It’s a couple of weeks since we last caught up with Howard’s Juicebox, the five-a-side team we’ve been tracking as they struggle with their first season. So has their luck improved? Here’s our man in the camp, Chuck WB, to tell us…

“I sat on the 20.18 train to Hackney Wick, precariously cradling a rather large cardboard box. Contrary to what you would probably like to believe, I was actually carrying a box that had our fresh new kits inside. I say fresh, well seven of them definitely were fresh. There is a small chance that one of them had been worn a fair bit over the previous week, not because I’d played any football in it, no, just because I’d shown it off to my housemates, and any visitors, including the postman, every day.

I arrived at Olly’s house and quickly split a Double Decker Duo with Alex, which has now become a weekly thing, each week we alternate who buys it. I like to think of it as a team bonding exercise, admittedly a rather poor one. Kilshaw, Alex, Olly and I all bundled into a car and headed towards Rob and David’s. Usually we go straight to the pitch, but this time we were taking a detour. Why? I hear you scream at your computer screens. For the Howard’s Juicebox kit-launch of course!

We turned up at theirs expecting all the usual press; The Guardian, Four Four Two and, because our kit was ground-breakingly dashing, possibly Vogue. To our shock nobody was there, they must have got the wrong night, their loss.

We all got changed into our kits and jogged down to Haggerston Park, the full squad in unison. We must have looked like a team from the future as we made the trip, I imagine that both the traffic and the pedestrians came to a halt in a mass of stares, such is the beauty of our kit design, but none of us really know, that’s the level of focus that the Juicebox is operating on these days.

We warmed up with some light stretching and a spot of casual passing. This was about the time I pulled the secret weapon from my bag, the captain’s armband. Without even taking a moment to consider everyone else’s opinion, I put it on, I would be captain on this cold winter’s eve and there would be no debate. So I led “my” team onto the pitch with a sense of pride. The starting line-up consisted of Jack, Kilshaw, Rob, Alex and myself. With Locky, David and Olly on the sidelines.

Tonight’s opposition would be “Joe Cole’s Bedtime Stories”, I would love to make a joke, but when I play for a team called “Howard’s Juicebox” who am I to talk? The whistle blew and we kicked off, Jack played the ball to my feet and I was ever so slightly nudged off the ball, losing possession in the process. This would not do. I stormed back into the player’s path and gave new meaning to the expression “shoulder to shoulder”. The ref blew for a foul, which in hindsight was probably the right decision.

After a couple more touches on the ball I soon realised that my shins were causing me extreme agony. Lesson learned: don’t spend 3 hours playing football on concrete the day before a match. Such was the pain that I quickly rolled off the pitch and onto the bench. Obviously the team needed a leader more than I realised because we quickly let a goal in, I was beginning to understand how much Steven Gerrard and I have in common.

The play remained stifled and nothing seemed to be working. I stood on the sidelines and things weren’t looking great, so I got vocal. After a couple of chants that the referee might have found a little degrading, I got threatened with the sin-bin and soon piped down. I needed to get out there to really make a difference. David rolled off and I rolled on.

The lack of energy was affecting my play and my feet were heavy. I went in late in our own box, but the ref let it slide, “Joe Cole’s Bedtime Stories” were too busy complaining to notice us blitzing it up the field and Jack smashing the ball in the back of the net. I’m rarely on the wrong side of injustice, but I’m not going to lie, goals taste sweet however they come. What tastes less sweet however, is when you concede only seconds after you have scored. Considering the nature of our goal, I suppose thats what they refer to in the business as karma.

In the second half things went from bad to worse, at least on a personal level. If earlier I had reminded (if only myself) of a certain captain Steven Gerrard, going by the second half performance I was much closer to Vinnie Jones in his Wimbledon days. I should have been arrested. My tackling was atrocious. We went on to concede again, with us leaving Alex helpless and the same trickster finishing off his hat-trick in fine style.

Apart from that the second half was fairly short on chances, most likely due to my incessant fouling constantly breaking up the play. Now I’m not a violent person by nature, I’m generally considered quite passive and would be terriffed to get in a fight, even if I was a professional boxer. But the blood was rushing and the responsibility could only have been that of the weight of the captain’s armband resting on my right bicep. Frodo had his ring and I had my armband. The fires of Mordor burned in us both.

The final whistle blew and I pulled off the captain’s armband and was taken over by a huge cloud of shame. Shaking the opposition’s hands after the match I was too embarrassed to even look them in the eyes

We organized to meet for our first social (watching football at the pub) for the coming Sunday. I made it clear to everyone that armband was going on rotation, so the burden could be shared amongst the team. And just like that Howard’s Juicebox disappeared into the night.”