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Grief wraps its glacial fingers around our hearts in many ways. Seeing Victor Aneochebe on the team sheet is one of them.
The rain fell hard today in the Stadium of Emptiness and the option of who would play forward weighed heavy upon David Moyes. He looked at his choices around the Dressing room and saw wet towels, old stained underwear, our substitute goal keeper, whatever his name is, Victor, and Moyes made his choice; and chose wrong.
Spelt backward, 'Bolton' may be 'Bitch-ass,' but the only 'boltons' on this pitch today wore blue. Everton played as though the ball was emitting high frequency whistles that hurt their ears when they got near it--if so, Baines and Bily must have been wearing ear plugs because from the midfield up they're the only ones who were up for it.
The cameras caught Jose Baxter telling Moyes:
"Boss, I think I can--"
"Shut it."
"Sorry."
I don't mean to wander here, but I once had an uncle, who, whenever he was asked how he was doing, responded with a sour look and then making a large fart noise, but not with his lips. Then a stain would spread across the rear part of his trowsers and he'd walk away as though nothing had happened. Which is what Everton did whenever they crossed midfield. The Bolton side.
They looked pretty damn good in their own half, though. They splashed around like retarded children wearing water wings in the shallow end, not bothering anybody until the ref told Gary Cahil: "You know, you got a bad break last week and the football gods have told me to make it up to you. What would you like?" Cahil looked down at his shirt, and said, "Well, I already got me a sperm stitched on me kit, how about a free kick?"
The ref agreed. Cahill called "Bank off some numbnut's head, off the Swedish guy's arm." The ref nodded his head, blew the whistle and Cahill's shot was good.
With ten minutes left in the half Everton found bits of their manhood and ventured further into Bolton territory but scuttled back quickly when they were told to piss off.
Jose Baxter got up, walked up to Moyes and said, "Um, boss...?"
"Fuck off."
"Right. I'll just sit down, then."
HALFTIME
The team was the same for the second half, except Vic looked suspiciously like a sack of russet potatoes with a blue top on and a short fellaini wig--in fact it was pretty hard to tell the two apart.
Bolton, apart from the goal had done little other than hold a limping competition. Until the runner up of said competition, (the winner was stretchered off) popped up on the right, unmarked and beat the unfortunate Howard.
"Um, boss...?"
"Shut it."
"Yessir."
Moyes finally made some substitutes. Finally, Beckford on, Vic off...Oh, Vic isn't coming off? (grief smiley) What followed was the rampant Beckford making gallant heart pounding runs, gutting Bolton's defence time after time. It would have been awesome if somebody had passed him the ball.
Vic began to wander around the pitch like a grandfather who just lost his bus token.
Moyes got up. "Baxter!"
"Yeah, boss?"
"You holding any weed?"
(sigh) "No."
"Get in, then."
What followed was a dazzling display not seen in recent Everton lore. Jose pounced whenever he spied the ball. He shot, and shot and shot. To be honest it didn't seem like he was shooting at anything. Mostly he just seemed pissed off. Well, well, well. Welcome to the club.
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