The language of Sunday League Football

Sunday League Football. Where fitness levels are, at best, questionable. Where hangovers are a given. Where playing surfaces are atrocious. Where a half time fag is acceptable. Where the lad who once had trials with United is marked out of the game by a 43 year old plasterer from Wigan. Proper football. And we love it.

It’s also where a set of cliche phrases have emerged. Everyone knows them. Everyone knows what they mean, kind of. And nobody questions them.

Here we look at the language of Sunday League Football starting with a classic, “Straight in.” Usually accompanied with a clap of the hands, strikers are urged to chase the ball down like fuck and get a foot in if it’s played backwards. Typically the moment quickly passes as the ball is sent from back to front for the big man up top. The phrase is merely a sign of intent. You’re hanging out your ass, rough as toast, but giving it the “straight in lads” shows you’re up for this. You’re definitely not.

***

‘It’s still 0-0’ followed by ‘the job’s not done yet’ means the game’s over. You’re 7-0 up. It’s embarrassing. It’s a mauling. But your skipper doesn’t want the standard to drop. He wants the clean sheet.

He hasn’t turned up rough and paid a fiver to let this lot bag a consolation goal. Not a chance. He’s taking no prisoners. Inevitably you concede. He’s absolutely raging. Same again next week.

***

The ball drops from the air to the sound of ‘time’. There’s nobody on. The boys have made that very clear. Take a touch. Pick a pass. Don’t be daft that’s not happening. Without hesitation the ball is volleyed back where it came from, you’re not taking any risks. You’re a goal up, why would you? The gaffer’s fuming.

Two minutes later same happens again. The ball drops from the air, Dave at centre back gives the shout. This time you’re composed. You take one touch. Two touch. Head up. Ready to split the defence. Crunch. You’ve been snapped from behind. Where’s the fucking man on?

***

The opposition have a throw in deep inside their own half. They’re under pressure. Your gaffer senses this. “Pen ‘em in” he shouts, a classic Sunday League phrase. “We’ve got ‘em here” he adds. You haven’t.

The throw is quickly taken. They clear their lines just as you’re pushing forward. The long ball from their centre half catches your entire defence off guard. You’re back pedalling as their striker goes clean through and slots the ball into the bottom corner. They’ve gone from defence to attack in a matter of seconds. The Gegenpress, “you know, the one Klopp swears by” has failed you. Your gaffer’s fuming. Undone by route one football. It’s a small victory for the traditionalists out there. Big Sam, Pulis, Dychy. They’d all be proud.

***

It’s gone quiet. The ball’s gone out of play for a goal kick and it’s reached that point in the game where nobody can quite be assed. You’re a goal down. It’s pissing it down and you just wanna hear the full time whistle. But instead, with 30 minutes to go, you hear your gaffer from the sideline scream “where’s the talking!?” he’s like a rabid dog. Foaming at the mouth. “Chill out, it’s Sunday League” you think to yourself. Within seconds the skipper responds with a half hearted “C’mon lads, let’s get stuck in.” He can’t be assed either. Nobody can. What a waste of a morning. You’re one sprint away from throwing up on the touch line. You feel horrific. But you can guarantee you’ll be back next week for more of the same.