexperience, they went back to basics and launched an all-out aerial assault that would have been more at home over Dresden in Feb 1945. Cross after cross came in, green defenders being dragged all over the park. The inevitable happened and Joe was beginning to score for fun, sneaking in at the back post repeatedly – too much watching Benayoun Joe!
The game ebbed and flowed with both teams too polite to take the lead. Entering the final few minutes, disaster struck. In a rush of blood akin to the memorable Zaire team's unorthodox defending of a free kick http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sw8_LY6xajc Mark inexplicably batted away a corner with his hand. The greens were down. Still, someone once said football was a game of two halves and within minutes Mark had surged down the left, into the box, battled off two defenders and rifled the ball into the roof of the net. A goal fit enough to win any match and it exemplified all that is great about the English game – win it, run with it as fast as you can, and twat it really hard. I mean REALLY hard. But it was too little, too late. Keith had played a blinder but ended up on the losing side. But then every tale of the returning hero is tinged with an element of tragedy... it has to be that way.
Welcome back The Rock! It's good to see you again.
I'll leave you with a quote from that famous footballing philosopher Albert Camus, the Pete Doherty of soccer: All that i know most surely about morality and obligations, i owe to football. You know it's true. Live it.
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