Old Chigwellians - Arthur Dunn Cup R1 (H)

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Lancing 4–3 Chigwell: a cup tie written in crayon and thunder

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Cup days at Lancing College feel like putting a bottle rocket in a teacup, civilised lawns bracing for chaos. And chaos turned up in a scarf. Lancing, the pocket-sized David, welcomed Chigwell, a Goliath with broad shoulders and a suitcase full of reputation. No recognised goalkeeper? No problem, Captain Frankie buttoned on the gloves like a ship’s captain grabbing the wheel in a storm, equal parts bravado and borrowed padding.

 

The opening act belonged to Alex Bilton, centre-back by trade, hat-maker by vocation. He rose for the first like a cathedral spire, 1–0, a thumping header that echoed off the chapel and felt suspiciously Ramos-ish. 

 

Bilton kept auditioning for a documentary called 'Centre Backs Who Forgot Their Place'. He galloped up for another set piece, bullied space like a seasoned number nine, and bullied the ball like Ronald Koeman in a mood, 2-0. It was the kind of scoring sheet you draw in the margins with exclamation marks: CB (2). Chigwell blinked; Lancing winked.

 

But cup games breathe funny air. Chigwell’s response came in strides: first 2–1, a neat finish that clipped the strings of Frankie’s improvised net-minding; then 2–2, a page out of the LOBs books with a back post header. The home crowd shifted from choir to drumline. Frankie, captain and caretaker of the sticks, started patrolling the box like a lighthouse, punching one cross and scooping another as though he’d been keeping goal since conkers were currency.

 

With the LOBs on the ropes, set piece turned saviour again. A well whipped ball in from Sully was a touch too close to the keeper who opted to punch out. Unfortunately for him, he punched it straight into Isaac’s face. Fortunately, his face is more clinical than his right boot and the ball sailed into the back of the net. 3-2 LOBs. 

 

Chigwell, affronted, levelled again at 3–3 from a breakaway that scattered red shirts like pigeons on the quad.

 

The game then turned into a seesaw placed on a trampoline, end to end, gasp to gasp. Frankie produced a sprawling save that looked half-textbook, half-jazz improv—right arm strong, left leg argumentative, everything just enough. Lancing’s full-backs flew forward like paper planes, Chigwell’s midfield kept pulling them down and refolding them into fighter jets.

 

And then, hat-tricks have a way of announcing themselves. Another corner. Another pilgrimage of tall shirts to the penalty spot. Bilton, part battering ram, part metronome, slipped his marker as if stepping out of a crowded lift and met the delivery with his right foot, 4–3. Ramos heat, Terry timing, Koeman numbers, pick your analogy, they all fit like gleeful metaphors on a scoreboard.

 

The final minutes were a pocket watch disassembled, springs everywhere. Chigwell slashed one wide, Lancing countered with the enthusiasm of a dog that’s just heard the word “park.” Frankie clutched a last cross to his chest like a borrowed library book due yesterday, took the sting out of the moment, and lay there for a heartbeat to let the world catch up.

 

Whistle. Release. Pandemonium.

 

This wasn’t just a cup tie, it was a fairy tale narrated by a commentator with glitter on their notes. Lancing, homespun, home-backed, sent the bigger name packing with a defender’s hat-trick and a captain between the posts. Bilton left with a ball under his arm and membership in that mischievous club of high scoring centre backs who treat set pieces like personal harvests. Frankie left with grass on his sleeves and the quiet knowledge that sometimes leadership is just saying, “Fine, I’ll do it,” and then actually doing it.

 

On days like this, the cup remembers why it exists. David didn’t just bring a sling, he brought a centre back who scores like a striker, a captain who moonlights as a goalkeeper, and a college green that turned into a small, roaring kingdom.*

Disco

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*The chronology of the goals might not be accurate, but why put facts in the way of a good story - Ed​​​