Sunderland travelled to the ground that the fewest football fans can point to on a map, Gillingham, and brought back all three points from a hard-fought encounter. A leveller in first half added time allowed for a second half in which we improved our general play, but we had to dig deeper than we’ve dug so far this season to claim the win. A straight red for Embo didn’t help, but we showed real character to grind out the win in probably the least attractive performance of the season. Pompey doesn’t count, for obvious aquatic reasons, and 2-1 away will do for me, thank you very much Lads.
The day started well, as I didn't have to leave the house until after eight, but I was then mistaken, at Darlo station, for a Blade by a Teesside-based Sheffield Utd fan. A canny chat was had before I linked up with Little Pete, who, in the absence of Big Pete, will be referred to a plain Pete for the duration.
After the Pompey shenanigans, the presence of my match ticket was triple-checked, and the train ride to Medway thankfully uneventful. After a nice beer in the Will Adams, things threatened to go wrong when we couldn't find the next pub - it turns out they'd moved it fifty yards up the road. Cheeky beggars – but at least the rain which had threatened on the journey east from London turned out to be nowt more than a passing shah, as they say in those parts – just as well, as we were housed in the very open Brian Moore Kerplunk Stand. Daftly large queues meant that I missed the first two minutes, but it only took seconds to work out that we were lined up...
Hoffmann
Winchester Doyle Flanagan Cirkin
O'Nien Neil Embleton
Pritchard Stewart O'Brien
...and they had kicked off towards the kerplunk stand, and we had a little spell of half decent play which included a cheeky backheel from Pritch then a shot from O'B which was woefully weak, but at least it was a statement of intent. We were treated to a repeated fly-past by a plane towing a “Scally Out” banner, which I assume is Kent’s equivalent of “gerraway Ashley”.
...and for the next half hour, that was about as much intent as we got. OK, a bit unfair, as there was plenty of intent with O'9 bossing the middle of the park, but nothing seemed to click going forward. Embleton tried to feed Stewart, but the defence was quick off the mark and got there first, and instead of us employing what is now referred to as the high press, we were forced to chase the ball in our own half. Not what we’ve become accustomed to at all, and Hoff had to deal with a decent shot, then the subsequent corner as the visiting fans continued to squeeze into their stand. We in that stand were wondering what we had to do to get control of the game – one that I’m sure Evans would have made a difference in – and we were very obviously lacking a naturally wide player like Geads or Dujaku (spelling - y’knaa, the new German lad), even though Pritch buzzed about as much as he could. A Gills attack moved into our box from their left, and Luke swung a leg at the ball, was half a second late, and felled the attacker. Penner all day, as the lad in front of kept saying. You’re supposed to complain, man!
Anyway, despite the howls of protest and our best efforts to put him off, Lloyd blasted the spot-kick down the middle with Hoff going to his right. 25 minutes gone, and it was hard to say that we deserved any better, but that goal, and the noise from the 2,000 travellers, seemed to galvanise the Lads. Not that we suddenly turned into Brazil, we just seemed to settle down a bit and start to play the football we wanted rather than the football Gillingham would allow us to play. O’9 in particular was picking up the ball and putting into dangerous places. Having said that, the home side came sort of close to doubling their advantage with a shot that whizzed a foot wide.
Hoffman was forced into a decent save, which he had to repeat from the subsequent corner - of which there were far too many for my liking. We sort of held on until the three or four (sorry, the note on the back of my hand got blurred) minutes of added time were announced, then we actually put together a good attack, playing it across the field and out to the right. Dan Neil took aim and flung one to the back post, where O’B held off his marker to stick out a boot to fire it back across the keeper and in. Pandemonium in the bouncy away end – it’s not like us to score at such a crucial time, is it? I didn’t really care, as I thought that was the turning point of the game – and it proved to be true.
No changes for the second half, during which I’d watched a sparrowhawk scaring the daylights out of the pigeons above the Medway Stand – a good omen, I thought ( as is anything when you’re not winning). We looked much more like the Lads we’ve grown to know and love (not that we didn’t love them anyway, but you get my drift) and, roared on by the massed ranks in the Kerplunk Stand, began to shift it about a bit, with Winch and Cirkin doing their level best to make up for the lack of a winger by pushing the home fullbacks.... back. Embo had the chance to do something with a free a few yards outside the box, but spooned it high over the bar as we sought the winner – but we didn’t have long to wait. Moving down the right, we won a free and a corner, which was cleared, but Pritch won the ball back on our right and put it invitingly to the back post, where Flan, stil up for the corner, rose to nod it in, clattering into the post in the aftermath. Get in, Flan – a brave header, outmuscling his marker and being big and strong.
At this stage, with half an hour to go, it looked very much like we’d run away with it, as the home side looked decidedly dejected and sick of themselves, and Stewart was beginning to show his worth - but that all changed. The ball ran loose from a challenge near halfway, and Embo couldn’t resist flying in. A bit too late, and although their man made a ridiculous show of things, we couldn’t really argue with the straight red – we’d have been screaming for the same punishment had the boot been on the other shin.
Reet Lads, knuckle down and get this one won. What I wanted to happen was for us to get the ball as close to us visiting fans as possible and see what happened – but the gaffer had other ideas. On came Wright, somehow not jet-lagged from his antipodean antics, and he spent the final twenty minutes winning headers and hoofing the ball out of defence – not pretty, and, with a man less, pretty nervy, to be honest, but effective. Cirkin flung himself in to block a goal-bound effort, Flan did likewise, and Doyle played like he’d been seeing out final ten minute periods for years. Mind, it wasn’t all one-way traffic, as Stewart caused problems and Winch had the ball in the net after a lovely move, but was offside. A tremendous header from Gillingham brought out Hoff’s save of the day as he somehow flung himself high to his left to fingertip the ball over the bar. That gave the home side another corner, which we rose to first, and dealt with in the same fashion as we did their looping long throws. If you had that option, surely you’d be better at getting on the end of them? There were, as usual, some baffling reffing decisions that had me screaming for the boss-eyed idiot to add an optician’s appointment to his Christmas list – but to be fair to the boss-eyed idiot, he was probably one of the season’s better (less rubbish) officials. Mebbe.
While we had the odd break, which we did well to make last as long as possible, the Gills kept battering away at us and we had to dig trenches, put on tin hats, and just hoy ourselves in the way of things. And we did that successfully. There were a number of added minutes, which I either missed the announcement of or the fourth gadgie forgot to put up on his magic board, and we went and brought on a sub – giving the home side another 30 seconds to batter us after Wee Willie Harris replaced the hard-working O’Brien. So Gillingham brought on a sub of their own, and the added time drew towards five o’clock, the train’s departure drew nearer, and eventually the whistle went. Gerrin.
Not the prettiest game you’ll ever see (which is a bit like saying Gazza aint that bright) but a tremendous, gutsy, victory that was all about character, determination, resolve, teamwork, and anything else you’d care to add. The Lads applauded the fans, LJ celebrated in front of the fans, and we poured out of the ground a very contented throng.
Back to King’s Cross, and the curse of the railway system hit again as the 19:30 was cancelled, we were told to get on the 19:00, which didn’t stop at Durham, so the homeward journey was spent working out how to get folks, in various stages of celebratory elation, to Bishop, South Hetton, and Seaham.
Don’t ask. I’m home.
Man of the Match? I thought O’9 was superb, penalty excepted, and I told him so at King’s Cross, where they waited for their train – looking scarily young. Embo and Neil were their usual selves once we’d got into the game, which took far too long, and Winch was again impressive. Without wanting to make it sound like a complete back-to-the-wall game (which it was, admittedly, for the dying minutes), Hoff pulled off some superb saves, so I’ll give it to him – and I can’t remember when we had a goalie deserving of a MOTM vote from me – and for the record, I think Burge is OK.
No hassle, it’s the Hoff.
