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My breath was misting in front of me, the ground beneath my studded boots was setting solid and I was losing all sensation in my toes as the sun moved round casting shadows across the pitch and the sub-zero air temperatures did their thing to turn the second eleven training pitch into permafrost. My fingers were turning blue, probably matching my lips and cheeks. I briefly considered releasing my ponytail so at least I had some cover over my ears but despite the cold I’d been running round and my hair was damp with sweat and I doubted whether I’d get any benefit, on top of which hair flicking round your face is uncomfortable at the best of times, when it’s wet and sweaty and you’re bloody freezing it makes a crew-cut feel like a good idea.
The huddle of players to my right had a sudden flurry of activity, Charlotte, our right defender took a crack at the ball, I heard a solid ‘thunk’ as her carbon-fibre stick smacked the ball right in the sweet spot. “Lucy, yours” shouted across to me, superfluously as it happened, despite the cold I was alert and had set off at a sprint to intercept the bright red sphere, taking an outrageous amount of pleasure in wrongfooting the opposition defender, my colleague in the right midfield, Nina, came pounding up slightly behind and ten metres across from me. I knew she was there; she knew I knew so we didn’t need to shout about it.
There was a fullback and a sweeper closing on me, the padded figure of the goalkeeper huddled in her net, I feinted to my left, taking a half step, just enough to sell the dummy completely, reversed my stick and flicked to my right. Nina came sprinting in and gave the ball a fearsome smack sending it straight past the keeper to hit the backboard with an audible bang that echoed around the ground.
The whistle blew and we were called into a huddle. The coach, Peggy Wilson, ex England commonwealth games squad in the nineteen seventies, pointed at five of us on the blue team and three on the red and said “OK, you eight, I’ve seen enough. Go and get changed, and don’t use all the hot water.” She pointed across the pitch at a smaller huddle of girls in puffa coats, “Next eight, you’re up.” As I walked off the pitch I heard her splitting the teams up again, all the better to assess individuals and groupings.
It was January 2001 and we were enjoying, if enjoying is the right word, a sudden harsh cold spell. Air temperatures once you were out of the sun were around minus four, it had been going on for three weeks now and in the middle of week two our former chief coach, Hilary Carson, had slipped on an icy path and broken her hip, ankle and wrist. She was in traction and wouldn’t be back for three or four months. The University Hockey club committee put their collective heads together, sent an SOS to the old alumni and Peggy answered the call. This was our first session with her, and she wanted to see us all in action before the first match. The fact that it was the coldest January for twenty years was immaterial.
My hands were so numb I couldn’t grip the zipper on my kit bag to get my towel and shower gel, so I sat, pushing my hands deep into my thighs for five minutes, the cold from my fingers seeping up through my crotch as they slowly thawed and gained enough flexibility to grip and pull. My nipples were so hard as to be almost solid, the areolae beneath each crinkled and compressed by the cold. Without obviously checking her out I noticed Nina’s were in almost the same state, apart from being bigger and a deeper shade of pink than mine. I couldn’t feel my toes and my feet felt like solid lumps under my ankles.
I stripped off my sweaty top, sports bra, skirt, knickers and socks, standing on them as I searched in the bag for my flip flops. Always take flip flops into the shower, you don’t know what’s been going on in there, and the changing room floor is so cold it may as well be made of ice, which I couldn’t feel while I undressed but with luck the shower would warm me up again and I’d need them for the return trip.
One of the things Peggy had insisted was that we used the men’s first eleven changing room, the girls was a relic from the nineteen forties, individual cubicles to change in for modesty’s sake and four individual shower booths. She’d arranged for it to be gutted and replaced with a new open plan room with a shared bank of ten showers at one end. As she said, “We’ve all got the same bits, if anyone thinks you can prepare for a sports match on your own go and become a sprinter or throw darts. We are a team, we change as a team, we work as a team.” The reconstruction was due to kick off in two weeks but she’d condemned ours immediately, consequently I was sitting with seven other girls in various stages of undress as we shivered our way naked.
Nina was already under a torrent of steaming water, moaning to herself. I flipped and flopped my way to the shower head next to her, hung my shower gel and shampoo bottles on the chrome pipes and gave the button a solid push. A stream of cold water mecidiyeköy escort gushed out, even though I was close to frozen already it made me gasp but a moment later it came through warm and built up to a steady heat.
The hot water made my body tingle, then as the blood started returning to the outer edges of my skin the pain set in, I realised immediately why Nina had been moaning, it was because she had more self-control than me. I was in agony, my toes and fingers were throbbing as the feeling came back, my bum and thighs felt like they were on fire and my arms, shoulders and chest felt like they’d been slapped for about a week.
I felt I had to speak or I’d scream so I turned my head sideways to look at Nina, “Jesus bastard Christ almighty, that hurts, all over. How can my elbows hurt?”
Nina laughed, she was Scottish and liked to pretend she was hardier than us home counties girls, to hear her talk you’d think she grew up in a Glasgow council estate and we were all former members of the Godalming and Bramley Green Pony club. In fact, as I well knew because I’d been there, her parents lived on twelve acres near Innerleithen in the Borders and I’d been brought up in Lordshill in Southampton, which is a big and rundown council estate.
“Aye, it’s a wee bit fresh, I’ll gie ye that.” Then slipped out of her affected Glaswegian and back into her gentler normal accent, “I’m kinda hoping the weather’s going to turn before we have to go out and do it for real. I had a wee chat with Linda and she’s been asked to rearrange the fixtures for the rest of the season, so we’ve got three weeks grace for the weather to turn.”
She poured a generous handful of white gel into her hand and slapped it on her breasts, hung the bottle up and massaged an explosion of coconut scented bubbles across her firm boobs. I followed suit and a pineapple aroma added to the atmosphere. Jill, one of the defensive players stepped in and took the next shower head along, “Smells like a Pina Colada in here, who’s up for cocktails later?” Jill’s great, she’s usually the orchestrator of the post-match ‘entertainment’ and runs the social side of the club. “Rules are you’ve got to drink what you smell like.”
Nina and I swapped our bottles over, so we had Pineapple and Coconut, and started a naked duet of “Yes I like Pina Colada and getting caught in the rain”. Jill squirted her minty shower gel into her hand and started lathering on the tattoo of a dove on her right side just under the fold of her large, slightly floppy, breast, calling out “Anyone got Lime shower gel? I fancy a night on the Mojitos.”
Kerry J, we’ve got two Kerries, Kerry J and Kerry Berry, only called Kerry Berry because she had a berry smoothie on our first ever club night out a year and a half before, Kerry J came shivering in with a bottle of mint gel and squealed as the water hit her.
I was slowly warming up, the pain subsided from my extremities and the hot water was relaxing me as it flowed through my shoulder length mousey blonde hair. “One good thing about the ground being arctic tundra,” I remarked, “no mud.”
Alice (known as little Alice because she’s the tallest of us, plays in goal,) heard me and gave me a slap on the bum, with a fake angry snort. “Maybe not but it blummin hurts when you go down on it.”
She angled her left leg to display a bright red sore patch going from her knee all the way up her thigh to her left buttock. “At least mud gives way, it was like rolling on concrete.” Dinah, one of the defenders, asked if she was looking for sympathy and did she have experience going down on anything else.
Communal changing and showering was certainly helping with the team bonding, but I noticed that we’d all clearly spent some time with the razor and wax before we came in, every one of the girls I could see was plucked, trimmed and shaved. It was of course entirely possible they’d all done it because they liked to be well groomed and smooth, but I for one had done it because I didn’t want to be judged or get known as Hairy Lucy. I admit to being shallow.
The shower gel cocktail night went well, we even got Coach Peggy to join us for the first round, when she heard the rules she smiled and ordered a Horses Neck, claiming she had to go to muck out her horses before going home. She gave us her vision of where she wanted us to be as a club.
“It’s your choice ladies, you can carry on being a social club that plays hockey and I’ll wish you the best and bow out now, or you can take the potential you’ve got and try to win a few games. Maybe the league.”
We had a buzz of excitement at that, Jill, despite being the party animal, raised a hand and asked a sensible question. “How do we do that? We aren’t in a league, we’re a uni social side team.”
Peggy nodded, “Yes, but I have some contacts in the southern counties league, we can join the winter — spring league, it will mean a bit of traveling every other week but you’ll be testing yourselves şişli escort against a higher standard than you’re used to and win lose or draw you’ll know you’ve been in a game. From what I’ve seen you can do it; you have the potential and I can help you tap that potential.”
Jill then let the party animal out, “If we do, will we have to stop the nights out and the Mojitos?”
Peggy knocked her drink back in one go, looked Jill squarely in the eye and said “No. I expect the team to bond together and to take responsibility. If you want a drink, have a drink but if you ever turn up unable to play through being hungover you’re off the team.”
We all seemed to agree that was fair and as we didn’t have a game the following day a severe hangover was earned by all of us.
True to her word Peggy got us enrolled in the southern counties spring league, we had to travel up to an hour away to some of the games but they were generally worthwhile and we won more than we lost. We had to bring in a fixtures secretary to arrange the games and make travel arrangements and we were incredibly lucky that Gail, one of the fringe second team players, was an excellent administrator.
She realised straight away that the uni men’s rugby team played in a league over a similar geographical spread and by arranging our fixtures to match theirs we could share a coach at reduced costs to both teams. We both got a much nicer coach, and we were able to exchange training best practice tips and ideas, and a few other things as well.
A few months into the season we were off to a team near Guildford called Sporting Onslow, they had a full range of sports in the same club, and both us and the Rugby boys were playing their first teams. The problem was that Sporting Onslow were one of those sides that took a great delight in their ‘Nobody likes us we don’t care’ attitude and reputation. Watching their team bicker in the warmup it looked like they didn’t even like each other very much, a couple of the girls had a nose to nose screaming match and I found out later there was a fist fight in the rugby team’s practice session as well.
The thing with Onslow in particular was that they had a massive chip on their shoulder. They were a newish side that had grown out of a schism in the city’s main club and the disgruntled players all left to set up their own, bringing all their anger and resentment with them, which had then permeated the new organisation. They had a reputation as a niggly, mean spirited side, always happy to take a cheap shot.
A few years earlier in a ‘friendly’ encounter they’d broken one of our players ankles in an unnecessarily aggressive tackle, she’d missed out on a selection event for the GB ski team as a result of being in plaster. We’d made a formal complaint, which resulted in a couple of their players being banned by the ruling body. When they were caught playing a week later the entire club was banned for the remains of that season and the following one. Unsurprisingly they had a low opinion of us.
From what I gathered speaking to the Rugby team they were no less miserable, with stamping and sneaky punches at the bottom of a pile-in (that’s the official term, right?) being the order of the day. The really stupid thing about it was that they didn’t need to be nasty, they were a very good side without the attempts at intimidation.
Several of our star players weren’t available that weekend, Peggy had gone off to a coaching conference and the weather had turned cold and wet. We knew Onslow were a good side, we knew they didn’t like us and we expected to take a kicking.
The coach down had a subdued atmosphere, ordinarily there’s be some banter, a bit of flirting and some attempts to get penances for losing agreed, normally it involved drinking or flashing. This time both teams were introverted, they boys expected to get punched and kicked when out of sight of the referee, we expected to get ankle tapped and body slammed at every possible opportunity. I truly believed at least one person would get a broken bone, I was keen it wouldn’t be me but equally keen to dish out my own retribution if it happened.
The changing rooms were miserable, a mouldy, leaky portacabin with no curtains in the windows, one didn’t even have glass in it, and four piddly showers in a cracked communal area. Little Alice stood outside with her hockey stick to provide a bit of privacy, once we were changed we locked everything back in the bus and warmed up ready to get battered.
The first half started well, Nina broke down the left wing, we’d swapped sides earlier in the season, crossed to Dinah in the clear on the right who shot into the penalty circle and sent the ball into the far corner of the Onslow net.
Straight from the restart we were on top, I got the ball in open play and took off at a sprint, their inside right and centre half were bearing down on me like a pair of juggernauts, they were big women, one had tattoos all down her forearm, most of which were spelled correctly. Big, but not as quick as me, I dummied right and stepped left gaining an extra five metres, allowing Jess, our centre half to come galloping through the middle to pick up my pass, on into the circle and boom, two nil.
Our taking a lead seemed to be a personal affront to their team and the snarkiness came out, every refereeing decision was argued, our ankles were repeatedly on the receiving end of sly taps with the stick and when there was a flurry of nose-to-nose disagreement in their left corner I found myself full length on the ground with two of their players walking across my back and legs. The referee was otherwise occupied so I noted who it was just to be ready. I’m not vicious but it pays to be aware of the dangers.
We ended the first half two nil ahead; Jill was captain for the day and gathered us together for a team talk in the interval. She lead with well-done girls, discipline, keep out of trouble and lets have a couple more in the second half.
We started on the back foot in the second half, their centres came at us like a set of steam engines in a semi legal flying wedge, into the penalty circle, pass left, across right, shoot and…Little Alice you star. She’d predicted exactly where they were going to put it and intercepted the shot perfectly. With a flick of her stick the ball was spinning across the grass, Siobhan was on the end of it, making quick progress back towards their goal. I hung out right, shouting to her that I was there with a bellowed, “Options Right Shiv”
She took the ball as far forward as possible then looking right she sent it left towards Nina who was slightly slow and found her way blocked by three opposition players, she turned, ran backwards five paces and without even glancing sent a Crossfield shot for me to intercept and take forward. As I stepped away I was aware of their tattooed centre on a course to stop me. Knowing I was quicker than her by quite a lot I slowed slightly to let her get in close then slammed on the anchors and took off hard left behind her, she spun and in so doing got her stick tangled in her legs and went down like a sack of spuds. I gave a laugh and called out “so long, sucker” and carried on towards the goal.
If I think about it, maybe ‘so long, sucker’ wasn’t the best thing to say at the time but it seemed to match my feelings at the time. It upset big Bertha who spat “Bitch” back at me and scrambled to her feet chasing behind. I had to change direction as her partner in crime came barrelling in, on my left I could see Dinah stepping into the gap she’d just created and I passed just before I was sent flying with a body-check that took all the breath out of me.
Dinah was into the circle and put the ball away to make it three nil before the ref had a chance to blow for foul play. I was about to get my ankle stamped on when Nina flew into my attacker’s side, taking her low and sending her flat out on the mud. I was back on my feet and joined in the jostling and the threats, but before we could take it any further the ref was there, and we all stepped away.
All pretence of playing seemed to have been dropped by the Onslow women, whenever possible they were trying to batter us, which meant they were leaving big holes in their defence and we were able to get another goal. Four nil was beyond our wildest expectations, but by keeping tight and not getting involved in their shenanigans we’d shown them who was the better team.
Even the elements seemed to have it in for us, a howling wind blew some stinging rain in sideways. The ground beneath our feet turned to as slippery mess, the ball moved like it was in treacle and still they tried to smack us about. I was on the attack again when big Bertha came in to try and stop me, instead of sidestepping her this time I shot the ball hard forward between her legs and sprinted past, I knew she’d try to trip me with her stick and jumped on it as she swung it at me, breaking it in the middle as I landed.
With an enraged howl she swung the broken piece at my head, fortunately she missed, or I’d have been hospitalised. I slipped over backwards, I felt the mud squelch into my hair and up the backs of my legs. Bertha loomed over me ready to give me a kicking, as she drew back her right leg I swung my legs hard into her left. Taking her down with a crash. Clearly one that can dish it out but not take it, she started squealing like a stuck pig and calling the ref to send me off.
Luckily enough the ref had seen it all and gave me a talking to for retaliating and sent her off for persistent foul play. I put the subsequent penalty away to make it five nil and in the dying minutes of the game with rain dripping down our necks we got another penalty. Because little Alice had been virtually immobile for most of the game she got to take the last shot and made it six nil at full time.
None of the opposition spoke to us after the whistle blew, but we didn’t care. We’d come down expecting to get beaten up and beaten in the game and we’d avoided both in some style. The rain was coming down in sheets but we didn’t care. Our shirts stuck to us like a second skin, our hair was ratty and plastered to our heads and faces but we didn’t care.
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