KIT REPORT OF THE WEEK

Half of Boro’s matchday squad had gone badly wrong on their journey, and they knew it. They reached the stile at which the by-path terminated and once more gained the high road. It was approaching two o'clock now. Still miles away from Reigate’s replacement pitches, they doubled their pace, fearing to miss kick off.

Their iPhones bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just 0.7 miles from that spot to the ground. Time growing ever shorter, they jumped upon their feet, and again walked forward until, at long last, they reached their destination.

A gruesome sight awaited them. This season’s kit, into which the less topographically challenged half of the team had already changed, looked ragged and worn to an extent that belied its mere 12 months of use. The pile of spare shirts, shorts and socks was spilling haphazardly from the kitbag, over which loomed the unfortunate figure of Captain Cal.

His villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of dirt. He was dressed in a crimped, crumpled red ‘Nike’ shirt with no sign of a captain’s armband; and seemed to be dividing his attention between his phone and his nostrils, from which a great number of objects were hanging. Several rough bundles of clothes were huddled side by side on the floor; these, unfurling themselves, were revealed to contain four or five Wandsworth players, none older than Mills, clutching the small of his back with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their captain as he whispered a few words to them, and then turned around and grinned at the latecomers.
….
Two hours later, Boro’ began the long return voyage to London, having succumbed to a 4-3 defeat at the hands of last season’s league champions. Reigate, dazzlingly bedecked in majestic green, retired to the home changing room to deposit their pristine, uncreased shirts into the hands of their own team captain.