Grandson 2002
Game 1
It
was a cold night in Hungary.. The
Magyar hordes were getting restless under a sky the colour of saddle-worn leg
armour.
"In
your bowstrings ?" replied his
young companion. "That's the problem with all you old Minifigs castings -
too many cheesy historical novels make you feel obliged to spout crap. Us newer
Essex figures are far more pragmatic, never mind more correctly anatomically
proportioned... well, that's what your wife said to me last...erm, sorry, forget
I said that"
Stanislavsky,
veteran of a full two dozen competitions, furrowed his brow. "What do you
mean?" he muttered in a Hungarian accent so thick you could sprinkle
paprika on it and call it a goulash.
"Well"
replied his slightly smaller but more textured on the surface compadre in arms
said, swiftly changing the subject back to the upcoming battle "whilst you
are worrying about the tautness of your bowstrings I'm a lot more concerned
about that screaming mob of Lithuanians coming over the horizon at us like a 4
tonne dice rolling down a very steep hill".
The
Hungarian army deployed conventionally, with foot protected by wagons in the
center, and Lh on the flanks. In response I had both large commands on the
flanks with the Teutons in the middle.
The
decisive moments all took place on my left where my cavalry command was looking
to get to grips with Dave's Lh at their earliest convenience. Oddly this
sentiment was shared by the Magyars and they crashed into contact with my line,
scoring a few early goals. But then, just as life started to get interesting it
suddenly got even more so, as snow started to fall as thick and fast as Swiss
banknotes fall on a bar to buy rounds of RVRB in a crap night-club.
Dave's
army were paralyzed - unable to exploit their fleeting advantage, unable to use
their greater C3, they floundered whilst the superior Lithuanian firepower (OK,
4 CvO if you want to be pedantic) was slowly applied to the fragile Lh line.
They were
going down - and they knew it. The messenger was dispatched through the blizzard
"Get the Germans!". But the wily Grand Master of the Order was having
none of it. Advancing bravely backwards the 3 Brothers cleverly (ahem) drew in
the line of spear and waited for their moment to excel.
The Grand
Master emerged from his winnebago and sniffed the wind. "Get Spielberg up
here now!" he barked imperiously. "At last we have a script worthy of
our talents. Lights! Camera! Action!".
The
Teutons swung round onto the flank of the unprotected spearmen - now even bereft
of their supporting Psiloi after more wagon-based intervention. General, 2
overlaps, 2 ranks of spear - as the old Master
himself said afterwards
"Vorsprung durch better dice dear boy,
Vorsprung durch better dice!"
Game over
3-0.
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Revised: February 10, 2008