Westport

Gasp! Gasp! What a shock! This is so unexpected. May I please make some prepared remarks? [Wrestles microphone away from Mark and Dave; unfurls 40 pages of computer paper in 8 point font; it’s gonna be a long speech, so these are the died remarks.] Thank you very much for this richly deserved award; I use “richly deserved” in the statistical sense because of the three rookies on Arsenal Masters, I am the only one who showed up to play. So I would like to thank Bob and Nigel for making this possible. My two teammates, combined, played for about three halves – and scored as many goals as I did. This, then, is an award by default rather than merit. This is my first year in the Arsenal family, and like all families – I’ve discovered -- its has been blessed with its share of dysfunction and elderly crazy uncles, who I am proud to call my teammates. Among the oddities I have encountered, the high and low of English culture, embodied in the contrast between our captain, Richard, and manager, Ian. Richard’s pre-match and half-time talks are given in the same earnestness as World War II movie pep talks to paratroopers. “Chaps, if we can take the bridge at Arnheim, and score three against Danbury, we’ll be home by December.” We have taken to humming “God Save Our Gracious Queen” as theme music. Richard – truly moving. Massive setbacks – such as missing a sitter,–English for “open goal”-- provoke the most Anglo-Saxon of curses: “Dash, dash, dash.” Richard, we suspect, goes home to sip G&Ts aboard his boat, christened “Rule Britania,” where he recites Rudyard Kipling from that favorite English vantage point – the poop deck. In contrast, our goal keeper carries the DNA of footballing hooliganism, which we observe when he discusses strategy with the Dutch Master during the game. Our keeper hails from the wind-swept tundra known as North East England, where the men are men and the sheep no longer bother to run away. He hails from the Toon, home of the calorific pasties, a wonderful French pastry filled -- not with, say, almond paste -- but the bloody [literally] entrails of a recently butchered animal; he drinks Nukey Brown, which we can confirm causes dementia, and speaks in a broad Northern accent, most pronounced when he urges teammates not to speak to the referee, as in “Shut the f*** up, and stop screamin’ at the referee.” Yes, wives and girlfriends, we are a strange but economical therapy group – our “dashes,” our “effens,” whether in English or American accents, combine with strange mutterings in Albanian, and the unending stream of Dutch “Hott ver dammen’s,” which, I believe, is Dutch for “ I am very sorry I didn’t make the defensive recovery run – next time I will try much harder.” But we try to get that anger out, so we can come home more loving husbands, at least emotionally so. Catch you at the far post.

Michael Winnall Award - Richard Saunders Over 30's MVP - Matt Ellis Over 30's Goalscorer - Sebastian Lazar Over 30's Rookie - George Olaru Over 30's Einstein - Kurt Putnam Over 40's MVP - Marc Sieler Over 40's Goalscorer - John Thorsen Over 40's Rookie - Paul Korngiebel Over 40's Einstein - Milenko Bilaver Gunners MVP - Jim Brooks Gunners Goalscorer - Stephen Cahill Gunners Rookie - Fergal O'Donnell Gunners Einstein - Rolf Klaeboe

Gasp! Gasp! What a shock! This is so unexpected. May I please make some prepared remarks? [Wrestles microphone away from Mark and Dave; unfurls 40 pages of computer paper in 8 point font; it’s gonna be a long speech, so these are the died remarks.] Thank you very much for this richly deserved award; I use “richly deserved” in the statistical sense because of the three rookies on Arsenal Masters, I am the only one who showed up to play. So I would like to thank Bob and Nigel for making this possible. My two teammates, combined, played for about three halves – and scored as many goals as I did. This, then, is an award by default rather than merit. This is my first year in the Arsenal family, and like all families – I’ve discovered -- its has been blessed with its share of dysfunction and elderly crazy uncles, who I am proud to call my teammates. Among the oddities I have encountered, the high and low of English culture, embodied in the contrast between our captain, Richard, and manager, Ian. Richard’s pre-match and half-time talks are given in the same earnestness as World War II movie pep talks to paratroopers. “Chaps, if we can take the bridge at Arnheim, and score three against Danbury, we’ll be home by December.” We have taken to humming “God Save Our Gracious Queen” as theme music. Richard – truly moving. Massive setbacks – such as missing a sitter,–English for “open goal”-- provoke the most Anglo-Saxon of curses: “Dash, dash, dash.” Richard, we suspect, goes home to sip G&Ts aboard his boat, christened “Rule Britania,” where he recites Rudyard Kipling from that favorite English vantage point – the poop deck. In contrast, our goal keeper carries the DNA of footballing hooliganism, which we observe when he discusses strategy with the Dutch Master during the game. Our keeper hails from the wind-swept tundra known as North East England, where the men are men and the sheep no longer bother to run away. He hails from the Toon, home of the calorific pasties, a wonderful French pastry filled -- not with, say, almond paste -- but the bloody [literally] entrails of a recently butchered animal; he drinks Nukey Brown, which we can confirm causes dementia, and speaks in a broad Northern accent, most pronounced when he urges teammates not to speak to the referee, as in “Shut the f*** up, and stop screamin’ at the referee.” Yes, wives and girlfriends, we are a strange but economical therapy group – our “dashes,” our “effens,” whether in English or American accents, combine with strange mutterings in Albanian, and the unending stream of Dutch “Hott ver dammen’s,” which, I believe, is Dutch for “ I am very sorry I didn’t make the defensive recovery run – next time I will try much harder.” But we try to get that anger out, so we can come home more loving husbands, at least emotionally so. Catch you at the far post.

Michael Winnall Award - Richard Saunders Over 30's MVP - Matt Ellis Over 30's Goalscorer - Sebastian Lazar Over 30's Rookie - George Olaru Over 30's Einstein - Kurt Putnam Over 40's MVP - Marc Sieler Over 40's Goalscorer - John Thorsen Over 40's Rookie - Paul Korngiebel Over 40's Einstein - Milenko Bilaver Gunners MVP - Jim Brooks Gunners Goalscorer - Stephen Cahill Gunners Rookie - Fergal O'Donnell Gunners Einstein - Rolf Klaeboe

Gasp! Gasp! What a shock! This is so unexpected. May I please make some prepared remarks? [Wrestles microphone away from Mark and Dave; unfurls 40 pages of computer paper in 8 point font; it’s gonna be a long speech, so these are the died remarks.] Thank you very much for this richly deserved award; I use “richly deserved” in the statistical sense because of the three rookies on Arsenal Masters, I am the only one who showed up to play. So I would like to thank Bob and Nigel for making this possible. My two teammates, combined, played for about three halves – and scored as many goals as I did. This, then, is an award by default rather than merit. This is my first year in the Arsenal family, and like all families – I’ve discovered -- its has been blessed with its share of dysfunction and elderly crazy uncles, who I am proud to call my teammates. Among the oddities I have encountered, the high and low of English culture, embodied in the contrast between our captain, Richard, and manager, Ian. Richard’s pre-match and half-time talks are given in the same earnestness as World War II movie pep talks to paratroopers. “Chaps, if we can take the bridge at Arnheim, and score three against Danbury, we’ll be home by December.” We have taken to humming “God Save Our Gracious Queen” as theme music. Richard – truly moving. Massive setbacks – such as missing a sitter,–English for “open goal”-- provoke the most Anglo-Saxon of curses: “Dash, dash, dash.” Richard, we suspect, goes home to sip G&Ts aboard his boat, christened “Rule Britania,” where he recites Rudyard Kipling from that favorite English vantage point – the poop deck. In contrast, our goal keeper carries the DNA of footballing hooliganism, which we observe when he discusses strategy with the Dutch Master during the game. Our keeper hails from the wind-swept tundra known as North East England, where the men are men and the sheep no longer bother to run away. He hails from the Toon, home of the calorific pasties, a wonderful French pastry filled -- not with, say, almond paste -- but the bloody [literally] entrails of a recently butchered animal; he drinks Nukey Brown, which we can confirm causes dementia, and speaks in a broad Northern accent, most pronounced when he urges teammates not to speak to the referee, as in “Shut the f*** up, and stop screamin’ at the referee.” Yes, wives and girlfriends, we are a strange but economical therapy group – our “dashes,” our “effens,” whether in English or American accents, combine with strange mutterings in Albanian, and the unending stream of Dutch “Hott ver dammen’s,” which, I believe, is Dutch for “ I am very sorry I didn’t make the defensive recovery run – next time I will try much harder.” But we try to get that anger out, so we can come home more loving husbands, at least emotionally so. Catch you at the far post.