It was another week of despair for The Rose & Crown as they crashed to yet another humiliating defeat, this time 5-3 at the hands of struggling Sandridge Rovers.
Having lost 6-2 in their previous two encounters and being continually plagued by injury and illness, the sparkle that was all so evident after brilliant performances against The Crooked Billet and The Inn on The Green was no where to be seen. The impetus had gone and along with it the confidence and the enthusiasm, replaced by a nervousness and edginess that would have a stadium full of Arsenal supporters salivating at the prospect of humiliating yet another unfortunate underachiever. But Sandridge Football Club was no place for jeering supporters. The harrowing sound of whistles and boos sent down to greet such individuals could not be heard on this cold (for some people) winters night. Instead the only audible sound to greet the players of The Rose & Crown was the eerie silence that trailed in the wake of a certain Grim Reaper as he scythed his way through the team.
This was the evening the lid was firmly nailed down on a plain and simple wooden casket that contained not that of the lifeless body of the Rose & Crown dart team or indeed the shiny tungsten barrels that they plied their trade with, This was the evening the notion of darts, the mere idea of darts, the pure thought of darts died for the Rose and Crown and there in lieth it’s soul.
For this we offer a small prayer.
Our Father who art made of tungsten,
Taylor be thy name.
Thy dart team come,
And victories won,
In St.Albans as well as in Harpenden
Give us this day our full team of eight.
And forgive us our missed doubles,
As we forgive those who miss doubles against us!
And lead us not into the second division,
But deliver us from relegation.
For thine is the dartboard, “The Power” and the oche.
For ever and ever. Amen
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