Adam Johnson scores hattrick to lift Black Cats off bottom and keep World Cup dream alive.
The brave Adam Johnson entered the cottage, followed keenly by his 10 merry men. The great wooden doors creaked loudly open as if awoken from an ancient sleep, and they were swallowed by darkness. They passed through corridors lit by torches that flickered shapes on the paintings that adorned the walls. Johnson stopped at one of the paintings. The timeworn canvas was indistinguishable from the wall on which it clung save for the faint outline of a staff-bearing figure hiding beneath the dust.
'What is it?' Dossena asked. 'Are we going to die?'
'Al Fayed.' Johnson replied.
They kept walking. The sound of their studs ruptured the silence. They walked for what felt like miles following a coldness that danced and licked around them.
'Can you hear that?'
'I'm scared.' Wes Brown breathed.
'We're almost there.' Johnson beamed defiantly.
'I want to go back. I'm not brave like you, Alan.'
'It's Adam.'
'I'm no warrior. I'm no hero. I'm just an average injury prone defender from Longsight, Manchester.' He was tugging on the bottom of his shirt nervously.
Johnson smiled and placed his hand on Wes Brown's cheek. 'It's okay.' Johnson said. 'We're all scared. But we have travelled too long and too far to give up now. Do you want the death of Adam Mitchell to be in vain? For him to have been raped and burned alive by all those dragons for nothing?
'We are so close, Wes. We have Lord Mulensteen cowering in his stronghold. He's afraid. And he is weak. We will destroy him and free the people of Fulham from the curse bestowed upon them by the evil sorcorer Al Fayed. And you shall be a hero. All of you.'
'Hurrah!' The men cheered, and they began to run gallantly forward before slowing back down to a walk as they weren't entirely sure why they were running. A gloomy green eye winked slowly open in front of them. As they approached it grew wider and brighter, the men squinted as they pushed into the cold.
'This is it,' Johnson said. 'Our time has come.'
As they entered the pitch a voice boomed from the PA system; the stadium rumbled like the bowels of some primeval beast or lorry. 'You dare enter my fortress? You dare challenge the great Lord Mulensteen?'
'We're here to end your reign of terror and free the people of Fulham from the evil sorcerer Al Fayed's legacy of truly wrist-siltingly shit football.' Johnson bellowed.
'You'll never leave here alive.'
'Yeah! Alive, alive!' Mulentseen's frog-like sidekick Ray 'Thesaurus' Wilkins cackled excitedly.
What followed was the stuff of legends.
It was a nervy start for the Black Cats. Wes Brown, still evidently shook, gifted a chance early on to Mulensteen's dark-eyed lizard warrior Dimitar Berbatov. But still cursed by the spell of lethargy, Berbatov failed to be arsed to convert. 'That was close,' Johnson said to himself, his suit of armour shimmering as he lent forward to help Brown to his feet.
Then, Jack Colback made a similar mistake, gifting a chance to Mulensteen's bounty hunter from the planet Kamino, Adel Taarabt. However, he too was unable to open the scoring.
Johnson knew he had to act. He knew the importance of scoring first in the face of a relegation battle. And in the 29th minute, he charged bravely at the Cottagers' defence before being scythed down by Steve Sidwell. The crowd gasped. Lord Mulesnteen let out an evil laugh, as did Ray Wilkins before Mulensteen pulled the choker round his neck.
'Don't die, Alan,' Wes Brown said looking down at his fallen hero.
'I won't. It's just my thigh, I think.' Johnson replied. He got up, placed the ball on the turf, and cunted it through Stockdale's hands.
Evidently determined to lead from the front, Johnson ran at the Fulham defence again, and this time he was brought down carelessly by Mulensteen's other ginger player, Riise. However this time Johnson elected to pull the resulting free kick back to Ki, whose shot was deflected by Mulensteen's brain dead ogre Phllippe Senderos and sailed past Stockdale. You could say, he was the 'Ki' that unlocked Fulham's defence :)
Lord Mulensteen let out a blood curdling cry and turned to Gus Poyet who literally did not know what the fuck was going on. Mulensteen, knowing that each Premier League team gets to use their Pokéball once to turn the tide of a match, threw his toward the fourth official, out burst a 16th Century scale model cottage. Poyet threw his (once challenged, a manager must oblige) from which a black cat lept forth. The crowd held their breath, even the players stopped, only for the cat to walk inside the cottage and go to sleep.
But the battle was not over. Lord Mulensteen's men, enraged by their own shortcomings, rallied forward after the break and won a corner. Duff whipped it in and Sidwell was able to break free from Marco Alonso and head the ball past Mannone. The toad-like frame of Wilkins bounced around the technical area excitedly, Fulham were threatening a revival. Johnson and his men were tiring, nine of whom started in their heroic 2-1 win at Manchester United four days prior. However, Fulham failed to turn their superior possession into chances. Seeing an opportunity, Lee Cattermole, who was born a 26 year old defensive midfielder on £10,000 p/w (seriously where did he come from?), won possession from Clint Dempsey. Sunderland broke from deep, Ki raced forward leaping over mutilated bodies and other effects of war. Altidore joined the charge. He returned possession to Ki, who played Johnson in behind the struggling Riise before the winger slid the ball through Stockdale's legs.
Sunderland were sensing victory, the players cheered and rallied around Johnson. But as Altidore walked towards Johnson triumphantly, Mulensteen threw a sword to the ogre Philippe Senderos who drove it through Altidore's stomach inside the area. Altidore fell to his knees, Johnson held his weird head.
'Did I do good, boss?' Altidore spluttered. His watery child-like eyes looked up at Johnson. Wes Brown sobbed in he background.
'Yes, Jozy, you did good. You did good.'
Altidore smiled. He pulled Johnson in closer and whispered in his ear, 'Promise me one thing.'
'Anything,' Johnson replied.
'Promise me you'll go to the World Cup.'
Johnson looked over his shoulder nervously. 'Right quiet now.'
'Get off my eyes I'm not dead yet.'
'Shhh, quiet now.'
'I'm not dead-'
'Rest brave Altidore,' Johnson wrestled Altidore to the ground until he did eventually die. Wes Brown let out a wail.
'What did he say to you?' Larsson asked.
'Nothing.' Johnson replied, getting his breath back. 'Nothing.'
Johnson walked up to the penalty spot, and hammered home his hat-trick and continued Sunderland's recent winning form. As he did, the ground began to rumble and the stadium zapped into nothingness, Michael Jackson's statue disintegrated and the FA deleted Fulham's pointless name from their database. Birds sang and slowly children emerged and trickled into the streets. 'We're free! Can we support Chelsea now?'
The victory was not only good news for Sunderland fans who saw their side overtake Crystal Palace in their bid to escape from relegation zone, it also gave fresh hope to Johnson's dreams of going to the World Cup in Brazil.
"In the last few weeks and months I felt like the door was almost closed on me but now I think if I keep playing like this you never know, I might make a late shout for the plane."
"Theo is a good friend of mine. I have come through the under-19s and under-21s with him. You never want to see that [injury], I was gutted for him, but if you can gain off someone else's misfortune, you have got to try and take it. But I won't be the only one who is thinking about that. There are probably four or five good wingers who won't make the plane."
There'll also be a few shit ones, Johnson.
