May 15th: Turtles 4 (2) - Stop Out Red (0)

By Roger "Dodge" Kinsella

Grunter sat back in his office chair, staring at the monitor on his PC, an intense frown of concentration spreading across his normally jovial countenance. He was in the throes of a major dilemma. Ever since Claire had discovered the secret videos of some of his more spectacular extracurricular escapades with Candy and Sandy, his two voluptuous personal assistants, she'd been on at him non-stop with a list of expensive demands which needed to be met if their faltering marriage was to be saved for the sake of the kids.

            This latest demand from Claire was causing him some concern though. Namely, a three month family holiday to Europe and the UK travelling first-class and visiting all the major European capitals. Yes, he'd been able to arrange the necessary annual leave from work despite the fact that he already had four trips to the Gold Coast booked for 2005. But how on earth was he going to pay for the bloody thing? He was committed up to his eyeballs for the foreseeable future, what with having to buy Claire's new 4WD, Claire's new diamond ring, Claire's new fur coat, Claire's new swimming pool, Claire's new this and that. And no way was he going to dip into his private slush fund. The occasional overnight trip away with Candy and Sandy, ostensibly on business, of course, was the only thing stopping him from losing it completely. So how to raise the money? What other sources of quick cash did he have?

            Well, there was always the Turtles bank account to rip off. He'd done it several times before and no-one had ever found out. Yet. He quickly checked the balance. $800. His covert campaign to install Dodge as fines master was paying off. $800 was good but not good enough though. Maybe enough to fly the family as far as Auckland. What else was there?

            The brainwave struck him like a Wilkinson hamstring pinging. Brilliant! Sell the players. Put them up for transfer and watch the money flooding in. Well, trickling in maybe. Of course, he'd have to embellish the players' CVs somewhat, well, quite a bit actually, but by the time the poor mugs who bought any of them discovered the awful truth, the cheques would have cleared and the money would have been funneled into his own private bank account. He quietly chortled to himself and set about putting his cunning plan into action.

            Grunter stood on the sideline at the home of football, Ben Burn Park, notepad and red marker pen in hand, waiting for the Turtles to kick off against latest foes, middle of the table Stop Out Red. There seemed to be a bit of a hold up. After several recounts had come up with only ten players, Murray (hugely adaptable) made his way onto the field amid various mutterings regarding the inept counting skills of the team's PWC executive skipper, Snout (a confident captain willing to get the job done with reduced resources). Big Si, starting on the bench, maintained a stiff upper lip as he stood next to his charming wife Kylie (the next Posh and Becks) while she tended to the fruits of Si's loins, Emma. The match got under way and the Turtles immediately started to dominate proceedings, putting real pressure on a Stop Out side who were struggling to clear the ball effectively. The Turtles defence was rarely threatened, the midfield were controlling the ball well, and numerous opportunities were being created up the field. Even Spratty was looking comparatively sprightly, reaping the benefits of a rare hangover-free Saturday (similar qualities to George Best in his prime).

            After about fifteen minutes of nondescript play that no-one really remembers too well, Zil hopefully hoofed a long ball over the top (educated left boot) and Wal got on the end of it to slide home his second of the season for a well-deserved 1-0 lead (another clinical strike from the seasoned campaigner). The tally was doubled ten minutes later when Gordie, a late arrival after a hard morning's golf (multi-talented sportsman), got free in the box and pulled a shot wide of the keeper. It would have dribbled in by itself but Spratty, following up, smashed it home from all of two feet (fierce strike from distance).

            The Turtles spent the rest of the half pummeling the hapless Stop Out defence but for little reward. Gordie put a shot wide following a desperate last ditch defensive tackle, and G.T missed two glaring opportunities (the lad done well), the first when he airballed a centering kick from the right (deceptive bounce), and the second when he somehow contrived to miss the target from about a yard after a goalmouth scramble (clearly unsighted). Halftime arrived with the score still 2-0, and various Stop Out team members could be heard congratulating themselves on keeping the score within reasonable limits after playing into the strong breeze.

            After partaking of an imaginative cocktail of Passion Orange and SNO (natural substances only), described by Grunter as redolent of a '98 Dom Perignon, the lads trooped back out onto the field to face the elements. However, any lingering optimism felt by Stop Out was soon dissipated by an early strike from Gordie (goal scoring machine) following a neat interchange with Wal (marvelous team player) down the right side, and the game was effectively all over at 3-0 up. Stop Out managed to create a chance which ended with a header directly at Snout (instinctive positioning), and a subsequent melee in the area saw Tel blatantly airball an attempted clearance (toying with the opposition) before the ball was eventually hoofed (stroked) to safety. The result was secured when P.K., once again miles out of position (pacy midfielder who puts himself about), strode through the defence into the goal area, shimmied right to beat the keeper, pirouetted twice, shimmied left to give the keeper a second bite of the cherry, then tucked the ball inside the post for a 4-0 lead, in the process notching his first genuine undisputed goal for the Turtles in 74 appearances (natural goalscoring talent).

            Tel now took the opportunity to wander from the field, in doing so registering a Turtles career first injury-free appearance (superb physical conditioning). Dodger re-entered the fray and took the opportunity to aim several well-timed pieces of abuse (wonderful communication skills) at Stop Out's deluded left wing, who had been disputing an offside decision at ridiculous lengths.

            The remainder of the game passed reasonably uneventfully, except for one notable episode of sheer incompetence from Big Si. The lumbering centre back (a veritable man mountain) lunged to clear the ball under pressure and only succeeded in presenting a chance on a plate to an opposition striker with no defenders in front of him. Fortunately for us, a poor first touch allowed Snout to collapse on the ball (cat-like reflexes) and smother the opportunity. Si was heard to mutter a few words of apology (takes responsibility), but later in the clubrooms completely denied he'd been at fault while blaming virtually every other player in the team for his massive blunder (no, I can't go on, this is a complete farce. The guy is an out and out clod. End of story).

            So the match ended in a comfortable four goal victory for the Turtles, who thus maintained their eight point lead in Masters Div 2 on the back of a seventh consecutive victory. The lads changed and showered before heading back to the Turtle Lounge to celebrate, all apart, that is, from Stevie, who was otherwise engaged in removing a rather large and persistent weta from his underpants. Clearly the weta had been attracted by the enchanting prospect of making a permanent nest in the large lush mound of ginger pubes he'd spotted from a distance lying within said underpants.

            Grunter rechecked his notes from Saturday's game. All in order. Now he just needed to get them typed up so he could get them out onto the Turtles website.

            "Candy, darling, can you type up these notes for me, please?"

            "Grunty, baby, you know I don't do typing. You're always getting us mixed up, aren't you, you big bad cuddly man. I'm only here for two things – to make your coffee and to make you a happy Grunter. It's Sandy who knows how to type. A bit."

            "Very sorry, Candy, I'll try not to make that mistake again. So anyway, do you know where Sandy is?"

            "I think she's in the little girls' room."

            "Well, can you go and get her for me, please. These notes are jolly urgent."

            "Sure thing, Gruntikins, just one tick."

            Grunter relaxed back into his chair. He began whistling a little tune to himself which he vaguely recalled as being the theme song from that old radio show he used to host on 2ZB, "Coppersmith's Guide To First Aid". Ah, those were the days. A much simpler time in his life when, as a single young man, he just used to turn up to work, shag the company secretary, and look forward to carrying his bucket at the Turtles' games every Saturday.

            Suddenly he snapped back into reality. Where had Candy gone? And what was keeping Sandy? He stood up from his chair and walked through to his executive ensuite. The toilet door was locked. He knocked. No response. But he thought he could vaguely make out some rather rapid breathing. He knocked again. "Are you in there, Sandy?"

            "Yes, Gruntipoos, what is it?"

            "Sandy, I need you to type up some notes for me. Urgently. So hurry it up in there, please. Oh, and have you got any idea where Candy's got to?"

            "Hi, Grunter, I'm in here too."

            "What the?! What are you both doing in there? Hurry up and get back into the office."

            "Yes, Grunter, won't be long. In fact, I'm just coming now. Oh! Oh, God, I'm coming! I'm coming now! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh…" ***

***    The author wishes to unreservedly apologise to any readers who may be offended by the inclusion of this gratuitous smut, but felt compelled to put it in on receipt of a complaint from a regular reader about there not being any in last week's match report.

Grunter sat at his desk, sifting through his personal mail. More of the usual executive type rubbish – Gold Card memberships, charity golf tournament invitations, CVs to bin, junior employees and contractors to fire – but amongst them, the occasional player transfer request. Once he'd sorted all the mail, he eagerly seized on the transfer request pile. Just the three letters. It didn't look especially promising.

"Right, what have we got here? Who's this from? Magic Wok Restaurant in Petone. We have vacancy for Chinese chef. We tink we can make player Glenn Tim into best assistant junior chef of Asian extraction in our restaurant. We offer two large sack of rice…"

Grunter binned the letter and opened the next one, quickly scanning through it. "… $25 to $50 per player aged over 35 dependent on condition, all transport and abattoir expenses included. Reply to Chef Pet Foods…"

            He picked up the third and final letter. Something about this one just felt right as he held it in his hand. He had a hunch this could be it. He turned it over and checked the return address. "Karori Wildlife Sanctuary. Eh?" Maybe this wasn't the one after all. His shoulders sagged. It wasn't looking good. Out of compulsion he began reading. "… having recently read the Stop Out match report, we wish to engage the services of your left back, Steve Hambleton. This player has unique qualities which we feel are ideally suited for the role in which we wish to employ him. We are prepared to offer terms of $2000 per week for an indefinite period. The position involves…"

            Grunter read the letter through twice before realising that his whole body was shaking and he was covered in a cold sweat. His money problems were over. Praise be to Hambleton. He turned to his PC and logged on to the Internet travel booking site.

            The large insect sat motionless, looking around him, taking in his new environment. He didn't know it, but he was a rare endangered sub-Saharan dung beetle, one of a small colony recently transferred to New Zealand with the aim of preserving the species. A female dung beetle waddled past, engrossed in rolling a large round brown ball of dung. If she'd looked closely at the male, she would have recognised a little insect grin on his little insect face. He had it all here. The climate was warmer than he'd ever known, even in the Sahara. There was dirt and excrement in vastly abundant quantities, he and his family were safe from any predators beneath the dense overhead canopy, and as the dominant male dung beetle, he had first crack at any female dung beetle he desired. What more could a dung beetle want? As the female dung beetle rolled her dung ball into the distance, he turned and followed her into the thick ginger coloured undergrowth…

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