A week on, and the Toffification still stings. Having said that, there was precious little mickey-taking at work, probably because, despite less horrific scorelines, the performances of them up the road and the smoggies were less ept than ours. Still, there is always an opposition fan when you get beat, and this last week it’s been Smithy using the tannoy to ask me to call extension 7171. Smartarse. On the up side, even the mags have been saying that they’d rather be in our position of having a young manager who looks like he’s going somewhere with a squad that might improve than theirs – with someone rapidly turning into a dinosaur in charge of a bunch of gold-diggers. Sod the trophies, gimme the money. As they say, eggs today are still sometimes better than chickens tomorrow.
Apparently.
Just when we thought Derby were going down the pan, they hoyed out Billy “Bampot” Davies and brought in Paul Jewell, who (hopefully) won’t have had time to instil any sort of winning belief in his new charges. Wigan took on Steve Bruce, who, whatever you may think of him, did the right thing in getting out of the shambles that is now Birmingham City’s new regime. Brum moved swiftly to replace the English ginger, broken-nosed former centre-half with Alex McLeish, a Scottish ginger, broken-nosed, former centre-half. Harry Redknapp, who has preformed well since I decided to slag him off in print, got himself arrested for being daft enough to have been involved in selling a player to Honest Fred Shepherd, but was allowed out in time to tell the papers how angry he is. Good reading, and slightly better than our very own A. Cole, who told the nation’s press how bad last weekend had been for him – “I couldn’t take the dog for a walk, because I haven’t got a dog.” I have the same problem, mate, so please score a few goals and have something better to say.
Perhaps the most surprising thing has been the fact that, despite being third bottom and having just shipped seven goals with barely a whimper of resistance, we had sold 43,000 tickets for today’s game by closes of play on Thursday. At a time when fans, having been booted up the bracket twice in the last four years, could have been excused for having at least a temporary break from SAFC, we put last weekend behind us and turn out in force to show our faith. Without wanting to sound too narcissistic, we’re a set of bloody miracle, who should all be on the Queen’s New Year’s Honours list. Mine’s a bottle of Maxim, yer Majesty.
As Christmas approaches, there is the perennial problem of presents. I’ve long since given up trying to think of owt interesting for people to give me ( a few CDs and a few bottles of choice beer), I’m only trusted to buy one (apart from whatever I get for our lass, obviously, which is generally a promise of a quiet Saturday afternoon) and that’s for her cousin Rog. Who’s a mag, but has bought SAFC related stuff for my bairns in the past, so I don’t object to trawling the tinterweb for suitable (and possibly mag related) nonsense. Problem is my Ebay username, which seems to encourage people to outbid me. First person to guess what it is can have a pint.
At least Kenwyne Jones, after a dodgy rib, was declared fit to lead the Lads’ Crusade in what was a relegation nine-pointer. The rest of the team, Ward (surprise, no shock, no problem) Halford, Higgi, Macca, Collins, Whitehead, Leadbitter, Edwards, Wallace, and Cole. Should be good enough to beat Derby.
Aye, we’ve heard that one before.
Luxury travel today – for the first time, we had a lavvy, and running water, so it was only natural for Wally to mess about with the hot tap and create a mini-sauna. We also had a radio that worked, which was nice, but had to listen to Ref Winter’s Teesside whining – “pehhhmo pehhmo” all the way to sunny Sunderland. Random fact of the day – the toilets at the Saltgrass have just been tiled by someone whose father in law played for Boro. So there you go, save that one for the pub quiz.
So the team started with a positive shape, and in a positive mood. Darren Moore, so often a rock on which we’ve stumbled in the past, started as he meant to go on in his heavyweight bout with Kenwyne with a foul, and from the whipped in free kick, Higgi glanced a header goalwards that was comfortably saved. Halford feed Jones, who won a throw, and got the ball hoyed back towards him but couldn’t get enough height to win the ball. McShane then produced a bodycheck of WWF proportions on the edge of our box that had me worried, but Halsey saw nothing wrong and we were away again down the right. The aforementioned positive shape seemed to melt away as Whitehead sat in front of the back four with Grant directly in front of him, which left a lot of space between the central midfield and the wings. Carlos dinked in a cross from deep which Jones just failed to connect with, then their keeper hoyed the ball straight out. In a spell of nice passing, Collins found Jones, who found Cole, who found Edwards, who found the keeper rather than the back of the net.
After ten minutes, it looked like one of two things would happen. Either we’d go to town and score a hatful, or (as is usually the case) we’d pezzle them and fail to score.
Guess which one we chose?
Barnes shot from distance and Ward saved well, then we moved the ball well across the field as Cole fed Wallace instead of shooting, and we won a corner, then another, from which the ball came out to Deano who found Leadbitter. The cross was poor, however, and the chance was gone. Cole then shook off his marker to burst through the middle but, where his legs would have carried him around the keeper in days gone by, he shot early and well wide on 14 minutes. At the other end, McShane was in need of some beta-blockers as he ran around like a mad bugger. No chance of a calm trap and pass from this boy, but at least he set up yet another attack from which we shot just wide after a break down the right. Halford won a throw then a corner, which Wallace eventually got into the box, but Cole fell as he received the ball and his shot bounced over the bar.
It was getting to be a bit fraught, at least in the stands, as we piled forward but failed to trouble the keeper. Halford and Edwards combined to whip in a cross, and Cole’s header flashed just wide. Getting closer. Wallace showed some great skill to lose his man and feed Jones, but Moore flattened our man. Jones then got the ball on the right, carried across the edge of the box, and scuffed his shot wide of the near post. Getting closer, but Leadbitter had to track back well to win an important tackle and get the ball to Whitehead, who found Halford and the big lad cut inside and curled a left-footer just wide. Getting closer, and Jones ran forward and had a shot charged down before Edwards shot wide.
Thirty minutes in and we’d had about a dozen attempts but failed to hit the target. Their keeper continued his attempts to keep us amused with a free kick that sailed straight out, the Wallace passed to Jones who slashed at the ball and over it went. Derby then broke, Howard, ex Poolie and a dorty mag to boot, punched the ball onto the roof of the net but ref Halsey saw fit to pass no comment. A bout of centre-circle wrestling ended with a drop-ball, then Collins called for and won McShane’s free-kick, knocking it down to Cole, who was crowded out. Derby broke again and Ward produced a fine save to tip the ball onto the past and away, but McShane soon after conceded a foul 25 yards out and central. Thankfully, the wall did its job and the resultant corner saw Ward clattered with both hands on the ball (looked like a foul to me) and Deano cleared off the line. We attacked again, Leadbitter ‘s shot was spilled, Jones shot came back off the post, then their keeper stopped a backpass with his hands. No offence in Halseyland, and so the half wound down to 0-0.
No changes after the break, and it’s fair to say Derby came out the stronger, as we appeared unable to put a foot on the ball, and Whitehead seemed out of touch after his long lay-off. Halford won the ball, not for the first or last time, and broke forward, switched play to the left, but it ended up back with Ward. Wallace then beat three men only to fall over at the crucial, cross-delivering moment, and when we did win a free-kick, there were ironic cheers for the ref, who’d seemed to be watching a game other than football for most of the afternoon. Cole fed Carlos with a great ball, but his low cross was cleared, then the ref waved play-on after a challenge that would normally result in a custodial sentence. Two identical free-kicks from Wallace on the right ended with identical punches form the keeper, and time ticked down. Chops replaced Cole on 63, Leadbitter shot after Edwards decided not to, the rebound fell to Deano who hit Chopra’s arse. Baines, who’d spent most of the day holding his face as if he’d just been punched, left the field, and we announced that Stokes would be replacing Wallace, who’d spent the last ten minutes (probably under instruction to get closer to Jones) in the middle, but Edwards got crocked and the ball stayed “live” for four minutes before Carlos left the field. Stokes came on, and produced a performance that was a microcosm of his career – moments of brilliance interspersed with moments of high clumsiness. A shot from 35 yards high, wide, and less than handsome, a fantastic one-two, a great turn, a pass to nobody. Shot came in, headers went wide, Miller replaced Leadbitter, Ward’s big free-kick won a corner via a save, then Halford fired just over.
Just when it seemed to late for even us, Jones saw his effort saved, the ball was in the air, and Stokes, standing on the line, produced and overhead kick to win it. Of course, he went mental, half the crowd joined him at the corner flag, and he got booked. 93 minutes, whey yer bugger, and to all those who left early, it won’t look nearly as good, or feel anywhere near as good, on the telly.
Happy Days
Keep the faith
Man of the Match? Close call, with Halford runner-up to Collins.
Sobs' Book click here...
|
