“MIDWEEK 5 A SIDE”
MIDWEEK 5 A SIDE | F/S x Trekuartista95
In celebration of the game’s return and the official launch of our 5 a side inspired tees, @TREKuartista95 pulled together the below story. A smashing night of 5 a side may seem like a distant memory for you, but we’re sure this piece will take you right back to all those memories and reasons you fell in love with game.
Midweek 5 a side. Home from work. Changed. No tea. Straight down the local cages. Buzzing. Best night of the week. Park up. Boots on. Make your way to pitch 4. Quick catch up with everyone. You’re missing Champions League footy for this. Worth it, though. 4 quid subs. No pay, no play. Simple. “i’lL pAy DoUbLe NeXt WeEk.” Classic. You’re three weeks in arrears. Big lump sum after payday.
Still no sign of a ball. Jordan has it. Always late. Useless. Arrives two minutes before your booked slot. No boots on. No shinnies. Completely unprepared. The ball’s rock hard too, but it’ll do. Keepie uppies whilst you wait for the early game to finish. Always one showoff chucking out Around The Worlds like they’re going out of fashion.
The clock strikes the hour. That’s it. Straight onto the pitch while the last group trundle off. No waiting around. Gotta get warm. A couple of stretches, if that, followed by a few shots at goal. It’s a good ten minutes before everyone’s ready. Sam picks the teams based on ability. Making sure the cart-horses of the group are evenly distributed across both sides. Quick argument over who’s wearing bibs. And everyone’s ready. Finally.
Rules are agreed. ‘Non-bibs’ surrender kick-off to the bibs team by default. Restarts from the centre circle. Head height rule does not apply. Latecomers are forced to go in net. That’ll teach ‘em. Keeper change every 5 minutes. Until someone tweaks their hamstring and voluntarily does a 15 minute stint between the sticks.
After a few misplaced passes and dodgy touches you’ve found your groove. Pulling the strings. Bombing up and down. Chucking in a few step overs every now and again. Shots from distance. You’re full of beans. But then you’re soon reminded why you’re a teaching assistant and not a pro baller.
After dispossessing Ashley in your own half you play it out to Jordan on the left. A quick drop of the shoulder sends Jamie for a kebab before the ball’s put on a plate for you at the back stick. Unmarked. It’s a tap in. Or it should be. You’re leaning back. You’ve got it all wrong. The ball balloons over the goal, and worse, over the cage. Disaster. On ya bike.
You make up for your error two minutes later, though. Latching on to a loose ball you’re through one-on-one with the keeper. You give ‘em the eyes. Sit ‘em down with a slight feint and slot the ball into the bottom corner. No mistake. Your first goal of the night. Coolness personified. You’ll play that back in your head all week at work. Some finish.
There’s another break in play as the ball’s once again smashed over the cage. A chance, then, for a drinks break. Non bibs are 8-3 up courtesy of a Jordan masterclass. The kid’s shit hot. Had trials once. You’ve forgot your water, again. It’s in the car. Luckily Sam’s brought a 2 litre bottle of Evian. The posh stuff. Someone’s doing well for themselves.
Play resumes with twenty minutes of your hour left. Dwindling fitness levels see non bibs run away with it, 19-6 or something daft. Jamie’s tried keeping up with the score but gives up when the lead hits double figures. There are calls to swap teams. Even the sides up. Make a game of it. But the bibs aren’t having any of it. They’re too proud for that.
With time running out “Next goal wins!” Is the shout! You receive the ball on the edge of your box. Head up. Alex isn’t showing. Ty’s fucked. Where’s Jordan? You spot the run and without hesitation you fire a perfectly weighted pass off the boards into the channel. Precision. Back to goal, Jordan takes a touch before rifling a shot into the bottom corner. Prime Drogba. Game over. Good run out, that.
Bibs are dumped in the corner of the goal despite the bag sitting two yards away. Lazy bastards. Ty’s darted off. Bib still on. Jacket left behind. Give it two minutes and they’ll soon realise. As you leave the pitch you get stuck into Sam who had a stinker. Wounded.
Quick chat at the boot of your car whilst taking off your boots. Chuck ‘em in the back without looking. You’ll regret that. Black rubber bits everywhere. You’ll be cleaning them up for weeks on end. And just wait until you get home. They’ll be all over the gaff. In your socks. Shorts. Base layer. Everywhere. It’s reyt, though. Same again next week. Real do.
Written by TREKuartista95 for Formation Studio
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Photography for Formation Studio
George Baxter:
@georgekbaxter
George Howard Rees-Jones:
@georgehowardcreative
Olivia Davy-Hoffman:
@oliviadavyhoffmanphotography