04/05/2026
Final game of the season. Simple equation: win, or don’t.
We turned up with a hefty 12-man squad. Depth that Pep Guardiola would glance at and say, “hmm, bit light.” Meanwhile, Rushden had what appeared to be an entire coaching department. At one point I counted more tracksuits than players.
Kick-off, and we did what we do best, neat football, moving it about nicely, looking like a team that had, at the very least, met each other before. Five minutes in though, disaster. Superstar right back Jacob Hudson’s hamstring starts pinging like a dodgy guitar string.
Ten minutes gone and on comes 38-year-old midfield general Marc Smith — a man held together by experience, grit, and what I can only assume is Vicks.
Dan Llewellyn drops to right back, and while he’s been excellent this season especially in CDM you could see the midfield shape wobble slightly. Like a pub table with one short leg. Still usable… but not ideal.
We kept creating chances, but finishing them proved about as easy as assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions.
Archie Shaw, the midfield engine smashes one against the post with their keeper well beaten. Proper hit. The sort that deserved a goal and a small round of applause.
Then Rushden score.
Goal kick, flicked on by what I can only describe as a 9-foot central midfielder, a man built like a lamppost with opinions. No challenge on him (again headers in midfield, our seasonal nemesis), and their striker runs through and finishes. Efficient. Brutal. Like a tax bill.
We regroup. Owen Butt attempts a bicycle kick… and misses the ball entirely. Not even a glancing blow. It was less “Wayne Rooney” and more “man slipping on ice outside Greggs.” Perhaps a header would’ve sufficed.
Will Truman then whips a free kick just wide. Close. Very close.
Half time: 1-0 down, but comfortably the better side. Which, if you’ve followed this season, will sound hauntingly familiar.
Second half, Hudson returns after giving his hamstring what can only be described as a firm talking-to. And again — it’s all Albion. Post, crossbar, keeper making saves ranging from routine to “alright, fair play.”
Quick nod to Nick Hunter in goal in his final game, called into action when needed and once again solid. Growing into the role game by game, like a man slowly realising he’s actually quite good at this whole goalkeeping thing. Calm, assured, dependable. Lovely stuff.
We then roll the tactical dice. Top scorer James Lewis is pushed from centre back to… somewhere up front. Centre forward? Left wing? Floating entity? Even he’s not entirely sure. Llewellyn drops back again and, like clockwork, the midfield shape goes slightly AWOL.
Corey Pert goes clean through with his first touch in an advanced role and rattles the bar. At this point the goal frame had taken more punishment than a Sunday roast.
Rushden break. Owen Butt is chasing back like a man who’s just remembered he left the oven on. Out of nowhere, Hudson — whose hamstring was previously held together by hope — tears past him like The Flash… only to run straight into the Rushden winger. Momentum: impressive. Outcome: Inevitable.
Full time: 1-0 loss.
A frustrating one. Dominated large parts, hit everything but the net, and come away with nothing. Classic Sunday league heartbreak — like ordering a kebab and realising they’ve forgotten the garlic sauce.
But… the attitude was spot on. The lads knew they’d played well, knew they were the better side, and while it doesn’t put points on the board, it takes the sting out of it slightly.
Season done.
Credit to Rushden, took their chance, defended well, job done.
As for us? Plenty to build on.
Now someone get Marc Smith an ice bath and a lie down.
