Out of the house at 12:15 I skip down the road listening to loud music to buy papers. Once on tube I skilfully skim read papers, shedding supplements (e.g. 'Your Boring Children'and 'Cock Cars') as I go. I head to Earlsfield, home of the mighty Spencer Harlequins, or Spencer Hockey Club 8ths. I play here because for around 9 seconds when I first moved to London I lived in Balham, and I'm the loyal/stupid type.
Ed generally arrives first, with his labradors. I'm the only person in the world to greet labradors more eagerly than they greet me, so I always feel a bit of a loser at this point. Jerry often arrives early and like me enjoys warming up by twatting the ball as hard as he can. Mark arrives and makes some sort of comment about Pommie bastards and the England cricket team, and I generally respond by asking how he's feeling about Camilla Parker Bowles being his next Queen.
Doc and JP arrive and all is well with the world. With men like these, no country is beyond repair and no team is ever truly beaten.
The game starts and it's 80 minutes of pure happiness. As earnest as it is lacking in skill, we are all about the effort, the never giving in, the overcoming of adversity. It's always been the same. Pricey often goes off, but he's Welsh so he's excused. I shout and swear a lot and run a lot because I don't like losing. Francis screams 'shoot!' whenever anyone gets into the D and the Dutchman Richard generally says 'hey, let's chill out yeah?' which drives me fucking insane. Then the whistle goes, and we trudge back up the hill to the clubhouse, following the ghosts of men who've done this for over a century.
Beer and food in the club house is best when it's darkest outside. The warm glow comes partly from the lights and TV, and partly from Flo's chilli sauce. We watch as the results come in, and Posh Gus hangs about hoping for seconds, grinning. The banter is inane to everyone but us, as is proved each year at the hockey ball when partners come along. But I've played for this team for 13 years and they are part of me. And part of me at my very best, too.
I leave the clubhouse reluctantly, but happy (if we've won). Tube home then either out to a club til 5am and breakfast in Shoreditch, or stay in for Match of the Day and a nice cup of tea. The latter generally.
The great thing is I know how great these days are, and I know they're selfish. So I treasure them and guard them and extract all the life I can out of them. And I know I'm blessed to have once been a Spencer Harlequin.
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