WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR KEEPER FROM?

A Very Serious Sporting Tale About a Not-At-All-Serious Narwhal

You know a match has gone well when the opposition’s final words—shouted across the changing room—are: “WHERE DID YOU GET YOUR KEEPER FROM?!” Not “well played,” not “good match,” not even “what the hell was that?” Just pure bewilderment. Delicious. But to understand the legend of our keeper, we must swim back to the summer of 2019…

The Origin of the Broken Narwhal

After taking an emotional and tactical battering away in West Wickham, we discovered a rattling little lost-and-found box. Inside? A baby narwhal. Obviously. Big Finch yelled across the poolside like a Disney character having a breakdown: “LITTLE NARWHAL! ARE YOU LOST? DO YOU WANT TO JOIN OUR BLESSING?” And the narwhal, apparently possessing excellent English comprehension skills, came along. We soon learned why he’d been abandoned: he was broken. A right-handed narwhal using his left fin like some sort of rebellious aquatic toddler. Still, we let him stay for the summer, mostly because he looked cute and didn’t shed.

The Return of the Still-Broken Narwhal

Two years later, he came back. Bigger, stronger, and somehow even more confused about how sports work. We put him on the right wing, where he enthusiastically swam up and down the entire match, blissfully unaware that the ball was being fed exclusively to the left side so he wouldn’t touch it. Fourteen months, zero wins, endless enthusiasm. A golden retriever in narwhal form.

Goalkeeper by Process of Elimination

Then came our crisis: we needed a substitute keeper.

Could he pass? No.Shoot? Absolutely not.Catch? Hilarious suggestion.

Braincells? ‘Static tv noises can be heard’

Naturally, we put him in goal. If you can’t do anything else, you might as well be still and be large. Turns out he did that beautifully. After one inspirational pep talk—“Just block the ball. Literally however you want. Horn, face, emotional baggage, whatever”—he was forged in the fires of desperation into a surprisingly competent blockade. Perfect timing for the match against Enfield.

THE MATCH

It was a cup match, and thanks to the Narwhals’ legendary reputation (and possibly divine intervention), we began with a glorious 10-goal handicap lead. Eight Narwhals showed up to face an 11-strong Enfield squad, which really set the tone: this is fine, said no one.

First Quater

We lost the swim-off. Obviously. No one even pretended to be surprised. Our Narwhal keeper then pulled off a 1-v-1 save so dramatic it deserved slow motion and emotional orchestral music. —technically a comeback, emotionally a cry for help. The goal avalanche had only just begun.

Second Quarter

Lost the swim-off again. At this point it’s less a tactic and more a lifestyle choice. Our keeper, still traumatised by his lost winning streak, enters full chaos mode. Enfield go for top-corner shots. Our Broken Narwhal responds by channelling an inflatable tube man possessed by a minor water god. They keep shooting. He keeps flapping. The scoreboard reluctantly updates to 14–6. Enfield were clearly expecting a light training session, not to be emotionally bullied by an aquatic noodle with a cap on.

Third Quarter

The Incident Ah yes. The moment the universe reminded us he was still very much broken. Our narwhal climbed out of the pool, stood on the sideline like Poseidon on annual leave, and attempted a half-pool pass from dry land. The referee looked at him with the face of a man who has seen too much, aged five years, and questioned his entire involvement in aquatic sports. After the world’s gentlest rules explanation (“Water polo… requires… water”), no penalty was given, presumably out of sheer pity. The blessing froze in horror as Enfield nearly scored the freest goal known to mankind. “SILLY NARWHAL!” echoed hauntingly across the pool tiles. Redemption arc time: he then proceeds to actually do his job, as the final buzzer sounded, blocks a shot with the very tip of his “horn” (fingers, you filthy-minded reader).

Quarter ends: 16–11. Chaos levels: rising. Enfield: slowly, ominously, closing the gap.

Fourth Quarter

The pep talk was simple: Hold the ball. Don’t mess up. Please. Enfield, spiritually exhausted, could be heard muttering things like, “We should be winning,” and “Why isn’t the ball going in—he’s not even facing the right way!”. But nothing—NOTHING—got past our aquatic traffic cone of destiny (Ok maybe 4 did). We scored 4, conceded 4, and wrapped it up at 19–15. A victory so colossal it legally counts as cardio.

Post-Match Glory

For this miraculous performance, the blessing awarded him the sacred Triple Crown:

• Man of the Match

• Moment of the Match

• Fluffer

A combination not seen since… well, ever.

He also earned the honour of buying the first round and writing this report, which is why none of this should be taken seriously by historians.

George Adam BEng (Hons)

Project Engineer