Match Report: Custard SC vs Brisbane Lions

Friday the 27th of May saw Custard on the road to Far-North-Queensland, to challenge the Brisbane Lions at Prentice Park.

The game's referee apparently decided that braving the scrotum-shrinking cold to get abused by lunchtime-legends wasn't worth the lucrative fee on offer. Fortunately, someone not so rational was found, and was convinced to man the whistle.

With success, comes the clones. After dominating Friday Div 1 in the 2010 season, sports scientists swarmed to study every aspect of Custard's game, but none more so than the renowned warm-up routine. From the Commercial League to the Champions League, teams can now be seen clustering on the edge of the penalty-area, awaiting their turn to have take a shot with a single, half-flat, ball. And high-knees across the field while singing Backstreet Boys tunes has become de rigueur in performance academies everywhere.

But, after a number of games in which the only factor limiting how quickly the opposition could score was the friction of the air as the ball travelled through it, and at the urging of the season's marquee signing Jeremy Lindsay, a more conventional approach to warm-up was taken.

The most thorough pre-game preparation in the club's history paid dividends, as Custard dominated the opening stages. Chris Marie would have been smiling down from Heaven
England, as the passing-game he instigated tore the Lions open. The cousin-combination of Tim Blumke and Steve Smith were too much to handle down the right-hand side, while Brett Bevan and Andrew Rhule were causing problems on the left. The blitzkrieg down the flanks left the Lions exposed in the middle, and the opening goal was fired from the right-cannon of Daniel Panasiuk, showing he can score off the boot as well as the head. The famous Prentice Park BBQ-on-the-balcony crowd were baying for a repeat of his celebration sans-shirt from the previous game. After that incident, some of the more insecure Custard players had discretely pleaded with him to display some modesty, lest they be shown up in front of their WAGs*. On this occasion, the hairless-Ukranian was merciful.

Having barely touched the ball, the Lions evidently sensed weakness in their opposition, because despite having pre-game enthusiastically agreed to a 70 minute match, they reneged and insisted on the full 90 being played. Perhaps they thought the old men of Custard couldn't run for 90-minutes. Or maybe that we would fall asleep before the final whistle? Regardless, they welshed on a deal. And if there's one thing that riles Rhule more than unsporting-conduct, its being made to miss Friday night NRL. Big mistake Lions...

The carnival de Custard continued. Jez was dancing through defenders, and drove a couple of shots barely wide. Blumke found himself in open space and charging towards the Lion's keeper before unselfishly passing (some crueller commentators suggested it was because the Custard moniker was inspired by the power of his left boot), and Jeremy's low cross was prodded home by Brett Bevan. Earlier in the day, Panasiuk had been the victim of a cruel Blumke hoax, informing him the game had been cancelled. Having thought the highlight of his week had been taken, he was now savouring each second. He put a delicate dink past the Lions defenders, and into the path of Stevie Smith, who while begging gravity to bring the ball to striking height, was surely haunted by ghosts of early season misses. He waited patiently for the ball to settle on the notoriously bobble-prone surface, before burying the ball, his own demons, and perhaps the Lions along with them?

The Lions few threatening moments were diffused by the Pickerill-Thomas tag-team, with Jacob enjoying a relatively quiet night in front of the goal (surely a nice change after the opening games of the season). The occasional Lions incursions down the left-hand side were dealt with by Nathan Pickle, and Custard weren't out of goals yet. Blumke again found himself free with only the keeper in front. And this time the ball was on his dominant right foot. He performed the closest thing to a one-two play that Custard have shown, driving the ball into the keeper's torso, claiming the rebound, and tapping it home.

Half-time: Custard 4-0 to the good.

The second-half began, and it started to appear the Lions were right in enforcing the full 90, as they dominated a Custard team already thinking about their Friday night blankets and hot-chocolates. Cracks were showing in castle Custard, as we regressed to the time-tested tactic of kicking the ball as hard as we could in whichever direction we happened to be facing. The Lions converted the pressure, scoring a deserved goal.

The Lion's cause was helped by the Blue card shown to Pana midway through the half. Though it may have seemed a harsh decision from a distance, the broadcaster's shot-gun microphone clearly caught the Custard midfielder offering to buy the referee a beer if he produced the Blue card, and the ten minutes rest that comes with it.

The remainder of the half was an unspectacular grind. Custard did enough defensively to thwart the Lions, but never showed the clean passing of the first half. Jez maintained his relentless work-rate and composure, while Steve Smith and Brett Bevan continued to worry the defense. Steve's second goal, although it may not make the highlight reel (unless there is a montage of knee'd goals from close range), was a deserved return to the goal-scoring form of last season.

Andrew Rhule again showed his versatility, playing every position on the park, and extracting every drop of drama from the game. With the scores at 5-1, and the crowd more interested in Angry Birds on their iPhones than the game, Rhule received the ball at left fullback, before falling like an Australian on an ice-rink, leaving the ball, and one last opportunity, for the Lions forwards.

A confident Custard next week return to Chelmer to face North Brisbane.

* News of the World claims to have evidence that a number of high-profile Custard players visited cosmetic surgeons during the week, inquiring about abdominal implants and body-hair removal. There was also talk on Twitter of a mini-bus full of Custard players arriving at the surgery of a clinic specialising in vasectomies. Apparently Captain A.C. Rhule's graphic post-game description of his daughter's birth convinced the boys to have their tubes tied. This unfortunately came to late for Michael Richardson, who was overheard questioning an obstetrician as to whether general anaesthetics were offered to fathers during labor.

Our wedding

We had finally settled on a time and place.
The time was to be sunset on the 31st of December, 2010.  It had seemed far in the future; you know it is going to happen, but you don’t feel those intense emotions (like anticipation…or dread).  Yet time did what time does.  Which is to evaporate away, leaving behind only the sediment of the never-ending ‘todo’ list.


The place was Coochiemudlo Island.  It had been M-A’s first choice from the beginning.  I had initially resisted, but in the end I was won over by the attraction of a beach-front wedding, on new year’s eve, in a marquee where we decide when the night is over.
But don’t try this at home kids.  Planning a marquee wedding on an island, on new year’s eve comes with some… logistical difficulties.

“No, there is no bridge”.  

Fortunately I had appointed an excellent event organiser (who was also cast in the role of bride).  So I knew the things that could be controlled, would be.  Which leaves the things that can’t be…







    

M-A and I were on the ferry, heading for the island on the 28th of December (three days before the wedding), and it was possibly the worst weather I had ever seen.  The normally calm, deep-blue ocean had become a bumpy shit-brown, from the 30 knot winds and rain water running off the land.  And when we arrived at the house, Dad was digging a trench around it to try and prevent the house from flooding.

“What were we thinking?”

Luckily, we scored an almost perfect day.  Clear blue skies, not too hot, and the winds were even from the south (which meant our north-facing beach was protected).



Surprisingly, I really enjoyed the ceremony.  While we were all waiting for M-A to arrive, people kept asking “Are you nervous?”.

“Should I be?”

It was awkward waiting.  The celebrant had attached a microphone to me, and I was instructed to not walk past the speakers, at the risk of damaging the hearing of 100-ish guests.  So, there I was, looking out on our family and friends, but unable to walk over to them; constrained by an invisible leash.

Fortunately M-A was roughly on time (when the island is only 1km across, there isn’t much excuse not to be), and the leader melody of Pachelbel's Canon began to play. 

Maya, Cal, Kate and Jaime preceded to lay an aisle of flowers. 

The dress had been kept secret from me.  M-A had dropped a number hints about it being ‘unconventional’ (not difficult to believe, knowing her), and made a show of checking what colours I was planning to wear, so they wouldn’t clash.  I had no idea what to expect.  I wouldn’t say I was anxious…okay, maybe anxious is the right word.  Red?  Blue? A tutu? Trousers?! 

It was perfect. And she was beautiful. Wouldn’t you agree?



Wanting to personalize the day as much as possible, we had decided to write our own vows.  We had assumed that these would replace the traditional vows.  But when the time came, the celebrant began to recite them for us to repeat.  It was my turn first, and I complied, while M-A and I exchanged perplexed looks.

How can he have forgotten?  We sent him our vows?

While I was reluctantly reciting the very words we had not wanted to (promise, cherish, urgh) M-A had resolved to delicately question it when her turn came (a difficult proposition when 100 people are watching and you are speaking into a microphone).  She whispered “We have written our own vows”. 

“I know” whispered the celebrant with an indignant look.

Whether he had forgotten or not, we will never know, but we then proceeded to read our real vows.  The ones we had crafted, and that held meaning for us.

While writing our vows, we had wanted to keep them from each other, for maximum impact on the day.  But this posed a concern:  What if they don’t match?

Given marriage vows are not something one writes on a regular basis, it is easy to imagine an awkward situation if the length or tone of the two sets of vows were not within an acceptable range.  If the bride were, for example, to deliver a 5 minute soliloquy preaching her undying love and commitment, which was then matched by “I really, really like you” from the groom…

To prevent this situation, we appointed a mediator.  Our friend Rachel Roche kindly agreed to vet our vows beforehand. 

I found my vows to be a trickly little piece to compose.  Charting a course for romantic, yet formal and reserved, it is easy to wind up wrecked on the reefs of nauseating, sterile or soporific.  I certainly saw plenty of ship-wrecks in the samples that our celebrant sent.  Here’s what I settled on:

Mary-Anne,
I offer you all that I have to offer,
I aspire to provide for you a life, better with me by your side than it could ever be otherwise,  
And to be the husband that you deserve.

As one would expect, M-A’s were slightly more verbose, and slightly more emotive, but that is the point of writing your own vows.  They reflect the individuals.

As the ceremony concluded, we realised we hadn’t considered our escape route. The expected course was to walk back down the aisle, through the assembly.  But I am daunted by the aisle-walk even when I’m in the aisles rather than the walker.  So, we made the decision to exit back-stage, onto the beach; everyone can follow us!

Canapés, photos and drinks as the sun goes down…













Once the horizon had eaten the sun, our guests were ushered into the marquee. 

As part of our personalization campaign, we planned to take the microphone and walk amongst the tables, individually introducing all our guests.  We had never seen it done, but we felt it would be good to let everyone know who they were spending new year’s eve with.  But mostly, we felt we it would be a good chance to inflict a little amplified embarrassment on our loved ones, in front of an audience, and with no opportunity for retribution. 

It was great fun, and I’m really glad we did it.

 

The food was brilliant.  And the catering-staff were better than we could have hoped for.







Once people had shared some nourishment and libations, our master of ceremonies, M-A’s eldest brother Doug, announced the speeches. 

My father, and M-A’s parents, Bryan and Pam, spoke.  Their speeches were in the zone.  Sweet enough to get a few ‘Awww’s, but not so intense as to induce the emotional equivalent of a diabetic coma.  And they said everything that needed to be said, without dragging on so long that people start staring at their empty glasses, secretly begging them to refill.  There was even some prop-comedy:  Bryan, having in the past being heckled by his children for reading long speeches from A4 full-text, produced a wad of paper and began to do exactly that, before shredding and scattering it like confetti.

It was about then that I discovered that I was the victim of a pick-pocket.  My own speech notes, carefully placed in one of my many pockets, had been stolen.  It was the only plausible explanation.  It wasn’t that I was planning to read from them, but my nervous-level did increase knowing I wouldn’t have them.  Fortunately we were using my MacBook as our jukebox, and I had it open on the screen, just in case.

Again, I rather enjoyed the experience.  It was satisfying the have the chance to thank everyone who made possible the life we enjoy.

My understanding of the plan was that I was to make the main speech, and M-A was to follow with the many thanks.  In other words, I believed I there was no rebuttal.

I got roasted.  Lovingly roasted, but still roasted. 

The next few hours were exactly what I had hoped for.  All our family and friends together.  Aware that it was likely the only time in our lives it will happen, I really wanted to play it in slow-motion.  Without that option, I consciously tried to savour each moment.

An idea we had recycled from Doug and Geli’s wedding was to have a painting table, where throughout the night guests would receive a small piece of a large photograph, which they then attempt reproduce onto a canvas tile. 

Voila…

 

Obviously artistic abilities vary, but that is the point.  Generally, I was impressed with the performances, but individual mention must be made regarding the bottom of the Eiffel Tower.  Tamete, I don’t know how many hours this took you, but it was worth it.  This piece makes the original photo look low-fidelity!  I also liked that Rob decided to exercise a little creativity and invent some birds soaring around the Tower.  He apparently was happy with his work, as he also signed his piece. 

I would normally not target an artist’s work for criticism, but I’ll make an exception for family.  I may not be prettiest of subjects, but I still think Nathan’s work on my nose is not a fair representation.  Lovely work on the color-mixing…  He did make amends, spending hours a few days later creating a fine replacement.

Time went too quickly, and soon it was announced that everyone should move down to the beach to welcome 2011 and watch the firework displays.  So we yanked a few Hawaiian torches from the garden, and crossed the road, Survivor-style.

We counted-down.  I (and I assume everyone else) was expecting the fireworks to be distant (as in Cleveland and Stradbroke Island distant), so I imagine that if my nervous system hadn’t been impaired by more than a couple glasses of bubbly, I would have been rather more shocked when decorative missiles began launching from the beach either side of us.

 

Everyone looked admiringly at me, I suppose assuming that I had planned it.  I wish I could I say that I had, but I believe it was simply some island-locals, with a penchant for pyrotechnics and a sense of occasion.



After a while spent enjoying the beautiful night, and experimenting with sparklers and slow-shutter-speeds, there was really nothing left to do…

Except, of course, to do our best to ensure no alcohol would remain unconsumed and to dance maniacally for hours.