After last week’s mildly traumatic points spillage on the road at Burnt Ash, the Optimists returned home determined to restore order.

Despite missing the ever-booted Chris “Boots” Stephens (resting his purple forearm) and young prodigals Arthur Ireland and Will Ball (apparently prioritising school over league dominance), the squad still boasted 15 of Kent’s finest. Lorcan Doyle returned from injury looking typically agile and fresh, and 1st XI coach Norval “Inevitable” Scott stepped in like a Norse god visiting mortals for sport. In goal, Will Paine joined us after a bleak winter playing 4th team hockey and slotted back between the sticks like he’d never left.

The equation was simple: win, and set up a mouth-watering top-of-the-table clash with Canterbury. Slip, and the dream of the Triple Crown starts feeling like folklore.

The WhatsApp group had been unusually lively in the build-up. Skipper Phil “PK” King unearthed vintage photos, including one of Coach George rocking sexy long blonde locks. Smash. Boots contributed a close-up of his bruised forearm (content no one asked for nor needed). And somewhere in between, a suggestion emerged about booking a boys’ spa morning at the new sea scrub place. Pre-match mental preparation comes in many forms.

The Line-Up

At the back: two Stones (Ben and Tom), one Ireland (Sam), and the worlds quietest man, Jack Hagger. Ali Sutton began on the bench, having flown back from Saudi the day before and demonstrating terrifyingly low calf strength in the changing room before the game.

Punctuality was outstanding. A rare sign the boys smelt blood.

Ping. Ping. Zing.

The opening 15 minutes? Possibly the best hockey we’ve played all season.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Zing. Whoosh.

The ball moved like it had somewhere important to be. Scott “Midfield Dyson” Minister hoovered everything and redistributed with defence-splitting precision. Tom Jones sliced through Old Will’s midfield like a hot knife through butter. Wardy, in a shocking twist though, couldn't stop a ball no matter the effort applied.

Ping. Ping. Zip.

Up top, Lorcan, PK and young starlet Fin Letley interchanged beautifully — sharp leads, clever rotations, chaos everywhere.

Zing. Zip. GOAL.
1–0 Lorcan Doyle. Clinical.

Ping ping ping.

Penalty corner.
Ping. Pew. Pew.
Penalty stroke.

GOAL.
2–0 PK, cool as you like.

And so it continued.
The possession machine gathered pace.

Another slick move saw Lorcan back to goal again, technical finish required. Boom. Kapow.
3–0.

Two minutes later — bouncing ball across the D. On the volley. Kaboom. PK.
4–0.

Four-nil. Twenty-two minutes played.

Three Hills purred with excitement.

But rather than continuing the onslaught, the team, in classic 3s fashion, eased off the accelerator. The zip softened. Passes loosened. No more Zing, Ping, Pow. OW’s found occasional pockets of space and conjured a couple of chances, all comfortably handled by Paine.

It remained entirely comfortable. It just wasn’t the avalanche it could have been.

Half time. George delivered a typically uplifting sermon.

The swagger took a few minutes to return. A beautiful ball fizzed across the D begging to be touched home by the diving Jack Timmins. Full stretch. Inches away. No connection. Agony for the newly-employed 18 year old.

Then, on 48 minutes, art happened.

Mike Hopkin — yes, that Mike Hopkin, the man in his 50s with flowing locks and timeless elegance — spun his defender. Still plenty to do. Tight angle. Diving reverse stick smash. Contact. A glorious backhand arrowed past the keeper.

It was unnecessary. It was magnificent.

It was 5–0.

Now then. Norval. Norval. Norval.

The cross that followed was millimetre perfect. The line. The weight. The geometry. It was sublime. The cross of dreams.

This was it. The inevitable back-post tap-in. Full stretch dive. Norv horizontal, floating, levitating, 1st and 2nd XI watching from the sidelines.

Wide.

The worst miss we've ever seen.

He lay there.

Still.

Alone.

Four minutes passed. Four minutes that must have felt like an eternity inside his head.

“How did I miss?”
“In front of the 1s too.”
“At least my family weren’t watching.”

And then the universe corrected itself, with the inevitability that we've become used to in recent weeks.

Sweeping team move. Ball into the S-zone, where he likes it. Classic Norval rough and tumble. Elbows everywhere. Reverse stick. Not pretty.

Messy.
Brilliant.
Inevitable.

6–0. Norval.

No celebration. A subtle nod. Order restored.

By now Old Will’s had run out of their famous Will’s power. Frustration bubbled. Things got physical, with the wrong man.

Mikey Hopkin stood firm. Then gave chase. Toys flew. Words were exchanged. The OW’s skipper was distinctly unhappy, resulting in a lengthy pause while calm was reintroduced to proceedings.

Hockey resumed. And Timmins the terrier was rewarded. Five minutes from time, Jack Timmins finally got what his terrier-like performance deserved. Through on goal. Composed. A delicate lift over the sprawling keeper.

7–0.

There were further chances in the closing stages — including a rare upright, back-to-goal reverse stick effort — but seven would be our lot.

Seven goals.
Clean sheet for the first time in a long time.
Statement win.

The Bigger Picture: We began the day second on goal difference to next week’s opponents, Canterbury, ten goals behind. A 7–0 victory rather tidies that up and sets the table beautifully.

Next weekend.
Tasty top of the table clash, Canterbury away. The WhatsApp will be lively this week. The spa trip remains under consideration.

Prepare well.

It’s a biggie.