tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92043628502965262012024-03-15T18:09:55.909-07:00Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful GameTwo friends from each side of the North London football divide, in search of the 'Beautiful Game'BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.comBlogger195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-55770806566576033762020-11-22T11:10:00.000-08:002020-11-22T11:10:08.901-08:00Classic 0 - 0 - Leverstock Green FC Vs Biggleswade United FC, Spartan South Midlands Football League Premier Division, Pancake Lane (20/10/20)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR16uoDX5-bjU73RyrS2parMtwDFEiTKS07VNthMVRLJFhiy46rpBH-HcW1qNynx19T-PzAnXTtltq3fkAiPrdKP_rndI4QkExOqQqxmdPbFLMDtbzIG7_S8DztuZBZOvHez6HFZ-Pz4U/s4254/P1080669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4254" data-original-width="2999" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR16uoDX5-bjU73RyrS2parMtwDFEiTKS07VNthMVRLJFhiy46rpBH-HcW1qNynx19T-PzAnXTtltq3fkAiPrdKP_rndI4QkExOqQqxmdPbFLMDtbzIG7_S8DztuZBZOvHez6HFZ-Pz4U/s320/P1080669.JPG" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;">It’s all doom and gloom in the car today, there is no nostalgia riddled soundtrack like the last time out, </span>the notification of an impending news conference from the Prime Minister, means the dial on my radio is very much turned to Radio 4 and when old Boris appears over the airwaves, he brings word of Manchester being placed into tier 3.</div><p></p><p>I was already feeling a little anxious, having left the daughter for the first time with a babysitter, but I can assure you she was displaying no signs of someone who was remotely fazed by it, and I’m not sure she even noticed me leaving the door. The aforementioned tightening of restrictions in the North West makes me feel that London and the South East is surely only days or weeks away from a similar fate, maybe even lockdown again. It very much feels like our window for going to football is closing.</p><p>Due to Tom having his own flirtations with Covid, I’m happy to say it was in the end a false alarm and me having caught something via my daughter from the germ factory that is her nursery, we’ve not been out for a couple of weeks. Every missed opportunity to get to a game is a tough one to take, in these uncertain times. However when you are curled up in the fetal position on the sofa, being sick into a waste paper basket, there's not much you can do about it.</p><p>It is thankfully a glorious autumn evening, the trees that line the road have already changed into their new outfits or are very much on the way. My car feels far too big for the tiny lane I find myself on, and it's not a boy kicking a ball I find myself creeping along behind like at Godmanchester Rovers, but a girl on a horse.</p><p>Spotting the tops of the floodlights above the fence always sends a bit of a shiver of anticipation down my spine, and once safely past the horse, I'm turning through the black wrought iron gates that pave the way into not just any old non league football ground, in fact any old ground in the entire universe of football, be that now, in the past or the DeLorean reachable future, became this is a ground simply known as, are you ready for it, Pancake Lane.</p><p>“Gates are up, that’s a bonus” says Tony Leverstock Green FC’s (LG) Vice Chairman, who is busily setting up an olive green gazebo with all the apparatus that is all too common now at grounds, QR codes to check into the NHS track and trace app and a device to measure your temperature, which is basically a small white gun, you have to stand still for, while he points it at your forehead.</p><p>The lack of “elite football” locally he tells me means people are searching out football in all shapes and sizes, and Pancake Lane is as good a place as any to get your fix. There are a few downsides though to the nationwide rules, the “bar is restricted” Tony explains, however “some people don't pay any notice”, he adds, but its still “better than it being closed”. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnS2FHZoyUIgdGPx3IruvzwfK4dH1ylpWXmQyMxovkGdfSGNNVXM0qH40HrgXsz-jIRIO0j5lHAR9RRWkAyeOYV44s7tLEfwj7axTaJ8KYb9w-WkSBdgUvGm0ns2lO1ejZ_V09ZmsKVC0/s2048/IMG_20201020_175322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnS2FHZoyUIgdGPx3IruvzwfK4dH1ylpWXmQyMxovkGdfSGNNVXM0qH40HrgXsz-jIRIO0j5lHAR9RRWkAyeOYV44s7tLEfwj7axTaJ8KYb9w-WkSBdgUvGm0ns2lO1ejZ_V09ZmsKVC0/w400-h300/IMG_20201020_175322.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As a man of a somewhat limited stature, he’s struggling with the roll down zip up door of the gazebo and I'm caught in an awkward position of should I help him or leave him to it, thankfully a steward steps in and I’m not forced to treat a man much my senior, like a toddler.<p></p><p>Both the home and away managers and their entourages arrive at the same time, LG’s much like the visitors Biggleswade United FC’s (BU) are all weighed down with bulging bags full of kit. It’s all very convivial, plenty of hellos and nods of recognition. Every one of them passing by a large Welcome To Pancake Lane sign on the side of the flat roofed clubhouse, but none of them are anywhere near as giddy at seeing this club's great home name emblazoned in black block capitals. For Christ's sake people the place is named after something you have for breakfast.</p><p>The actual bar is closed, the optics secured behind a metal shutter, the room though is busy, and Tom is a fan of the home shirt framed on the wall, “I like that green kit”. The 50/50 notice on the board next to me is a promising sign, as is the honesty pot and the small pile of programs on a table by the door on the way in. An actual paper programme, my first of the season, remarkable.</p><p>“We're up, we're down” explains an LG fan, his face says it all of the clubs current fortune when he tells us they “lost to ten men” in their last game, “Saturday was disappointing. His summation is disturbed by the rattling din made by the shutter as it is hoisted upwards. The lady doing it, then prepares herself for a bit of table service.</p><p>Outside the tiny tea nook, with the menu scrawled on a small bit of card affixed beside it, has flung open its doors. The nearby white board with the lineups, has yet to be updated, and shows the starting 11’s of the last game here.</p><p>With the players out to warm up, Tom heads off in search of a hot drink, and above the pitch, only half illuminated, a bat swoops, snagging bugs drawn in by the lights. Not allowed to train on the pitch, the BU manager instructs his players to vault the railing around it and warm up on a grass verge next to the stand behind us. “Focus, focus” he encourages as they dash back and forth. “Fucking three points” demands one player. </p><p>A man in the most fantastic Hummel jacket has me somewhat hypnotised and I almost consider half hitching it, but it's so tightly zipped up, and long, it’s almost down to the wearers knees, I wouldn't be able to do it without him noticing and such is my admiration in this vintage get up, I miss the teams coming out, however it's another underwhelming entrance, no music, no fanfare, the norm now really.</p><p>“Captains please” instructs the referee, who promptly join him in the centre circle. The coin is tossed, the ends are picked, forcing the sides to swap ends, before we can get underway.</p><p>The word from Tony was that “whoever plays at home wins” in this particular fixture, but it's the visitors who go close first, and second a long distance screamer smacking the cross bar and third, only a point blank block inside six yard box prevents the player teeing up his effort, from putting BU into an early lead. “Good challenge” screams an already animated away supporter.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xZZHzSGYe6d0gFIEFdieJwcAerDqomBHhKppXCSAnGRmV-EKPdW5Vjf85TmPmIgIzkvzm5xFTcP8XAnOK9Qv7-FJ7PCIyYjzeUDzHlGW5bT68WkH-WsGDsDcXu_95sxnxgNR1DNwgIQ/s2048/IMG_20201020_175359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xZZHzSGYe6d0gFIEFdieJwcAerDqomBHhKppXCSAnGRmV-EKPdW5Vjf85TmPmIgIzkvzm5xFTcP8XAnOK9Qv7-FJ7PCIyYjzeUDzHlGW5bT68WkH-WsGDsDcXu_95sxnxgNR1DNwgIQ/w300-h400/IMG_20201020_175359.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>BU’s early pressure is somewhat relieved by the home side's first half chance, but the cut back into the box is well and truly hoofed clear. <p></p><p></p><p>With all this action, you’d think Tom would be suitably entertained however he’s already playing the ‘he looks a bit like someone else’ game. The referees assistant on our side, he has already dubbed “fat Clarkson” and the referee himself is either “Pepe Reina” or a “thin Benitez”, saying he didn't know the once Liverpool stopper had “taken up refereeing”.</p><p>The dugouts are ludicrously far apart, meaning if the managers want to have a set too, they've a long walk before doing it. Tom thinks I was a bit “optimistic” with my “3 - 1” home win prediction, it's all BU and Slim Fast Benitez is already showing his relaxed Mediterranean nature. “Fucking referee” bellows someone on the home bench, everyone of his decisions is greeted by some level of remonstration from one bench or the other.</p><p>It’s taken LG a quarter of an hour to register their first chance of meaning, a looping cross into the box is met by the head of a player but it's over. The latest away attack a few minutes later only reinforces Tom’s earlier comment of how well they “transition” into attack, as well as showing off the angular, almost Cubist numbers on the back of their red and blue shirts. Again it’s only another last ditch tackle that stops an inevitable goal.</p><p>One late arrival to the pitchside car park, momentarily shines an unwanted spotlight on one goal with his headlights, before shutting them off. It would perhaps be too much to say LG had been under the cosh so far this half, they are taking a while to get up to tempo, but are showing signs of maybe putting a bit of weight behind the statistics Tony shared with me before.</p><p>A free kick finds the intended player in the box, but he can't get the ball out of his feet and the chance for LG goes begging. BU are quick to counter, however LG win the ball back not long after, forging then their own attack and forcing the BU keeper into a smart low save.</p><p>According to someone on Twitter the food is supposed to be pretty good here, I share this with Tom as we edge closer to the break, but he nigh on snaps my head off with his reply, “I’ll be the judge of that”.</p><p>In a brief lull one home player displays football's sometimes unfathomable grip or lack of, of reality, “good start, let's make something happen”. It’s been anything but a good start, they are lucky to not be behind. The referee also shows his credentials as a laissez faire, letting a horrible BU challenge go unpunished. “Come on guys, let's go” shouts the distinctly Spanish sounding BU manager, but Tom’s not quite sure of his origins, “do you think he's Spanish?”.</p><p>“Unlucky Bullet” says the same nearby energised BU fan as before at the sight of the away number 9, turning on a sixpence and sending the most mesmerizing shot towards the top corner of the goal from outside the box, only for it in turn to be matched by an equally top draw save from the LG keeper. “That was a bullet” sniggers Tom, sounding slightly like a red top headline writer.</p><p>Bullet is not the kind of person you want to anger, his hulking frame and bullish mentality means he is quite the force to be reckoned with. “Come on” he snarls after doing all the hard work, great feet and a pin point cross into the box, only for none of his teammates to have made a run, much to his annoyance.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhONuD7GYDTCT0OdKPsXUY6VrOw-eAZngX_1he4bA1W_OwB1VKjzLcDBXknDC_hjQi5nTPyh1b1Lrim9zgQq4Eyh0KN6y68HK3QhL5JbUDfivLIenyn9F10_CajrhzG2d_3Wo51Cqt5Y/s2048/IMG_20201020_175605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhONuD7GYDTCT0OdKPsXUY6VrOw-eAZngX_1he4bA1W_OwB1VKjzLcDBXknDC_hjQi5nTPyh1b1Lrim9zgQq4Eyh0KN6y68HK3QhL5JbUDfivLIenyn9F10_CajrhzG2d_3Wo51Cqt5Y/w400-h300/IMG_20201020_175605.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />“How did we not score” wonders a flabbergasted LG player, the ball from a corner having just traveled through the entirety of the BU box, but no one was able to get a touch on it. “We just watched it '' says one teammate, such was it’s likelihood of going in, everyone assumed that surely it was going to.<p></p><p>Bullet is down in the LG box and quickly claims a penalty, “reffff”, but he gets no response. A glance towards “fat Clarkson” hoping he'll give it, gets no reply either. He and everyone knows the only thing getting him over is a bulldozer, “fat Clarkson” who is a chatty assistant to say the least, reassures Bullet he wouldn't “mug him off”.</p><p>Into the final ten, and things are reaching close to boiling point. “How many more?” asks the home bench, after another robust BU tackle. “You're not going to get away with it” mumbles Tom, BU barreling people over time and time again.</p><p>A blatant hack from a BU player on a LG one, after the referee had already awarded BU a free kick, sees the player downed in the book emphatic to go unanswered and off he marches for his time out on the naughty step. This rule like every other time we’ve seen it confusing the hell out of us both.</p><p>“Let's settle down and play” pleads the BU captain, however his intention for calmness, feels a little bit late. </p><p>LG’s keeper is doing his best to take as long as possible to do everything, which this early on is a bit of a “worry” as Tom puts. Bullet flattens an LG player like he wasn’t ever there and when a LG player goes down like an extra from a war film, the home bench erupts. “Why is he screaming like has been shot?” asks one nearby person of his friends. “Looked like a yellow from here” interjects “fat Clarkson”. The home fans are asking for the sin bin, and the home bench are asking for a bit of consistency after claiming a BU player just “swore” at the man in charge. I say in charge, I'm not really sure he is.</p><p>The half ends with a bit of a question mark hanging over it, the referee on the sidelines before blowing his whistle talking to a home steward from a prolonged amount of time, the players standing around twiddling their thumbs, “ref get on with the game”. My first inclination is that during all the commotion of the recent flair up, something has maybe been said by someone in the crowd towards a player perhaps. Tom states that that’s the “point of non league football” audience participation, I guess it is to some extent, but it’s a fine line.</p><p>Tom returns from the food hatch with talk of absolute madness, struggling with one of non leagues greatest dilemmas, where to balance your burger and chips so you can have a drink. Rumour is rife about what caused the referee to have his elongated chat with the steward.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuCMNk6klZ6ZRhfll6tPjKj7zQxIgRtsZnCtGe3g4YUNiSjGSTGgWdrqk9VXYLpx2hAYSybtpKdr4mQjClYyLwpAlOS8Yd2my77PHiMAezdWvjSVEWfapAmjTEF9gcyqGDCuc3H9hnNA/s2048/IMG_20201020_175817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuCMNk6klZ6ZRhfll6tPjKj7zQxIgRtsZnCtGe3g4YUNiSjGSTGgWdrqk9VXYLpx2hAYSybtpKdr4mQjClYyLwpAlOS8Yd2my77PHiMAezdWvjSVEWfapAmjTEF9gcyqGDCuc3H9hnNA/w400-h300/IMG_20201020_175817.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> “Big half” demands one of the freshly returned BU players, and just over five minutes into the new half, his team spank the LG cross bar for the second time tonight. The home side are still a man down, both the bench and fans ask the referee “how long?” has he got left in the naughty corner and even if the game is devoid of goals, “fat Clarkson” can't help but get involved, engaging in a full blown conversation with a man behind him at one point.<p>All the chances are coming BU’s way as they look to overturn the form book of the home side always being victorious. “Fucking hell” exhales one travelling fan, the ball having traveled all the way through the LG box, however again no one is able to poke it in, before finally being met at the back post by a player who is only able to scuff his shot directly at the keeper.</p><p>“It's going to be a match of near misses” says a wise Tom.</p><p>Bullet once again shows his undoubted class, Tom thinks he’s “too good for this team”. Holding up the ball, then with a delicate flick he releases his teammate, who surges forward only to let loose the most dismal shot at the end of his run.</p><p>The chatty assistant delivers perhaps his best line of the match so far, in response to a whinging player, “keep your hands to yourself and grow up”. An LG kung fu kick of a tackle, that results in no free kick sees the entirety of the home crowd slacked jawed at the decision and the referees assistant completely undermines him, saying quite clearly, ”in my opinion it’s a foul”. In Tom's opinion, “Pepe Reina is losing a grip on the game”.</p><p>BU are in again and it's only a spread eagle save with his right foot, that denies what feels like an impending BU goal, “he’s pulled a few out the bag today” comments Tom. </p><p>Considering everyone else is having a chat with him, I try my luck striking up a conversation with the chatty assistant, asking him why he just sidestepped a ball rolling out of play, when he could have easily just stopped it, and he is of course more than willing to explain his reason behind it.</p><p>A big midfield 50/50 challenge leaves one BU player screaming, but the referee just waves play on. Bullet is then dispatched, and LG counter, their long range effort is straight at the keeper, who spills it, but he’s able to gather it at the second attempt. The referee continues to get it in the ear from all corners, the latest big challenge is still being discussed.</p><p>“He had him panicked” rues Tom, a rushed home clearance is straight to a BU player who hits it first time, straight back from whence it came, forcing the home keeper to furiously back peddle, the ball eventually going just over the crossbar.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsfIbeLsIkJxMZRQtTz5ObQ-X6JwgPw9NxS3hEY-w8gavfMnTOi5oVm10ycVMVx2gm9nzWYErjcUj0it4OkOY9zqyXxOQTdHZd9LSL3QttfUmLfUHSExHN9_uXDy1pMmhpSo1HFs_i3U/s2048/IMG_20201020_183835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsfIbeLsIkJxMZRQtTz5ObQ-X6JwgPw9NxS3hEY-w8gavfMnTOi5oVm10ycVMVx2gm9nzWYErjcUj0it4OkOY9zqyXxOQTdHZd9LSL3QttfUmLfUHSExHN9_uXDy1pMmhpSo1HFs_i3U/w300-h400/IMG_20201020_183835.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Bullet is off, how he leaves the pitch without at least one goal to his name is a mystery. Into the final fifteen and as Tom put it, “it’s all going on”, players are starting to bicker, tackles are flying in and a break in play comes about after one LG player stays down clutching his neck, the incident brought to the referees attention by “fat Clarkson” repeatedly shouting, “heads, heads, heads” at him.<p></p><p>I’m not sure if it's the departure of the BU front man, but the game's quality has somewhat dipped, so much so we are talking about Covid 19 Christmas. An LG cross is then just above the heads of the players in the box, drawing a “ohhhh” from the crowd, Tom reckons they are going to “nick it” and “wouldn't deserve” it one bit.</p><p>A BU free kick on the edge of the LG box is in a promising position, the first runner is a decoy, the one behind him strikes it straight into the wall. A cry of “handball” goes up the referee shakes his head. Another big challenge, this time by the visitors, results in a mighty yelp from the player on the other end of it, but once more no foul is given.</p><p>Five to go and the game is frantic and sloppy in equal measure, the dog pottering about the stand behind us seems to have lost all interest. LG are so wasteful in possession, their number 9 telling a teammate who tries to find him with a through ball, “I can't do that, I’m not that kind of player. Again the referees assistant isn’t shy telling the players, “why don't you worry about playing the game and stop whining”.</p><p>Tom is still sure “someone is going to nick it” but who that is, he’s now not so certain. The home bench call for the team to push up, “too deep” shouts the manager. One player asks his team mate to “dig in” with the final whistle rapidly approaching.</p><p>LG have their chances to “nick it” as Tom put it, in added time. A hooked shot over the bar looks to be their last one of the match, but when they are gifted a corner, they are granted one more go at threatening the BU goal, but as Tom put it, it's “shit”. A free kick in a dangerous position is rushed, taken while the ball is traveling. All the late home pressure comes to nothing and come the final whistle one person leaving puts it perfectly, the match will go down as a “classic 0 - 0”</p><p>There is plenty to like about LG, more than just the wonderful name of their ground. As I overheard one BU player say “this is some fucking ground to find”, but it’s worth it. Any club that has Our Guests above the away dugout, are a classy one to say the least. It might be a bit “wiggly windy” as another player put to get here, but you won't be disappointed.</p><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=BeautifulGame15&set=a.3479801642127805&__cft__[0]=AZWhpc2TFXj8dTS4joIUToVzlgIVv4qw0MxGqDngJ9bUQovgmTEgL-psvGHc6NrwH9o2AR2W8FuGfKriJ1zjV7xPsyT3YhGi4qWKLGIw7nJiN0EF208Vpndcu8ipvYEg9M1KTqG4DAtKKOKGP8G5m70CLpLHXQmwSJ11QaolrTQNy0JYbUQeK2jNkZxCZwLi0Cw&__tn__=-R">HERE</a></h4><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b>Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE</b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xNeUqD4HbyQ" width="661" youtube-src-id="xNeUqD4HbyQ"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><h3><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBYJDX4Jm4tUTPzBZU4nSRkhjsxVVFLVXUvVbUJOL-8SqScm7JpLqygWLu9_Ak7cyL4weyArdsC5Z5GD-yzWL_pD1zSwjDMVePt6GE9ydL-3BiQhfRXVK1-tKUxhc81eWAXg9E24AOxQ/s1600/index+%25283%2529.png" style="clear: left; 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font-weight: 400;" /></h3><h3><b>Follow us on Instagram - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/beautifulgame15">@beautifulgame15</a> - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers">@beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers </a><span id="react-root">#beautifulgame15</span></b></h3>BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-62009196573472930002020-11-04T05:14:00.001-08:002020-11-04T11:07:20.263-08:00Snacktastic - Godmanchester Rovers FC Vs Ely City FC, Eastern Counties Football League Premier Division, Bearscroft Lane (30/09/20) <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELLaqkoQyfFRFE6NGGZ6PMQklBF8BeCBILOaiz0GjtJnmzRdwka56A29WPU3UQusyU-vxWtB_twmQPBmVuIsooT4UPKEnptxHMw8gwSKtUHxTTkA-NS3pwtLAaxSYDGO97L-ULtFAHWo/s2048/IMG_20200930_175840.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgELLaqkoQyfFRFE6NGGZ6PMQklBF8BeCBILOaiz0GjtJnmzRdwka56A29WPU3UQusyU-vxWtB_twmQPBmVuIsooT4UPKEnptxHMw8gwSKtUHxTTkA-NS3pwtLAaxSYDGO97L-ULtFAHWo/s320/IMG_20200930_175840.jpg" /></a></div>It’s only our second game and I'm already alone, but I should really get used to it, suck it up and be a big boy, because a change to Tom’s shifts at work means I’m going to be spending most evenings flying solo to games. It’s OK though, an upgrade to the blogmobile over lockdown means my radio now has a much greater scope of channels and I’m more than happy to spend the sixty minutes or so driving, sans my other half listening to a mixture of 90’s indie and 70’s rock.<p></p><p>The large white sign that welcomes me at the start of a long narrow gravel lane confirms I’ve arrived in the right part of Cambridgeshire, a rather soggy part at that. As I creep along behind the young man kicking his football in front of him, he kindly steps to one side to allow me to pass. Not even turning around to acknowledge me, the crunching of the loose surface under my tires enough to signal he needs to move, and once he does, edging past him, I catch a glimpse of the expression on his face in my wing mirror, it is one of a person who wished they had brought a coat.</p><p>It is of course apt that I pass a farm on the way to a ground known as The Farm and take great comfort that the nickname of Bearscroft Lane home of Godmanchester Rovers FC (GOD) is not because of the smell or abundance of bovine swanning about the place.</p><p>Stepping out of my car there is not much to feast my eyes upon, not helped by the inclement weather, everything is a little grey. The music playing from the single tiny speaker on the way in is of a very different genre to that I’ve been enjoying on my way here. If I’m not mistaken it's a spot of 90’s garage and Craig David to be precise. The couple of tatty looking flags atop their long white poles have seen better days. The rain is a constant, not heavy, just making itself known, however if we have learnt anything these last five years, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it's all about scratching the surface to see what's underneath.</p><p>In the distance some wind turbines slowly turn. Braving the camera gantry, a scaffold structure between the two dugouts on the far side of the pitch, a man attempts to thread a red golf umbrella up though it’s broken roof to plug a hole above him, to try and ensure he’s not utterly soaked come the end of the match. However his initial attempts look to have been fruitless and its soon folded away, but he’s clearly determined to make it work and not long after he’s back at it, the brolly sitting precariously above him, nervously holding onto the handle to stop it from blowing away.</p><p>The bright crimson umbrella the only bit of colour on what is turning out to be a very drab day.</p><p>Brightening up the place further, the arrival of a visiting fan, one of Ely City FC (EC) in his red and white scarf means things are on the up and the warm glow of the lights now on in the clubhouse, seeping out the small windows on its side, draw me in, past the now familiar sight of a sanitation station.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDqfYGz8qeXrICwHOEWvvDYRWaZWDjZRshWre3AugBkUqFZWy3BN1auZzKLB2ndxDBoH9GiZhadeFex7snVLL27Xlfd55feM9FiCSV0oNZBsl25pDcDGGYPb-EAoYDrPD0eiUjgd8pYs/s2048/IMG_20200930_180246.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDqfYGz8qeXrICwHOEWvvDYRWaZWDjZRshWre3AugBkUqFZWy3BN1auZzKLB2ndxDBoH9GiZhadeFex7snVLL27Xlfd55feM9FiCSV0oNZBsl25pDcDGGYPb-EAoYDrPD0eiUjgd8pYs/w400-h300/IMG_20200930_180246.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Blue dots with white footprints guide you around the carved up clubhouse, black and yellow tape on the floor makes sure everyone keeps a sensible distance from each other, the few tables scattered around the edges of the room, are all allocated their own intimate section. All the must haves of any good club bar are present: a dart board, aging silverware, old team photos, a club scarf pinned to the wall and a highly polished wooden honours board. A small TV in the corner is showing the local news at a deafening volume. However I can just about overhear the conversation among the group of EC fans, unsurprisingly it's about the weather.<p></p><p>Tom’s eventual arrival is somewhat dramatic and his time at our table in the corner is fleeting, sticking around only to tell me he got “lost”, “very, very lost” and “nearly died three times”. Dropping that bombshell on me before bursting through the door of the nearby loo, returning not long after looking a whole different man, “ohhhhh that's better”.</p><p></p><br />Outside the teams warm up in the rain, a man with an umbrella in the home team's colors, does not do a bad job of conducting the session from underneath cover, while the players as ever are seemingly unfazed by the downpour, all while everyone else clambers for shelter under the various lean toos and small stands dotted about.<p></p><p>Having caught wind that the tea bar is open Tom is off. A stray ball hits the roof of the metal stand I’m in and gives out a terrifying crash. Such is the combination of the wind and heavy rain, the roof is almost redundant, on the horizontal, I’m getting wet regardless. </p><p>One of the referees assistants warming up as Tom points out is far from “into it” as the conditions worsen, however with Tom’s return he comes baring news far worse than a bit more drizzle and once over the fact his cup is either half full or empty depending on how you look at it, I ask him has he spilled it on this way back and he tells me that's simply what he was “given”, by who turned out to be the GOD “chairman” who he was instructed to accost by the man behind the bar, he finally breaks it to me, there is “no food”.</p><p>I’m half expecting tears to start rolling down his cheeks, the “woman who normally does it, is on a course”. He is gutted.</p><p>As at Windsor, there is no grand entrance by the players, just dribs and drabs, ones and twos filtering out of their respective changing rooms. There are a few GOD fans to welcome the home players with a high five or a word of encouragement, and there is now quite a crowd here to witness them take the field. The EC supporters are by far the loudest, the small contingent from the clubhouse, offer up a few shouts as the players limber up, “come on Ely, come on boys”, one from behind his red and white face mask.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODVUlxbEENVGMXJylPLZYFoTmGckAQrnWmZE9V3b4KcKtLps9bsHvFS8sOcbXkMtA_9DBl09OuU2S2DrFJTPWK6CfP-i_xH1KZtZ5REPinfFHUMk6BBrfOQxjRkh6k4sfzSH3oTZbd5w/s2048/P1080647.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODVUlxbEENVGMXJylPLZYFoTmGckAQrnWmZE9V3b4KcKtLps9bsHvFS8sOcbXkMtA_9DBl09OuU2S2DrFJTPWK6CfP-i_xH1KZtZ5REPinfFHUMk6BBrfOQxjRkh6k4sfzSH3oTZbd5w/w300-h400/P1080647.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>“Start fucking bright” screams one GOD player loudly as the referee prepares to get things underway, the player is matched in volume by the cry of one away fan as the man in charge draws his whistle to his lips, “come on Ely”.<p></p><p>Despite all the available shelter, the EC fans have stayed out in the elements and the smell of Deep Heat from one nearby player is on the verge of overwhelming, I can almost taste it, and I don’t think there is even two minutes on the clock and EC have taken the lead, sending their nearby supporters into a chorus of woops, some waving their hands in celebration about their heads. “Good start” affirms one, “come on Ely'' shouts another.</p><p>Every time they get the ball, venturing forward, EC look dangerous, “too fucking easy” shouts one GOD player, they are not exactly making it hard for them. The visitors pony-tailed right back is at the heart of a lot of their attacks, flying down the wing he looks a threat and I'm not sure if it's Tom’s influence, but I can't take my eyes off his curly flowing mane. </p><p>A spitting player catches Tom’s attention, who he quite rightly scalds, albeit under his breath, “oi Covid” and the proximity of us to the match, as is the non league way, means we both get to enjoy the</p><br /> audible growl the EC captain gives out every time he jumps to challenge for a header.<p></p><p>With just over ten minutes gone the home players pleas for a red card, their player through on goal, is tugged back, go unheard. It's a free kick and no card. A free kick taken by one of the centre backs, “interesting” comments an intrigued Tom.</p><p>It may well be because of the rain weighing them down, pitter pattering on the corrugated roof above us, but the goal nets are unflatteringly saggy and one nearby EC fan recounts to another in a flat cap his exchange with his wife who thought he wouldn't be “going to football if it's raining”, laughing as he tells his neighbour just what he told her, “don't be daft.</p><p>The home side continue to be their own worst enemies, “stop giving away free kicks” barks one player, which one old voice responds to from the back of the stand, “shut up whining” and when they are presented with a rare chance in front of goal, they fluff it. “It would have been easier to score”, muses Tom. The deep cross is met by the intended player at the back post, but somehow he manages to head it away from goal, instead of towards.</p><p>It’s the first of a couple of quick fire wasted GOD chances, their “fast” front three as Tom highlights have plenty of potential, they constantly look for the same ball over the EC defence, but the crucial first touch or final pass is lacking.</p><p>“Aren't you a bit wet out there boys?” asks one EC fan of those still standing, quite unnecessarily out in the rain, they could take about four steps right or left and be dry.</p><p>A big challenge on a home player, which Tom brushes off as being a “50/50” all's fair in love and war is his opinion, leaves him in a heap. There are no theatrics, no screaming, so you know he’s actually hurt, but after a short break he’s thankfully back up.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_V8XHlIJGZn2CxXYFXBU9j5PJ0kYnU8M55T7iKoUvPnXlLyI1tgeDOk_d_kTCS6MoWatdFhoyr9c6tfev7poHaox2qQ_yYDofCdG0zOBFpsKK4HkfoEVUIONPkVSadfnwxmJOorXzXpE/s2048/IMG_20200930_180256.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_V8XHlIJGZn2CxXYFXBU9j5PJ0kYnU8M55T7iKoUvPnXlLyI1tgeDOk_d_kTCS6MoWatdFhoyr9c6tfev7poHaox2qQ_yYDofCdG0zOBFpsKK4HkfoEVUIONPkVSadfnwxmJOorXzXpE/w400-h300/IMG_20200930_180256.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>In the twenty five minutes since taking the lead, EC haven't forged a chance on goal. The awarding of another free kick to the visitors doesn't go down well with one home player, “he’s taking the fucking piss” he suggests to the referee. His petulant reaction, one away supporter puts down to a case of “ohhhhhh just because you're losing”. After such a lull since scoring, it maybe explains the wild shot from the EC number 10, after robbing the home captain on the halfway line, surging goalwards, “go on son, go on” encourages one supporter, he lashes it way over the bar. “He got a bit excited” laughs one away fan.<p></p><p>Tom’s got “wet shins” he tells me, as the rain batters his lower legs. EC have a penalty appeal waved away and despite the bad weather Tom is convinced the referee is really “enjoying” himself, after suggesting earlier he didn't want to be here. Very rarely does he not have a huge smile on his face. </p><p>Into the final five of the half and EC have decided to up their game a bit, after bursting into the GOD box it's only a fine low stop from the home keeper “a good save” as Tom puts it, that stops EC furthering their lead. </p><p></p><br />The upturn in their performance inspires a few new shouts from their supporters, “come on boys, come on Ely”. Again they burst forward, “go on, first time” urges an EC fan, the player opts for a pass instead, finding his team mate with a well timed through ball, only for a GOD defender to be on hand for a last ditch block. The less said about their final chance of the half mind, the better. The shot in danger of hitting one of the coaches parked in one corner of the car park, way beyond the boundaries of the ground.<p></p><p>Some late home pressure sees plenty of “nice ideas” but “no end product” as Tom puts it and the half concludes with a bit of hands bags, and one home player after the whistle is helped to his feet by the clubs physio, the players wrist looking all sorts of odd and the man with the cold spray fashions a makeshift sling out of the players shirt as he leaves the pitch in clear discomfort.</p><p>“Good football that” says a satisfied EC supporter. Tom’s visit to the bar is a short one, a bar which is currently showing “Corro” he informs me. With an insatiable need to eat at least something everywhere we go, and with no hot food options, Tom instead opts for a packet of the well known crips brand Snacktastic, and a couple of bags of their Worcester Sauce flavour.</p><p>The away fans who were braving the wet weather have moved on, to stand behind the goal their team will be attacking in the new half, and someone on the home bench is clearly very displeased with the team's first forty five minute performance and is letting anyone in ear shot know about it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENaXM-Ggba2VRf79C1jJlKI9MqGSjyX-kz-J3BbsGLUo8CuDBkBTzCsdP5CV_N3OFv5vE3iiiQkCKCasLqOIA6ax7BG47ecVjF4wTOG4QH4DVm-QUFBRG9HaFbcGF4HEmoV7cWnzml7c/s2048/IMG_20200930_180541.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENaXM-Ggba2VRf79C1jJlKI9MqGSjyX-kz-J3BbsGLUo8CuDBkBTzCsdP5CV_N3OFv5vE3iiiQkCKCasLqOIA6ax7BG47ecVjF4wTOG4QH4DVm-QUFBRG9HaFbcGF4HEmoV7cWnzml7c/w400-h300/IMG_20200930_180541.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>“Come on boys” implores one home player and his words seem to have had the intended impact, as GOD are on the front foot right from the off. “They've come out very energetic” says Tom, one of the home side attempting a “little bicycle kick” he giggles. The player with the injured arm has not returned and the EC supporters sensing their teams decline, make their own attempts to arrest their teams slide, with a loud “come on Ely”.<p></p><p>A collision between the GOD keeper and a defender sees a long break, the physio is on, and that hush that inevitably descends when a player is down, and before everyone is sure its nothing too serious, shrouds the place. It’s only when the defender starts to slowly limp off, that the noise returns. </p><p></p>“Unlucky Ely” shouts one nearby fan, following a header sailing just wide from a corner. “Ohhh” sigh both home fans and players sensing they are losing their momentum, that they got away with one there. One player demanding his teammates carry on where they “fucking left off” at the end of the first half.<p></p><p>It really is the least they deserved, and seven minutes into the second half GOD are back on level pegging. “Come on” screams one player mid celebration, a nice move down the wing, a low cross and a blocked shot, sees the ball drop kindly, and it’s thumped home.</p><p>“Was that a tannoy?” queries Tom, the tiny single speaker that Tom points out is “pointing the wrong <br />way” seems for a moment to have come to life, but it's far too quiet to know for sure if it was just a bit more Craig David or the name of the scorer. </p><p>In the space of five minutes things go from bad to worse for the visitors, who looked so assured in the first half, “what a turn around, dear oh dear” sighs one one of their fans, as the scorer of GOD’s second knee slides across the slick pitch, having just scored directly from a free kick. A free kick he neatly slotted underneath the jumping wall and into the back of the net. It’s like something right out of Fifa.</p><p>The shouts of “come on Ely” are far less frequent now. The team look shell shocked, a bit all over the place to say the least. It takes a stunning finger tip save from their sides latest free kick to stir them, “come on boys”. The man in goal for GOD is just able to get enough on it to tip it over the bar. </p><p>EC’s Pirates of the Caribbean looking number 2, the influential marauding right back from the first half then hits the post, he really should have scored, some of the EC fans hang their head in their hands. They go close again as their resurgence continues, putting wide from a set piece. “Keep going boys” urges one supporter.</p><p>Plenty of hardy souls are still braving the rain and despite a string of rash home fouls, the referee keeps his cards in his pocket. The the drama is ramping up, each team doing their best to buy as many fouls as they can.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Io-rXT5uTSzQoDWUir9XYOSpiPArWsWzc3rSIpgnZWbT57vI_6bFoikSU07nOBuwTc7BrzAZsPiZD8rKLFYnWlhLamtzsH5gO9QhawW7YC4a5N_5UZtfONCZ6rHzstLSVS-C3a3zzaE/s2048/IMG_20200930_182656.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Io-rXT5uTSzQoDWUir9XYOSpiPArWsWzc3rSIpgnZWbT57vI_6bFoikSU07nOBuwTc7BrzAZsPiZD8rKLFYnWlhLamtzsH5gO9QhawW7YC4a5N_5UZtfONCZ6rHzstLSVS-C3a3zzaE/w400-h300/IMG_20200930_182656.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The sight of the home team going further ahead is too much for one EC fan, “see you later mate” he says, as he beats a hasty exit. It’s a bit of a comedy of errors that leads to the corner that the goal results from. A shanked away clearance is greeted with a sarcastic “weyyyyy” and the goal itself is a near carbon copy of the first. The ball absolutely leathered in from close range, after a brief bit of six yard box pinball.<p></p><p></p>It feels like any sort of EC fight back has well and truly been squashed now, however the home bench want to make sure the team don’t give away anymore “stupid fouls”. The third goal has really fired up GOD, and it is attack after attack, they are “rampant” as Tom puts it. The bench are loving every minute, no more shouting or scalding, just excited sounds at the sight of a big crunching tackle won in front of them, “fucking love it”. <p></p><p>EC look a shadow on their former selves, their number 9 is particularly angry, showing his anger from inside the pocket of his marker the home number 6, who won’t let him out of his sight. Nothing is falling their way at all, and when it looks like their keeper handled outside his area, things are close to full implosion, but the referee deems him to be just inside his box. “Come on boys some energy” demands one EC fan, to which one player responds bluntly, “we’re losing 3-1”.</p><p>A round of substitutes are displayed via some cards on the touch line Play Your Cards Right style. EC are well and truly pinned back, “get up the fucking pitch” screams one player, but they can’t and its only a last ditch tackle of the highest order, nigh on, on the line that stops a home fourth from point blank range. They might be on course for a loss, but the away fans appreciate the effort all the same.</p><p><br />There is nothing like a penalty in the final five minutes to help a fan base find their voice and give a team a lift. EC have just reduced the deficit by one, roused the supporters to let loose a few rounds of “come on Ely, come on Ely”, who then go close to equalising, only for another reaching block by an GOD player stopping the goalwards shot.</p><p>GOD gets some respite, winning a free kick, which leaves one EC fan fuming, “he didn't touch him, get up you wuss”. Frustrations are starting to show from all corners, players and fans. “Get up, get up” screams a home player as his team falls further and further back. </p><p>A big home ball forward sees two players collide, and when the foul is given in the eyes of many of the EC players, the wrong way, many are sent into fits of rage. Ahead, GOD seem happy to try and see out the last few minutes hunkered down in their own half. “Forward, forward” instructs one EC fan, who have found their voice again, “come one Ely”, the chance of rescuing something from this match, is tantalisingly close.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuL-KXDZqzZJ9txgHCyA7v_yXbe1YzWSa93z8eiHNaa_jC6pHawMvYjuItD5Q9BIQq0gBZZwqb0k51KXr8HJEOqcIeNvV9SLc6l8jNq2jWR10OuSYjUdIpPh6eIsEZVvHTplJWpP0tHI/s1024/01-DSC_0008.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1024" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuL-KXDZqzZJ9txgHCyA7v_yXbe1YzWSa93z8eiHNaa_jC6pHawMvYjuItD5Q9BIQq0gBZZwqb0k51KXr8HJEOqcIeNvV9SLc6l8jNq2jWR10OuSYjUdIpPh6eIsEZVvHTplJWpP0tHI/w400-h297/01-DSC_0008.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>“Keep working” beseeches someone on the home bench, with every hoofed clearance, the ball just comes back at them again. The attempt at a whistle from the crowd, does not surprisingly stop the game, a late EC corner has hearts somewhat in mouths and a final booming “come on Ely” can't will <br />the ball over the line, come the final whistle the plaudits of “unlucky Ely” from the traveling contingent, seem genuine. <p></p><p>Perhaps because the din of the match has subsided, the PA is all of a sudden more than audible, thanking everyone for “turning out”. </p><p>It’s nights like these, wet and miserable ones, that you see what your fan base is made of, and considering the gate I would say both GOD and EC’s are made of pretty stern stuff. Depending on the length on the woman's course, yes there is a chance you might have to just have crisps, and don't be put off by the choice of music either, because if there is a chance of seeing more set pieces formulated on a PS4 then I’m game for another visit, and so should you be.</p><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=BeautifulGame15&set=a.3419125061528797&__cft__[0]=AZVOm-JfJNb5M20nI5o5Dai81AKSi65gF7mDwcV9RcUdCZQMrBvrRIHDopotKTcgyMw5qhi58ZQXYyGVrRTxq0mbSYQ0jPDxeJFD-msy_ZRrzEK3lcihYGSOEWe3VgJVStQY4fdUfO1QQHkgyF-P1EqJ&__tn__=-R">HERE</a></h4><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b>Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE</b></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; 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color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p>BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-12949482380144115072020-10-07T11:56:00.000-07:002020-10-07T11:56:18.684-07:00Lets Go Football - Windsor FC Vs Burnham FC, Hellenic League Premier Division, Stag Meadow (26/09/20)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFb6lypQ6KjkYmdCW9MrASNCv4rH7ay6e0NOxszsjSR4EyHSD_NeZuXd-6epQ5xOpdUzQUV3c5JvA8VRxwnEqfP629lLZN2An-ewws4gGxO21FKfwVXkeuoLpiZaVKfb-iPny_SvrVwI/s917/Ei1Fxg7XsAEbYGx.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="917" data-original-width="710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFb6lypQ6KjkYmdCW9MrASNCv4rH7ay6e0NOxszsjSR4EyHSD_NeZuXd-6epQ5xOpdUzQUV3c5JvA8VRxwnEqfP629lLZN2An-ewws4gGxO21FKfwVXkeuoLpiZaVKfb-iPny_SvrVwI/s320/Ei1Fxg7XsAEbYGx.jpg" /></a></div>It’s strange because on the surface everything seems normal, Tom is still waiting for me in the same spot outside my flat to pick me up, he’s already nose down playing the latest game on his phone “I’m playing some pool” he tells me. The topics of conversation are still as varied and banal as before, WWE and of course Call Of Duty Warzone and our numerous visits to Verdansk, where we both spent the majority of lockdown.<p></p><p>However if you look just under the surface it’s clear that things are far from the same, in fact things couldn't be any more unnormal as the world is gripped by a pandemic that's still claiming lives on a daily basis, and as best as the country tries to limp back into some kind of normal rhythm again, after having just spent half of 2020 on the sofa, it’s all just a bit odd. The sign on the side of the M25, our favourite of all the major gyratories, illustrates the state of things perfectly, “don’t be a fool, use the 2m rule”.</p><p>When Tom asks me if I “have a mask”, I confirm I do, but neither of us are really sure of what the etiquette is, what the rules are.</p><p>Having been inside for the majority of the summer, there will be no sunny Saturdays in shorts at football, no barmy August evenings when it's still light at 21:00, and although the sun is out, my other half tells me not to “trust it” and Tom backs up her theory and is already moaning about it being “cold”. Today is the first time I’ve worn jeans in months, and Tom is shocked to see my legs covered, expecting me to be in shorts, which would then be followed by me “complaining about cold shins”.</p><p>Dominating its surroundings, we both marvel at the resplendent Windsor Castle as it comes into view. Soon we notice that every other car is a Range Rover, and the roundabouts have dancing Vegas style water features. This neck of the woods is hardly downmarket, I mean look who has their holiday home here, as Tom puts it, “welcome to Windsor”.</p><p>It’s a minute sign halfway up a lamppost that directs us towards Stag Meadow, home of Windsor FC (WFC), a tiny lane gets even narrower as we drive on, the smart looking houses on each side getting ever closer, at one point I’m not sure Tom’s big car will be able to go any further, and what look like the remains of a church, means this is certainly one of the more vestigial settings for a match we’ve ever been to.</p><p>The constant buzz of nearby Heathrow somewhat detracts from the sanctity of the place, Tom suggests the clubs Royal neighbour can hardly be chuffed with every ten minutes a jumbo jet off to Dubai is soaring over her bedroom, but I’m sure she will be fine, because when the din of the planes die down, it’s green and peaceful and very pleasant indeed.</p><p>“Lets go football” announces Tom, repeating again his newly coined catchphrase of the day as he hops out of his car and makes the short walk to the way in, past the countless dog walkers and pleasure ramblers heading off into the nearby Royal park. A Royal park that one of the two jolly men manning the gate points out is certainly “picturesque”.</p><p>Having slipped as I do so often into a place of naive complacency, when we are prompted to check into the NHS track and trace app, scanning the QR code pinned to the red iron gates, reality strikes. The opponents of WFC are spelt out on a number plate along with the date and kick off time, all back dropped by a welcome sign, the colours of the home sides unique home kit.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7DT1XDGrnNMsNild8gHU5g4tlg_3RlwO7C85D6drb70cc44DCNECU4BhuHlRA8hiGq3pzdgP0zh59vfJ93kY0CX1uGIxtuHLeY2VzTYir5KTIDIy95A0e8Pm4N3UqqRPhtvaHcc7Z1E/s2048/IMG_20200926_124141.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7DT1XDGrnNMsNild8gHU5g4tlg_3RlwO7C85D6drb70cc44DCNECU4BhuHlRA8hiGq3pzdgP0zh59vfJ93kY0CX1uGIxtuHLeY2VzTYir5KTIDIy95A0e8Pm4N3UqqRPhtvaHcc7Z1E/w300-h400/IMG_20200926_124141.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />The clubhouse is the perfect place to shelter from the “breezy” conditions as Tom describes them, before being able to venture inside the low ceilinged room with a bar at one end, a TV on the wall at the other, with the obligatory dance floor in between, we are required to don our masks and stop at the hand sanitizing station.<p></p><p>Inside each table is spaced out to government regulations, each with its own bottle of sanitizer. Black and yellow tape with “please keep a safe social distance” written across it, cordons off the bar, preventing anyone from getting too close to the staff behind it. Discussion about what's OK and what's not is going on between the bar women and Malcolm WFC’s kit man, bar manager, webmaster, programme editor. The ever changing guidelines mean we are not the only ones not quite sure of what is appropriate, no one wanting to fall foul, everyone wanting to make sure they do their bit.</p><p>The opulent beige sofa in one corner almost completely consumes me as I take a seat, and it's at that point I’m allowed to remove my mask. Malcolm tells us they have sold “one hundred and thirty” tickets for today's game, so are expecting quite a turnout, which perhaps is adding to the pressure of making sure everyone knows the protocols before they all start to arrive.</p><p>“I've got no issue telling people to fuck off”, I overhear the bar lady tell Malcolm, as they discuss their strategy of how to deal with people who are unwilling to comply with the rules. The taped off bar means its table service, perhaps the most un non league thing ever. When tea arrives atop a black tray, Tom can relate to the struggle of the lady bringing us our drinks is having with her mask and glasses combo, she’s having “bloody murders”, as his spectacles steam up.</p><p>As nice as the clubhouse is, we decide to take our drinks outside, which allows us in turn to take in our surroundings in a bit more detail. “Mmmmmm, very pretty” summerises Tom, sitting back in one of the faded red seats in the main stand. Opposite us gnarled old trees stand tall, and the slanted corrugated roof above us, and black vertical girders holding up, offer up a kind of familiarity I’ve really missed. The narrow tunnel from the rear of the stand, to the front, does that thing I do love, of slowly presenting the pitch before you, like the aperture of a camera.</p><p>The arrival of the 13:31 to Melbourne somewhat shatters the tranquility, “oh that's annoying” grumbles Tom. Each side of the main stand is flanked by the brick dugouts outs, and the remainder of the ground is a mixture of long concrete uncovered terracing, and a long covered one down the far side of the pitch.</p><p>When the planes pass on, it's just the sound of the rattling nylon straps that hold the goal nets taught and the swirling ball of birds flitting around above us, it really is quite tranquil. Only for another plane to soon crash the party, much to Tom’s annoyance, who then takes a bit of a Bill Oddie turn, pointing out a large bird of prey circling.</p><p>We all had to find new things to occupy us during the long days of lockdown, rediscovering Championship Manager was what did it for me, for Tom it seems that plane spotting has become his new past time, “fucking hell that's a big one” he says, as what looks like a Airbus 8380 creaks up slowly into the sky in front of us, banking away towards sunnier climbs.</p><p>Soon it’s not only by the sound of planes and Tom cooing over them assaulting me, but now the crap music that we always hear leaking out from beyond the opening and closing doors of the respective home and away changing rooms, and I notice Tom with an upturned palm towards the sky, as the darkening clouds start to spit on us. </p><p>Both WFC and Burham FC (BFC) take to the pitch for an en-masse team chat, each without a win this season so far, and even though it's relatively early days, it adds a little frisson to this local encounter.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ez2N28UEp6Y5EKd85bWaipEUWdbScuAMzfxXhGui2C0M5desY5TnXOj8Pa5PQYXu2DjZNKfeBRVeH6cUdxz9cs6Ts6Y7xwyUdgRWIExMcOW_Ve5nu_x79sVqakixfVaqE0tyZy9IFxg/s2048/IMG_20200926_131142_1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ez2N28UEp6Y5EKd85bWaipEUWdbScuAMzfxXhGui2C0M5desY5TnXOj8Pa5PQYXu2DjZNKfeBRVeH6cUdxz9cs6Ts6Y7xwyUdgRWIExMcOW_Ve5nu_x79sVqakixfVaqE0tyZy9IFxg/w400-h300/IMG_20200926_131142_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>In search of lunch, our return to the clubhouse finds it, despite all the precautions, a much more convivial scene than the one we found earlier. Most of the tables are now full, table service is in full flow and Tom has not beat around the bush in ordering, “burger and chips on the way”. When the lady in a WFC embroidered apron approaches, his eyes light up and I realise all these months that we’ve spoken fondly about getting back to football, his expressed desire to do so, had nothing to do with me or the match itself, but the food.<p></p><p></p>A newly arrived man at our neighbouring table, is far from impressed with the clubhouse entertainment on offer, the Taylor Swift playlist playing out is not his cup of tea and he turns barking towards the bar, asking for them to put “Football Focus” on. Unfortunately for him, that ended a while ago and the person with the remote has instead replaced Taylor with Escape To The Country. “Is he winding me up?” he asks his son, unable to fathom the change. A man behind us suggests he would have been “better off with Taylor Swift”.<p></p><p>Whipping back and forth the green, red and blue corner flags, as well as the ones on the half way line, </p>are tossed about in the ever shifting wind. More and more people steadily arrive, most heading straight for the clubhouse, where the numbers are limited, so some might be disappointed. The sun is trying it’s best to break through, one can only hope the threatening rain holds off.<p></p><p>Strung out on blue chairs beside the away dugout the BFC substitutes are lined up like people waiting in a dentists reception and there is no grand walk on, no side by side line of eleven arriving gladiators, no heart pounding music to get us all in the mood, just a drip drop of ambling players, the home subs with jackets on that read “we are one” on the rear. No referee leading them down the ramp, with the home team initials built into the brickwork. Just plodding, meandering at best. Both teams huddle, and for the first time today we see the WFC home kit in all its glory, well I say glory, for some it's the opposite of glory. A head to toe green, red and white Union Jack design.</p><p>WFC huddle ends with a raucous applause and Tom quips that “I bet you're glad you didn't wear shorts” as it’s feeling very autumnal all of a sudden. There are plenty of cries of “come on boys” and other such motivational slogans before the sharp high pitched blast of the referee's whistle gets things underway.</p><p>“Come on Windsor” shouts one of the fans standing on the terrace behind us, however early away pressure and a rushed clearance has the home side on the back foot from the off. Calls of “relax” from one player is a little concerning considering the game is only a couple of minutes old.</p><p>With the shirt WFC are wearing, it's hard to not fall into a prolonged spell of kit chat. Tom is far from convinced by the flag inspired get up, much more in favour of the more traditional BFC blue and white pinstripe number, “Brighton” esq as he puts it. He’s also much more in favour of the away goalkeepers kit too, which he describes as making its wearer look like a “bumble bee”, the man in goal for WFC in his lime green and pink shirt, looks like something from a pick and mix.</p><p>The sweetie resembling keeper is soon front and centre, when he spills a flicked header from a BFC player, “shaky hands” sighs a home supporter. A big crunching tackle by the visitors wins them the ball, and their number 9 is away again, but his run is too soon, and shouts of “offside” comes from all corners. Tall, strong and athletic, BFC number 9 is already causing the home defence a few issues, and looks like he will continue to do so for the remainder of the afternoon.</p><p>With just their heads sticking over the fence around the edge of the ground, two passers by treat themselves a view of WFC’s two quick fire chances, both against the run of play and both from long range. The first striking the foot of the post, then the keeper, then agonizingly bobbling along the line, before it cleared. “Too slow on the follow up” laments one home fan.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7UcwOj5ocRqUopzPGl7PgxVS0_TN91lSVnJqEHPD1TE9wgk8KrIe02LnvnMygQ8Fh1p9oaMDy_tPaFkYxiOEOVc1hlwOmIV6Rf6M6PivH3knm__vkNXnO1Ip28nb0ZBM23SP9maU1rk/s1024/01-DSC_0008.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7UcwOj5ocRqUopzPGl7PgxVS0_TN91lSVnJqEHPD1TE9wgk8KrIe02LnvnMygQ8Fh1p9oaMDy_tPaFkYxiOEOVc1hlwOmIV6Rf6M6PivH3knm__vkNXnO1Ip28nb0ZBM23SP9maU1rk/w400-h266/01-DSC_0008.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>The second comes from a poor away clearance, the ball finds itself just outside the box at the foot of one WFC player whose dipping shot is bashed away by the forearm of the BFC keeper, who had been having a very relaxed time of it, until now. This flurry from the home team, who had been rather passive until now, draws the first bit of noise from the supporters.<p></p><p>A quarter of an hour in and WFC almost shot themselves in the foot with a loose pass at the back, but the BFC forward finds himself offside again, so they get a reprieve. After a bit of a nervy start, WFC are in once more, their fans growing louder and louder as their team gets into the swing of things, but the latest ball into the box is swerving high into the car park behind the goal, much to Tom's concern, “that's hit the car”. The resulting corner presents WFC with a free header on the edge of the six yard box, but it's wide.</p><p></p>Frustration is starting to show among the fans and players on both sides. When the home number 2 makes a forward pass, but no one makes a run, he has what Tom calls a “Fortnite tantrum”. When BFC’s number 9 receives the ball on the edge of the box, but tries one took many step overs and drops off the shoulder, one supporter asks, “how many twists and turns can you do?”.<p></p><p>Since the start WFC have looked like they've got more than one gaff at the back in them, and approaching the thirty minute mark, they gaff BFC the ball in front of goal once more, “what's he doing?” laments one home fan, but fortunately for his team BFC are somewhat shy in taking a shot, and the score remains 0-0. With BFC in again, the same fan is adamant that “someones got to shoot”, this time he gets his wish, but it's off target. </p><p>A decent crowd scattered across the steps either side of the main stand, watch BFC sting the keepers hands with a long range effort and twenty six minutes gone, the somewhat inevitable happens, BFC take the lead. All thanks to the twinkle toes of the winger on the left who did all the hard work, giving the eventual scorer very little to do, other than to tap it in.</p><p>“We go again” insists one WFC player as the game gets back under way, and go again they do, because less than a minute after going behind, the score is level again. It very, very nearly wasn't, the scuffed shot could have very easily dribbled wide, “he almost miss kicked it in” says one home fan, there is no “almost” about it, it was a horrible connection, but this is of little concern to the leaping WFC supporters behind the goal.</p><p>The quickness in response from WFC means there's not been enough time for heads to drop “great reaction boys” rallies one player, although this does not mean they are any sturdier at the back, and after a horrible challenge on the BFC number 9 and more sloppy play, one player goes red in the face screaming, “liven up”.</p><p>A chink in the WFC defences, this time the perimeter fence and not their back four, means the people who were sneaking a peek, have now fully crept in, and they all get to enjoy the home players telling their teammate number 2 to “shut up” as he quickly starts to boil over, the referee calling him over for a chat, “yes please” with the steam almost bursting from his ears, at the injustice of his treatment.</p><p>There are many small things I’m very fond of when it comes to football, a pink goalkeepers shirt, an Oliver Bierhoff thumping header, a last ditch tackle, ala King vs Robben at White Hart Lane in 2005, and high up there is the scoring of a goal with an unorthodox part of the body, and when five minutes before halftime, when one WFC player chests it in for the home sides second, it’s a sight to behold. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5c7h4wDD6db1uBmxRzh0XtHEKCTbnCTg_Cp_sUg35imN2MIQI-VxMGPcfsP-5LuolsB76FTVEOlSDEHU8hjohTarc7T-GKoaMiSeuRrNsN7bp-SPRxizKxOwco9wsueqfWQC_zLiazig/s1024/07-DSC_0035.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5c7h4wDD6db1uBmxRzh0XtHEKCTbnCTg_Cp_sUg35imN2MIQI-VxMGPcfsP-5LuolsB76FTVEOlSDEHU8hjohTarc7T-GKoaMiSeuRrNsN7bp-SPRxizKxOwco9wsueqfWQC_zLiazig/w400-h266/07-DSC_0035.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>It’s the least they deserve since equalizing, they have been the far better team, they almost bag a third, the BFC number 3 clueless to the WFC player standing behind him, “he needed a call there” proffers Tom, is powerless stop the ball almost finds the floating forward, but the move breaks down.<p></p><p>Another sign of the ‘new normal’ come the half time whistle is that the players don't leave the pitch, restrictions on numbers in the dressing room, mean they stay out on the pitch and while WFC put on coats to stay warm, BFC are being shouted at. The two gents next to us, forgo a visit to the clubhouse and instead opt to sit on the steps of the terrace, one producing a couple of cans and a couple of cups from his bag, and they get their drink on, all while, some kids are tearing about, which is always the way.</p><p></p><p>Someone who is allowed inside is the referee and his reappearance prompts both teams into concluding their pitchside drills, BFC were a little late starting theirs, on account of being told off and the referee is soon at work, and all without even blowing his whistle yet. The BFC manager has seemingly said too much in their exchanges as they walked out, and despite being pulled away from the man in charge, the manager is given his marching orders. </p><p>“Referee you're awful” castigates a person from the crowd, as the BFC manager trudges towards his seat in the main stand.</p><p>It’s clear that the delay in the restart is of some embarrassment to most of the visiting team, who by the looks of it, just want to get back under way. Although sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for, because WFC are straight back on top, picking up where they left off. “Too easy” bemoans a BFC supporter.</p><p>Struggling with a high cross, with the ball “in the wind” as one home fan puts it, the bumble bee can't hold it, only able to pat it down to a WFC player whose attempt to poke it in from point blank range is blocked.</p><p>Not that the first half was dull by any stretch, but the start of the second is turning into an end to end affair. BFC have a corner, only for WFC to counter attack after winning the ball back. They cross into the box, and the player on the other end attempts a high stand up volley, but instead of hitting it goal wards, passes it right back to whence it came, “have it back” giggles one supporter.</p><p>WFC are dominant, a fine fingertip save stops them taking the lead, another corner, again the wind is causing havoc, and almost catches the man in goal out again. All this home pressure is not to say that BFC don’t fashion their own chances, and it's only a scramble in the box of epic proportions that stops the visitors from taking the lead. </p><p>A home shout for a penalty is turned down by the shaking head of the referee and the claims it had to be by the fans fall on deaf ears. BFC then craft themselves an opening, but the forward player is chastised for being “lazy” by his own fans, when he wanders offside. Frantic is probably the best way to describe the ensuing, and the referee is losing a bit of a grip on things. After the latest foul on one of their players, the away bench asks “how many more, man?” before he produces a card. Although Tom is not sure it was even a foul in the first place, “looks like he fell over”.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgdW2zMxaWOs-zNpAXGo5B_l2x8Xs4KLFN5f1ZV-gCIRZjfAXTZllUHiWqqMDVhSNESVLEiHXgbb4wR_VgGWt2haVK4ut2iusmuGKHIXcD3MdzidDnJ6FhtIt80IDaAAs74I80lhS-fEM/s1024/14-DSC_0110.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgdW2zMxaWOs-zNpAXGo5B_l2x8Xs4KLFN5f1ZV-gCIRZjfAXTZllUHiWqqMDVhSNESVLEiHXgbb4wR_VgGWt2haVK4ut2iusmuGKHIXcD3MdzidDnJ6FhtIt80IDaAAs74I80lhS-fEM/w400-h266/14-DSC_0110.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>It's far from cold really, however Tom is already planning ahead, “think I’ll get the puffer jacket out” he tells me, it might even be time to “dig out the snood”.<p></p><p>A home back post header goes wide, then it's BFC’s turn to claim a penalty, but that's dismissed too. WFC are in once more, but the shot is woeful, “ohh fucking hell” moans one supporter, Tom reckons the player needed to give the ball a “Ronaldo chop” to get it on his other foot, but such a piece of skill didn’t really look on the cards.</p><p>Tom continues to persist with jacket chat, regardless of me showing little to no interest in the topic whatsoever, “it might finally be the year I get an Arsene Wenger” and just when it felt like there hadn't been a chance for a minute or two, BFC fizz a low shot just wide, reminding WFC they are are still very much still in the game. </p><p>Such has been our time away from football Tom is momentarily very alarmed “what's going on, everyone's stopped” he exclaims only to quickly realise there isn't anything to panic about, “oh its a substitution” and in those six months since our last game, its things like a boy doing laps of the pitch on a bike or the home number three barking and hissing at opposition players, to put them off in possession, I realise are what I've really missed.</p><p>I’d also forgotten quite how shouty non league football can be, as everyone chips in their two pence, even the WFC physio is getting into it with a BFC player as he trots on to the pitch to attend to a downed player.</p><p>“The balls up there, what we doing down here?” asks one of the running children of his friends. If I was them I'd keep bombing about, the game has got a little ugly, one of attrition and niggly fouls, and not the back and forth attack fest of earlier. “Who too?” wonders a home fan, as the ball is hoofed up field, neither side able to keep hold of the ball for very long.</p><p>It’s been awhile since the last real bit of quality, so when WFC link up in a rapid passing attack, it holds everyone's attention, but the eventual ball into the box is cut out. The threatening rain is finally here, but for now it’s just a few spots here and there, and this is doing little to deter the freeloaders as the freebie numbers have swelled even more. </p><p>“Fucking pressure” encourages one BFC player, his call to arms inspires people from all sides of the ground to try and rally their respective team for the final five minutes. Edging ever closer to the end, and neither side having won in the league yet this season, nerves are starting to show. The child contingent of WFC fans now straddle the railings and have found their voice, given the hoardings a bit of a whack too.</p><p>WFC are losing their composure, they look like they are struggling to hold it together. When a BFC corner travels all the way through their box, hearts are in mouths and a late “raking” challenge as Tom describes it, is petulant to say the least.</p><p>Nerves are close to breaking point, the kids still on the railings beating out a tune “deh, deh, deh deh”, however no-one else seems anywhere near as relaxed as them. A BFC corner in the dying moments looks like it might be the source of some anguish, but it’s wasted by the visitors and the cheer from the crowd and jumping embrace between the manager and he’s staff, really emphasizes how crucial it was to secure the three points.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJFL4u7YbKpYOGhZtZITFs6o9sOThuVfI2T8xcz9vo3vsJyvTkySA3pscoGG_iJnkJiRELSVPw8YSVtWBcNVkMBo0W8HSaaNcaToVHkwvZI3BcCJ47yn8NNCdu5AdEc8ql6R-1kx1PUo/s1024/21-DSC_0147.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJFL4u7YbKpYOGhZtZITFs6o9sOThuVfI2T8xcz9vo3vsJyvTkySA3pscoGG_iJnkJiRELSVPw8YSVtWBcNVkMBo0W8HSaaNcaToVHkwvZI3BcCJ47yn8NNCdu5AdEc8ql6R-1kx1PUo/w400-h266/21-DSC_0147.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>As he leaves the pitch the referee is in for some more stick, sharpening their pitchforks, a small contingent of the BFC supporters herangue him, “very poor”, one calling him a “liar”. This is all lost on the WFC players, “fucking finally” says one, who is then quickly told off “oi, watch your language” and the kids who are going a bit loopy. The bumble bee shakes the home fans hands and the kids now line the ramp up to the changing room, to high five the players. A few of the BFC supporters yet to leave, dissect the performance, “chalk and cheese again”.<p></p><p>A splendid ground, run by lovely people. WFC came highly recommended and it did not disappoint. I can't stop thinking though as we leave, will all their hard work be for nothing, will all the hard work of non league clubs up and down the country mean nothing if Covid 19 rears its head once more?</p><p>Tom’s ever so slightly sobering comment on the way here highlights a dark cloud hanging over us all, over the survival of so many clubs as the purse strings tighten and the coffers empty, me, him, you, have “no idea what the future holds”.</p><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=BeautifulGame15&set=a.3353739951400642&__cft__[0]=AZUYwhSf3FZdCL1ptoedusL6ZHTJY6h_ea5TE9mJIS-Lhl8cnw_adCn5XnlLzOjamtoTrwailYmG7kORgqM_6rTTtkV_wGDmCK0Bzq-Q4X8RYoKlzz7w47KE9FJSYgUOsFOmndGZi8JV3XMQ_EmCAO3apN16hGiHKWSQ8ShzZLhpelm3Fgo702o4fqDyGJZcja4&__tn__=-R">HERE</a></h4><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b>Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE</b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SSYvbJU8WS4" width="320" youtube-src-id="SSYvbJU8WS4"></iframe></div><h3 style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; margin: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBYJDX4Jm4tUTPzBZU4nSRkhjsxVVFLVXUvVbUJOL-8SqScm7JpLqygWLu9_Ak7cyL4weyArdsC5Z5GD-yzWL_pD1zSwjDMVePt6GE9ydL-3BiQhfRXVK1-tKUxhc81eWAXg9E24AOxQ/s1600/index+%25283%2529.png" style="clear: left; color: #3778cd; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBYJDX4Jm4tUTPzBZU4nSRkhjsxVVFLVXUvVbUJOL-8SqScm7JpLqygWLu9_Ak7cyL4weyArdsC5Z5GD-yzWL_pD1zSwjDMVePt6GE9ydL-3BiQhfRXVK1-tKUxhc81eWAXg9E24AOxQ/s200/index+%25283%2529.png" style="background: transparent; 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color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px;"><b><br /></b></span></p>BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-760542183256337692020-08-27T11:52:00.000-07:002020-08-27T11:52:19.467-07:00The Season That Never Was - 2019/20 End Of Season Review <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjprqXbVdRoqin24iyw2f2T3WQgl3EZeiZ4grsFEd3lLA94BkBQR7S2vujo6dXScM_m5ZJdESlIf5sTIB6kjL330aFKHyGb494r2fg2m9i_OLVALdzK6mQB4TRqdDCSexPsmUt3jvChA/s2048/END+OF+SEASON+ART+WORK.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjprqXbVdRoqin24iyw2f2T3WQgl3EZeiZ4grsFEd3lLA94BkBQR7S2vujo6dXScM_m5ZJdESlIf5sTIB6kjL330aFKHyGb494r2fg2m9i_OLVALdzK6mQB4TRqdDCSexPsmUt3jvChA/w328-h328/END+OF+SEASON+ART+WORK.jpg" width="328" /></a></div>One could not have asked for a better start to the season, a sweltering hot day on the coast, we do love a trip to the seaside, and two sets of boisterous fans spectating a local derby no less, with one section of the home support marching from the local pub, banners, flare and a very accomplished drummer in toe, 2019/20 kicked off perfectly. <p></p><p>The match wasn't half bad either, improved somewhat by the nearby presence of the away teams very own club radio commentator, and as we drove home somewhat singed by the 30c plus heat, Tom’s air con blasting, we and none of the almost one thousand other people watching the ‘El Clasicoast’ had any idea that this particular season would be cut short by a worldwide pandemic, which would claim the lives of hundreds of thousands, changing life forever, and bookmarking it as the strangest post war season on record.</p><p>Before the angst though, before lock-down, before only being able to see my friends via Zoom, my Mum from the bottom of the steps outside her house, when I dropped off her shopping because she was too at risk going herself, before the hours of Call of Duty, many more of Championship Manager, ups and downs in my own mental health as the months shacked up at home started to tell, there were still twenty one games, there were still monster sized fish finger sandwiches and a dog in a pram. There were still plenty of good memories, fine times and some brilliant goals. Well before they were expunged from the history books, like a painting with Trotsky in.</p><p>I can’t bring myself to take the customary glance over my right shoulder to catch a glimpse of the de facto White Hart Lane, after yesterday's shit show against Newcastle. Knowing full well it will be glimmering like a brand new penny, looking quite resplendent with a cloudless backdrop, all lit up by the late August sun, I’m still just that little bit annoyed.<br /><br />Tottenham's quite dismal run out against Steve Bruce's men, very nearly ruined what was until then a quite excellent Sunday. Ben Stokes heroics at the crease, followed by a BBQ at my Mum’s. I set my Sky box to record, catching the game a few hours after the final whistle hoping with a beer in hand it would be the crowning glory, but it was quite the opposite.<br /><br />It really doesn't feel all that long ago since we were staggering away from Wembley stadium, exhausted from the FA Vase final, talking about a football free summer, with plenty to occupy us until it all started again, not least of all Tom’s wedding. <span style="color: #0000ee;"><b><u><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/09/el-clasicoast-worthing-fc-vs-bognor.html">El Clasicoast - Worthing FC Vs Bognor Regis Town FC, Isthmian League Premier, Woodside Road (26/08/19)</a></u></b></span><b> & </b><a href="https://youtu.be/MuE78CURTRw" style="font-weight: bold;">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Worthing FC Vs Bognor Regis Town FC</a></p><p>I moved house yesterday, which meant despite getting up at the crack of dawn I was still struggling with an array of flat pack furniture come 22:00 and didn't even have the comfort of knowing I had my own bed to fall into. It doesn't arrive for another two days, so I flop onto the sofa, certain of the fact that I will be waking up in the morning with a crick in my neck and a bad back.</p><p>I’m too tired to even think about shooting Spurs’s new home a look, so plough on east, relieved that Tom is driving again, because I’d be a menace to other road users if I was. Such is my state of near exhaustion, I don't even have the energy to fully revel in this momentous event. Tom driving to two games in a row, will surely mean today will become some kind of national holiday, joining the other obscure ones you see on calendars, but quite can’t put your finger on exactly why it's there.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_SEn04ockLam9ogLHi5IKEEbWgzqVbszqYgJ1u9TJUjIrz4k9r0cyaI0awo9-jl9wfDDvS4YJORSixbhkcn5ECPl63wP5iOQGhz4a_ngS2TT4u0sL3PNdMsMkpQdrwMDtkI2ukYHbXo/s1024/1+%25281%2529.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1024" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_SEn04ockLam9ogLHi5IKEEbWgzqVbszqYgJ1u9TJUjIrz4k9r0cyaI0awo9-jl9wfDDvS4YJORSixbhkcn5ECPl63wP5iOQGhz4a_ngS2TT4u0sL3PNdMsMkpQdrwMDtkI2ukYHbXo/w410-h288/1+%25281%2529.JPG" width="410" /></a>“False alarm” says Tom, ever so slightly out of breath, our journey to deepest darkest Essex getting off to a worrisome start, after he thought he had forgotten to double lock his front door, and we ended up doing a lap of the block at breakneck speed, the car not quite at a standstill before he swung open his door to find out it was a lot of rushing around about nothing. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/09/he-cant-head-ball-for-toffee-white.html">BLOG: He Can't Head The Ball For Toffee - White Ensign FC Vs Takeley FC, FA Cup Preliminary Round Replay, Burroughs Park (04/09/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/XH_l4AdtVv4">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - White Ensign FC Vs Takeley FC</a></b></p><p>We are blessed once again by the football gods with a lovely evening, but the spots of rain falling on the windscreen of Toms car could be a sign of things to come, however I’m far too preoccupied with the fact that he is driving again, completing his hattrick, I think I’d be OK if we were driving into the middle of a hurricane.<br /><br />We don't exactly have far to travel tonight, which might just explain Tom’s eagerness to get behind the wheel again, ensuring he has plenty of credit in the bank when it comes to this season's first slog up to Yorkshire or some such far flung parts of the world and it’s not long before we get our first sight of this evenings ground, hurtling past it on the motorway. “Floodlights” squeals Tom, like a child who just spotted the sea first on a family day trip to the coast, cutting short our conversation about “8K” TV’s.<br /><br />For a medium sized market town, Biggleswade is somewhat spoilt for choice when it comes to non league teams. Last season we saw two of the three that take their name from it, United and FC, but tonight’s visit to Langford Road will mean we can consider this part of Bedfordshire complete. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/10/fake-brioche-biggleswade-town-fc-vs-st.html">BLOG: Fake Brioche - Biggleswade Town FC Vs St Neots Town FC, FA Cup 1st Qualifying Round Replay, Langford Road (11/09/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/ULkt4JhHS9w">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Biggleswade Town FC Vs St Neots Town FC</a></b></p><p>I have to admit I do feel a tad guilty as I disembark the good ship parenting, my daughter in the middle of a full blown meltdown, I can still hear her as I speed march away from my house, leaving her in the capable hands of my other half, who was let's say not best pleased at my decision to ascend the gang plank, at this particular juncture.<br /><br />The last vestiges of summer are still clinging on, which of course means I’m opting for shorts, despite my ravaged legs, and I don't mean that in a sexy Victorian way, more an eaten alive kind of way, they're looking a little ropey to say the least. In fact the weather is surprisingly good, you'd be hard pressed to imagine it's almost October, however the melancholy playlist Tom’s opted for, oh yes I forgot to mention he’s driving again, insane, is bumming me right out.<br /><br />His song choices reflect perfectly the “anxiety” he admits to feeling as we head towards the M25. “It never ends well" he sighs as we head down the ramp and merge with the four lane behemoth. He’s right of course, any previous venture where this particular highway has been required has very rarely gone to plan. Tom pointing out “as long as it's not closed”, we might just be OK. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/10/stanley-matthew-would-have-scored.html">BLOG: Stanley Matthews Would Have Scored - Bracknell Town FC Vs Westfield FC, Isthmian League South Central, Larges Lane (18/09/19)</a> & <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvDZ1Bjnkic&feature=emb_title">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Bracknell Town FC Vs Westfield FC</a></b></p><p>“You live in a stupid area” whines Tom, annoyed that the space my car has just pulled out of, yes I’m driving, the status quo has resumed, is not big enough to accommodate his wide hipped gas guzzler. “Silly small car, silly parking” he mumbles under his breath like a cantankerous white haired muppet on a theatre balcony. It takes him at least three tries, in three different spaces, before he eventually finds one he can get into, much like the Goldilocks of parking: one was too short, one was too narrow, the third being just right.<br /><br />Just about settled in, just about over his parking debacle, Tom’s choice of topic of conversation is of course the weather. “Is it going to rain?” he asks himself, peering out of the car. “Its that time of year” he says, exactly what he means by that I’m not sure, but it's clearly causing him much consternation what combination of numerous items of clothing he has dragged from his car into mine.<br /><br />The latest incarnation of FIFA occupies almost the entirety of our drive west, and Tom's upcoming </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAk42MIahCMJFMmSRt1ekNhKpcCCNgllonJu_bv0KbilxV95an2TNKaFQAR1_0cShW8-Mbv5utB1vvJ5j6tcww03EKnnbGWpZpzVuGApzH0HaNPSNVZ2bOjYG4Y81x1uBuLr3xCMDqfdk/s1024/4+%25283%2529.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="681" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAk42MIahCMJFMmSRt1ekNhKpcCCNgllonJu_bv0KbilxV95an2TNKaFQAR1_0cShW8-Mbv5utB1vvJ5j6tcww03EKnnbGWpZpzVuGApzH0HaNPSNVZ2bOjYG4Y81x1uBuLr3xCMDqfdk/w273-h410/4+%25283%2529.JPG" width="273" /></a></div>honeymoon in the Maldives, that despite my best efforts, will be happening during the season. Tom going all European on me, having himself a winter break, while we’re all Brexiting at home. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/10/engage-highworth-town-fc-vs-swindon.html">BLOG: Engage - Highworth Town FC Vs Swindon Supermarine FC, Southern League Challenge Cup 1st Round, The Elms (02/10/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/AttbtUnSriU">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Highworth Town FC Vs Swindon Supermarine FC</a></b><p></p><p>It’s officially that time of year, where it feels like the chance of the football match you intended going to is more likely to be cancelled then go ahead, in the non league world at least. Rapidly hurtling towards winter, each check of my Twitter time line is tinged with apprehension, scrolling past tweets about games being called off come thick and fast and it's surely only a matter of time before the club we'll be making our way to fires one off about Mother Nature getting the better of their pitch.<br /><br />The short video from Tom of the torrential rain overwhelming the storm drains near his work and the vision out of my own living room window of almost twenty four hours of solid rain, doesn't bode well for our first Saturday afternoon match of the season, and it’s not any old Saturday may I add, but the final international break of the year too, which can only mean one thing, its Non League Day.<br /><br />We were relatively slow on the uptake when it came to non leagues holiest of holidays, but since having devoted ourselves completely to the cause, we have tried to make as much of a grand day out of it as we can. Last year's trip to North Ferriby meant this year had a lot to live up to, however I’ve an inkling where we will be going won't disappoint. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/11/from-road-corinthian-casuals-fc-vs.html">BLOG: From The Road - Corinthian-Casuals FC Vs Folkestone Invicta FC, Isthmian League Premier, King George's Field (12/10/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/W2gDw0NlY3k">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Corinthian-Casuals FC Vs Folkestone Invicta FC</a></b></p><p>Thank Christ for A Tribe Called Quest, was never a sentence I ever thought I would utter, I say utter, I just roll it around in my head, having tentatively opened the passenger side door of Toms car in anticipation of a deluge of morose music like last time out, but instead I’m greeted by the New York four pieces 1993 hit, Electric Relaxation, what a relief.<br /><br />Although I don't have long to enjoy their melodic hip hop beats, as tonight's ground is less than ten minutes away from my house, its eight minutes to be precise, I have just about enough time to consider the advice of my other half, “I don't know if its a big jacket day” she said to me as I left and just how thankful I am for ignoring her this time, because the last game we went out I was freezing and tonight's even colder.<br /><br />Another reason for a coat, is not just the plummeting thermometer, but the very high chance of getting wet, “at least it's not raining” mutters Tom as we step out of the car, the fact it's not is a minor miracle. It's been raining non stop for what feels like days and looking out across the floodlit pitch, the car park within touching distance of it, Tom says pretty much exactly what I was thinking too, “there is not much here, but it's very nice”. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/11/id-go-closer-but-id-need-snorkel-london.html">BLOG: I'd Go Closer, But I'd Need A Snorkel - London Lions FC Vs Enfield Borough FC, Spartan South Midlands Football League Division One, Rowley Lane (16/10/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/FuNocfU9ylw">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - London Lions FC Vs Enfield Borough FC</a></b></p><p>Bumper to bumper traffic and 40 mile per hour speed restrictions make for slow going, but at least I have the unusual, but not to say enjoyable mix of the Queens of the Stone Age, George Michael and Soundgarden to entertain me, as I journey along the M25. With no Tom, the music fills a void, however I miss our banal chatter and friendly bickering. Tonight, as has been the case on a few occasions this season, because of the location of our destination, we are both travelling solo.<br /><br />Entering the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Complex, the UK’s number one leisure complex by all accounts, the name I accept is quite a mouthful, and not one I think that will be remembered in the annals of time with other more evocative stadiums like Anfield and the Camp Nou, is visible from quite a distance.<br /><br />Illuminated like something from a Spielberg film set, it's about as far from the usual non league set up then we are used to then you could imagine. The rows and rows of parking bays, many if not most are filled, signs pointing off in all sorts of directions towards one thing or another, an ice rink and bowling alley and not one of them says club shop. Modern, bright, and more concrete then you could shake a stick at, a monolith built in honour of wholesome family entertainment. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/12/in-direct-line-of-burgers-guildford.html">BLOG: In Direct Line Of The Burgers - Guildford City FC Vs Hanworth Villa FC, Combined Counties League Premier, Spectrum Football Ground (30/10/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/qL_DSszN5NE">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Guildford City FC Vs Hanworth Villa FC</a></b></p><p>There are certainly some grounds and therefore some clubs who for one reason or another we have passed through the turnstiles of and spent more time in the company of, then others. Be its because of a personal obsession with a certain non league club in N17, the fact it’s the team of your other half or that particular club just happens to play on Wednesdays, which for the last couple of years has been our go to midweek match day.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHYAsM4gbf61Co5IWuMOpbDj4z3tnTMp2o3fTkH4tyb2ZjbM567sAXfvg400X2VWroZN_eWuqMN4ia4Du_RQnHOVGueMgu7mB2I37xeE0L5xvVp5HX2oeztn8Pn2bCTMGGeqQO1FC9N4/s2048/IMG_20191012_125439.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHYAsM4gbf61Co5IWuMOpbDj4z3tnTMp2o3fTkH4tyb2ZjbM567sAXfvg400X2VWroZN_eWuqMN4ia4Du_RQnHOVGueMgu7mB2I37xeE0L5xvVp5HX2oeztn8Pn2bCTMGGeqQO1FC9N4/w307-h410/IMG_20191012_125439.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>The fact that Hampton & Richmond Borough FC (HRB) are neither local, play on a Wednesday or as far as I know are not supported by any known loved one, I'm not quite sure why our visit today to their tidy West London home, The Beveree, tucked away at the end of cul-de-sac a stone's throw from the banks of the Thames, is our third, having seen them play a total of five times at home and away.<br /><br />No end of nice cars, parked outside nice houses surround their little corner of the football world, and when I finally find a place to park with what in comparison to some of the motors, is a complete shit show of a car with it’s broken rear window windscreen wiper, drooping down like a gun dog's tail, it is a more than an agreeable walk to the ground. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2019/12/felt-like-i-was-sucking-on-cow-hampton.html">BLOG: Felt Like I Was Sucking On A Cow - Hampton & Richmond Borough FC Vs Wealdstone FC, National League South, Beveree Stadium (16/11/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/utF3gyB2JFI">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Hampton & Richmond Borough FC Vs Wealdstone FC</a></b><p></p><p>It’s another slightly lonely and quiet solo drive for me today, as I retrace my steps South, as our Wednesday match day handicap means we are heading back to a ground we visited only a couple of weeks ago. Tonight I do have the dulcet tones of former England and Arsenal physio Gary Lewin, no I’m not giving him a lift to Tolworth high street, but he happens to be the guest on the podcast I’m listening to and as interesting, uplifting and slightly horrifying the story is about being credited with saving Eduardo's leg, but it’s not a patch on the witty back and forths I usually enjoy with Tom.<br /><br />The railway arch that precedes the final few steps to King George's Field, is even more foreboding in the misty darkness, than it was in the light of day. The two men manning the impromptu road block, instruct me to park under the aforementioned arch, right in the middle of it’s deepening shadows and I’m hoping its a case of them offering me the best place to leave my car and not because they think I resemble its usual goat eating resident.<br /><br />A train races by not far above my head, along the track that runs all the way along one side of the ground, instantly lighting up the place, before quickly disappearing again and plunging my surroundings into darkness once more. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/01/three-stewards-for-flying-teddy-bear.html">BLOG: Three Stewards For A Flying Teddy Bear - Kingstonian FC Vs Enfield Town FC, Isthmian League Premier, King George’s Field (20/11/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/72NbjOLKh1A">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Kingstonian FC Vs Enfield Town FC</a></b></p><p>The A1 is odd, very odd indeed. For such a major highway stretching all the way from London to Edinburgh its only two lanes in places, very poorly lit and littered with sex shops. Lone gaily lit petrol stations occasionally appear on the horizon like a mirage, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. The people who decided that slap bang in the middle of nowhere was the ideal spot for a caravan dealership and Christmas tree outlet was a good idea, might struggle if they ever decided to have a pop at the Dragons. They don't sound like the kind of people dripping with business acumen.</p><p>As you can maybe tell by the fact I'm not recounting chats about FIFA, that once again I’m alone, so even if I did want to stop off for a whip or the latest copy of Playboy, I don’t have anyone to hold my hand as I did. For the fifth time this season, Tom & I have traveled separately, and he’s arrived well before me, although his journey was far from seamless.</p><p>“A farm” he screeches over the speaker on my phone, his Sat Nav has forced him to do a “dodgy u turn” in the dark, where he was “sure there was a ditch” that he and his motor nearly disappeared into. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/01/well-saved-legolas-huntingdon-town-fc.html">BLOG: Well Saved Legolas - Huntingdon Town FC Vs Burton Park Wanderers FC, United Counties Football League Division One, Jubilee Park (27/11/19)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/J87RiQnT43M">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Huntingdon Town FC Vs Burton Park Wanderers FC</a></b></p><p>Scrambled eggs, a side of jalapeno pretzels, James Bond with my half asleep mother and my son glued to his laptop, all topped off with a can of American Fanta and that's before we have got into the nitty gritty of the Hootenanny and the half cut guests pretending to celebrate the dawning of a new decade in and around the second week of October.</p><p></p><p>New Years Eve is a lot different now since having children. It all used to be ecstasy, too much booze and rejection and ultimately not having a nice time. Now there are no drugs or girls to fawn over, just crap music and bar snacks that give me heartburn.</p><p></p><p>Fireworks display consumed and having just about successfully ignored the fact I’m turning 36 in less than a week, for a few hours at least, January the 1st sees Grandma on babysitting duty, while I make myself scarce for a few hours. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/01/three-at-back-undertaker-up-front.html">BLOG: Three At The Back, Undertaker Up Front - Berkhamsted FC Vs Welwyn Garden City FC, Southern League Central, Broadwater (01/01/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/nJbdxHpKzio">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Berkhamsted FC Vs Welwyn Garden City FC</a></b></p><p>Sitting on a bench outside a Co-Op, waiting for my other half to stagger her way over from Greggs with a bag full of sausage rolls and pizza slices, doing her best not to vomit, because last night she forgot she is in her 40’s and is not a teenager anymore, after going out with some old school friends, was not quite how I envisaged starting today.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbhXf6FQd1C-XcMkaWxV4dG83Y-xzSHorzsNFYZWwDEFg4f-N6DtfyEeJOBiWAKvg_2kFHM8OkW2Fw2N3XArDMAKjlQMg3ll2JPLc9nlOz8jtNJW-CvCBddpUhNdm48CKuKZVU_63UyU/s1024/7+%25281%2529.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbhXf6FQd1C-XcMkaWxV4dG83Y-xzSHorzsNFYZWwDEFg4f-N6DtfyEeJOBiWAKvg_2kFHM8OkW2Fw2N3XArDMAKjlQMg3ll2JPLc9nlOz8jtNJW-CvCBddpUhNdm48CKuKZVU_63UyU/w410-h273/7+%25281%2529.JPG" width="410" /></a></div><p></p><p>I say starting, because in fact this debacle began about eight or nine hours earlier with a swathe of drunken selfies and the sounds of retching as she crashed around the downstairs of her parents house attempting to make toast, being frankly quite annoying.<br /><br />It’s grey, dry and cold, the weather doing a fine job in summing up my mood. What was supposed to be an early birthday present, a trip to one of possibly my favourite places to watch football, has instead turned into babysitting an almost fifty year old Harry Potter lookalike, making sure to shield her from even the slightest of noises, because they might force her to curl up on the floor and I'll have to call her Mum to come and pick her up. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/02/no-need-for-boos-stockport-county-fc-vs.html">BLOG: No Need For The Boos - Stockport County FC Vs Boreham Wood FC, National League, Edgeley Park (04/01/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/gG8QCNn-G_w">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Stockport County FC Vs Boreham Wood FC</a></b></p><p>Sitting in Tom’s car, pootling along through the Saturday afternoon traffic, Feeder tumbling from the speakers, I can’t quite get my head around why Tom isn't anywhere near as tanned as I thought he would be.<br /><br />Two weeks in the Maldives and I expected him to come back looking not far off beef jerky, but not quite David Dickinson. Tom very much falls into the sun worshiper category and admittedly he is glowing, he’s taken on a bit of colour, however I frankly thought I was not going to recognise him.<br /><br />Not long into our journey and I'm starting to slightly regret accepting his offer to drive, by his own admission he is a little “spaced”, having only landed forty eight hours ago, and still feeling the effect of a five hour time difference. I do manage to coax a bit of detail out of him, his trip to “turtle reef” where most of the passengers vomited on the transfer. His evening on the “top deck of a boat on a bean bag” being “given canapes'' and the night of the “three lobsters” and sounding a tad spoilt, admits “I never want to eat lobster again”, as well as lazy sun drenched days “kayaking” and “paddleboarding” a “once in a lifetime” experience. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/02/head-says-move-heart-says-stay-chesham.html">BLOG: Head Says Move, Heart Says Stay - Chesham United FC Vs Taunton Town FC, The Meadow, Southern League Premier South (25/01/20</a>) & <a href="https://youtu.be/efr7zsivZQ0">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Chesham United FC Vs Taunton Town FC</a></b></p><p>“There is not much fun in a 15 nil’er” says my other half as I peruse the league table of the team we are heading off to tonight, while I wait for Tom to arrive. The home side Long Buckby FC (LB) are second and have an impressive goal haul so far this season, over + 50. The away side, Lutterworth Athletic FC (LA) who are bottom of the table have a goal difference of - 50. Each team's form couldn't be more polar opposite if they tried. As I rub my hands in anticipation of a bit of a goal fest, Rachel reminds me of the match where we saw a team get pumped 15 - 0 and the referee called it early, which on reflection, was a bit of a relief, it made for very uncomfortable viewing.<br /><br />The admittedly stunning sunset means I have to endure Tom singing Nants' Ingonyama, after pointing out that it looks “a bit Lion King”. The rest of our journey North is thankfully sans any more Disney singalongs, and by the time we arrive at Station Road, Tom is getting tetchy about quite how far from home we are, its pitch black and the only real sign that we are in the right place, is a charming back lit sign high above the doors of what I’m guessing is the clubhouse.<br /><br />“Can I ping you in?” asks a man with wispy white hair, unloading music equipment from the back of a van, probably wondering who the hell are these guys. The unfamiliarity of our surroundings has us a tad flummoxed, and neither of us really know if what is effectively a working man's club or British Legion in front of us, is anything to do with where we are supposed to be or not. Passing through the double doors he kindly held open for us, we enter a scene from the lesser known Back to the Future spin off, Marty McFly does the 1970’s. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/02/skittle-master-long-buckby-afc-vs.html">BLOG: Skittle Master - Long Buckby A.F.C. Vs Lutterworth Athletic FC, United Counties Football League Division One, Station Road (29/01/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/ix3YzqxdzPg">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Long Buckby A.F.C. Vs Lutterworth Athletic FC</a></b></p><p>Necking a handful of Ibuprofen, I bid my daughter farewell, but it's tinged with a modicum of disdain. It is after all because of her and all her snotty little friends at playgroup that I feel like shit. Her kinds propensity for bad hygiene, sneezing and drooling on everything, means it's only a matter of time before I’m struck down with whatever lurgy she has brought home, along with her latest collage of painted pasta shells and glitter.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWK4KAV80fATIVq9q35Jn1ZDVpN8BJ5E6GwBssJ6_IkI0i77-Cmedov3gE-H2ILMPRH2c7yapzUybBAdaEdV12a3vB4gnhu6-QUXGE2r7dRdOLK-OJLWBsRvPgKYqzwGVwVQzWnip2MU/s2048/IMG_20200208_144101.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWK4KAV80fATIVq9q35Jn1ZDVpN8BJ5E6GwBssJ6_IkI0i77-Cmedov3gE-H2ILMPRH2c7yapzUybBAdaEdV12a3vB4gnhu6-QUXGE2r7dRdOLK-OJLWBsRvPgKYqzwGVwVQzWnip2MU/w410-h307/IMG_20200208_144101.jpg" width="410" /></a></div>I’m sans Tom once again, a sentence I seem to be writing more than not this season. Instead I have Trevor Francis for company, the “million pound man” proves to be a worthy replacement, his self-deprecating tales of making his debut for Forest in the European Cup final, where he scored the winner, all said in his slightly monotone West Country way is very endearing and helps the time pass satisfactorily.<br /><br />We're both early, both because we made the mistake of believing Google Maps tells the truth, so it means we have some time to kill, and I find Tom hunkered down his car, with the heater blaring. There is some time of course for a brief bit of Fifa chat, Tom is back at it after a short hiatus, but more interestingly he tells me after effectively retiring, he is playing Pokemon Go again, yeah I didn't think anyone played it anymore either. Like many millions of people I was too caught up in its initial fanfare, but had stopped long ago. Much to his delight tonight's ground, Bridge Road, is a Pokestop. So while I talk at him, getting very little back in reply, he is catching a whole host of Snorlax and Rattata. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/02/bloody-flags-cambridge-city-fc-vs-soham.html">BLOG: Bloody Flags - Cambridge City FC Vs Soham Town Rangers FC, Isthmian League North, Bridge Road (05/02/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/BzkpNu_3dWQ">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Cambridge City FC Vs Soham Town Rangers FC</a></b> <p></p><p>“Ohh it’s sunny” says Rachel, as we beat a controlled retreat from my Mum's front door towards the car at the bottom of the long array of steps, having just ditched the kids, on the promise that we will return at some point later today after the football, baring fish and chips. Fiddling with something in the boot, Rachel is confused at what's causing the hold up. We are sans children, which is an all too rare occurrence these days, so she asks me quite plainly, “what are we still doing here?”.<br /><br />I imagine the fans of Stockport County FC (SC), regularly ask themselves a similar question, ‘what are we still doing in the National League?’. Nine years since relegation from the Football League, how have they still have not managed to ascend back to the promised land is anyone's guess. Until our visit to their home Edgeley Park in early January it was looking like a possibility, but since they've not won a game, not scored in the league, and have crashed out of the FA Trophy to a team from the step below them, their form has been of some concern.<br /><br />We said after watching them take a bit of a hiding from Boreham Wood, that we would give them some space, as they never seem to do all that well when we are there, but the fact they are playing thirty minutes from our house today, it’s too hard to resist. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-curse-has-been-lifted-dagenham.html">BLOG: The Curse Has Been Lifted - Dagenham & Redbridge FC Vs Stockport County FC, National League, Victoria Road (08/02/20</a>) & <a href="https://youtu.be/u5ZacHOs6nU">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Dagenham & Redbridge FC Vs Stockport County FC</a></b></p><p>With a belly full of Mexican food I should really be preparing for a siesta, not embarking on a two hour drive towards the South Coast. It will be of no shock to hear I’m without Tom, but like some kind of minor miracle, call the Vatican and tell them I saw the face of Jesus in the display of my until now broken radio, it now, without explanation is working again. So I flit between Michael Jackson’s History, and Radio One’s drive time show.<br /><br />The further into Sussex I go, the signs on the motorway read more and more like the Isthmian league table, each exit seeming to have it’s own team. Passing through Dorking, there are an abundance of cocks, and in a couple of rare moments of excitement I notice first a dog in its own car seat, and at one point have to wait behind a police roadblock, because someone has been dragged from their estate car and is currently face down on the roof, with their hands in cuffs.<br /><br />There are new football grounds, The Emirates, really new grounds, White Hart Lane 2.0 and really, really, really new grounds, which is the category tonight's tongue twister of a venue falls into, The Camping World Community Stadium or as I believe it’s known as by locals, The Hop Oast. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/03/ive-tried-cashmere-horsham-fc-vs.html">BLOG: I've Tried Cashmere - Horsham FC Vs Burgess Hill Town FC, Isthmian League Trophy 2nd Knock Out Round, Hop Oast (12/02/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/dXOm-N3Rtss">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Horsham FC Vs Burgess Hill Town FC</a></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyL9fiGcPlftCiIDcTvCZZZZLB9sFALx9SWfNKviSeDeGqnbPcfaN8KWl7cLRmomPRv_ec0LMnHzlt-06fz40cqCd0beSNMK4Xk4xxPgqYro5kWF-JdL2KvmewfBfZrCC7F8rjStDrEsw/s2048/P1060814.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyL9fiGcPlftCiIDcTvCZZZZLB9sFALx9SWfNKviSeDeGqnbPcfaN8KWl7cLRmomPRv_ec0LMnHzlt-06fz40cqCd0beSNMK4Xk4xxPgqYro5kWF-JdL2KvmewfBfZrCC7F8rjStDrEsw/w410-h307/P1060814.JPG" width="410" /></a><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As car parks at non league grounds go, the one at Chadfields is a bit of a shocker, I’m not sure it’s even legal. The narrow unlit drive up the side of the clubhouse, leading to the spaces behind, feels fraught with danger. The main car park at the front is already full, I’m late on account of a police roadblock, stopping me from getting here the way I wanted, sending me instead on a circuitous tour of the towns that litter the banks of this part of the Thames estuary.</div></span></div><br />My detour does allow me at least to get a good view of the nearby docks, all lit up like a Christmas tree, crane after crane covered in bright white lights, the ships that they service and a whole slew of slowly turning wind turbines. As I wind and weave through the dark Essex countryside, eventually the floodlights come into view, through the cast iron gates, I arrive to find Tom, who is back to his loitering ways, but not before I’m scared half to death by the ghoulish face of, not my compadre, but part of a fairground ride in the neighbouring plot.<br /><br />The words of Journey’s Don't Stop Believing drift over the breeze block wall that separates us and the ground beyond. Not even here five minutes and we catch a glimpse of the baseball cap wearing reason for us being in this corner of Essex on a wet Wednesday evening. Spencer Brown of Spencer FC, YouTube royalty and co founder of what might be the most divisive football club in recent memory, Hashtag United FC (HU) <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/03/they-dont-like-it-up-them-hashtag.html">BLOG: They Don't Like It Up Them - Hashtag United FC Vs Hadley FC, Essex Senior League, Chadfields (19/02/20</a>) & <a href="https://youtu.be/zVBsNorEAKY">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Hashtag United FC Vs Hadley FC</a></b><p></p><p>Pulling up next to Tom, having been in the gloomy car park of Gander Green Lane for all of ten seconds, he is already moaning, holding up his left hand showing me three fingers, I can just about make out what’s he’s saying from inside his dimly lit station wagon him mouthing, “three degrees”. It is soon clear this is not a reference to what is playing on the radio, but the temperature, and he is soon wobbling about on one foot by the boot of his motor, putting on a hefty pair of socks.<br /><br />The car park is well patronised, one could maybe even say bustling, sadly though that is not down to an expected bumper crowd at tonight's match, but because of all the extra curricular activities going on. Tom seems to think there is a gym somewhere nearby and beyond the half open blinds in the windows of a large function room, where a group of older ladies are sitting in a circle, they are not playing “bingo” as Tom suggested, but are members of the local Weight Watchers.<br /><br />As is usually the case, I only really have half of Tom's attention, he is busy on his phone, in the throws of a domestic with his wife. Some of the purchases on his recent spending spree, have not been well received. Along with his new “coffee machine” the kind you insert those multi coloured capsules George Clooney is always banging on about, his choice of garlic crushing implement has not gone down well either, “she doesn't like the garlic press”. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/03/snot-rocket-sutton-common-rovers-fc-vs.html">BLOG: Snot Rocket - Sutton Common Rovers FC Vs Ashford Town (Middlesex) FC, Southern Combination Cup 1st Round, Gander Green Lane (26/02/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/zQTmR1TwGfY">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Sutton Common Rovers FC Vs Ashford Town (Middlesex) FC</a></b></p><p>I have to be honest I’m a bit sad that Tom has not said anything about my new shirt, but not as sad that it's the Strokes playing as I climb into his car. Their dirgey New York sound was never one I was particularly enamored with, but let's be honest it wouldn’t have taken much effort to pay my new clobber a little bit of a compliment would it?<br /><br />Much of our drive is occupied with the hottest of topics, the Coronavirus epidemic sweeping across the world, Tom’s other half has already been instructed to work from home, but Tom’s profession, a barber, means he’s unable to do it via Zoom, and his clients, much like his wife are able to “work at home” so his days are getting quieter and quieter. As well as the dent it's going to take on his pay packet, how it’s going to affect football and what we do comes up too, but considering what's going on in other parts of the world, it frankly doesn't seem all that important.<br /><br />We try to not dwell too much on the negative, Tom is soon sharing another and equally important life choice challenging him right now, the getting of a dog. He thinks a “puppy is a bad idea” his IKEA showroom of an East London pad is not quite suitable for all the chewing, pissing and endless bounding of a young K9, so thinks he might “adopt”. However that in itself comes with its own concerns, an element of the “unknown” with a pre owned pooch has him worried, his biggest one and I’m not joking, is that it might be “racist”. <b><a href="https://beautifulgame2015.blogspot.com/2020/04/i-wont-shake-your-hands-banbury-united.html">BLOG: I Won't Shake Your Hands - Banbury United FC Vs Oxford City FC, Oxfordshire FA Senior Cup Semi-Final, Spencer Stadium (11/03/20)</a> & <a href="https://youtu.be/vkyDzjO53Uc">VIDEO: Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game - Banbury United FC Vs Oxford City FC</a></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHtbHcGyr0lc2yK4w9FZJe4q7Tu963Te72htT-gQaqcGjQkirIGonF30kpgfqNsEYqs7OfPmNJ8tSiusoMLgHtoSAJyrfPi4BM-zJaks6SvDrZYbnkVCisAygDeHkEKvOrC5yBqUxujs/s1024/6+%25288%2529.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHtbHcGyr0lc2yK4w9FZJe4q7Tu963Te72htT-gQaqcGjQkirIGonF30kpgfqNsEYqs7OfPmNJ8tSiusoMLgHtoSAJyrfPi4BM-zJaks6SvDrZYbnkVCisAygDeHkEKvOrC5yBqUxujs/w410-h307/6+%25288%2529.JPG" width="410" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">At this time of the year, it is so important to thank all those Twitter accounts,YouTubers and organisations who have regularly helped us this season, in some cases giving us a platform in print or online to reach an audience we could only dream of & all the clubs, officials, teams & players who without their help, what we do would be impossible.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Also a big thank you to anyone, who has shared, re-tweeted, commented or liked any of our blogs, pictures or videos. Your kind feedback about the work we do is so greatly appreciated.</p><p>Maybe because of the way the season so abruptly came to an end, looking back over the games we did get to, I feel even more sentimental than normal, even more dare I say emotional about the memories I forged with my best mate, the fact we saw a dog in a pram AGAIN, discovered that there is an active skittle league at Long Buckby A.F.C. and that for the fifth year running, non league football has outdone itself when it comes to the generosity and kind spirit of nearly everyone we met.</p><p>It would seem the great powers that be after allowing seemingly every other sport to allow spectators to return, have determined that outdoor arenas with little more than ten men and a dog are not at risk of causing a Covid spike, and the return of non league football is only weeks away. Five months since out last match, where people joked about not shaking hands, and laughed at the idea of touching elbows instead, are like so many yearning to get back to a match, and will hopefully be standing pitch side somewhere again soon.</p><p>However the next time Tom is tucking into a burger or I'm deliberating how much to spend on the 50/50, there is a very high chance our choice of places to visit will have diminished. Many clubs have found the lockdown too much to bare, their minute budgets decimated and in some cases hundreds of years of history have been wiped from the face of the football pyramid.</p><p>The far reaching tentacles of Covid 19 will be affecting us all for many, many years to come and as much as I'm looking forward to getting to a game again, what exactly I will be returning to, is a tad daunting.</p><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">For a full photographic review of 2019/20, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=BeautifulGame15&set=a.3232679930173312&__cft__[0]=AZVWUTc8WiCpD2mrcKdPD6EFDIGPcR4rUWDvqa_JnD467-i8tXZumiYPYYMWXVbLBWQ1A_USIiE1YbkLY5Q5GKqX001bOAE9dbhyPTlsL3dN7i6ZZ3EEKmIvU-T0K9Au6a81JPS4ei73FuQRyLWZ6JKvq15aNGO_KgEfzF8ZbEKoBg&__tn__=-R">HERE</a></h4><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">Watch our end of season review video↓ HERE ↓</h4><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/alSv-WgyiyI" width="320" youtube-src-id="alSv-WgyiyI"></iframe><br /><div><br /></div><div><h3><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBYJDX4Jm4tUTPzBZU4nSRkhjsxVVFLVXUvVbUJOL-8SqScm7JpLqygWLu9_Ak7cyL4weyArdsC5Z5GD-yzWL_pD1zSwjDMVePt6GE9ydL-3BiQhfRXVK1-tKUxhc81eWAXg9E24AOxQ/s1600/index+%25283%2529.png" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBYJDX4Jm4tUTPzBZU4nSRkhjsxVVFLVXUvVbUJOL-8SqScm7JpLqygWLu9_Ak7cyL4weyArdsC5Z5GD-yzWL_pD1zSwjDMVePt6GE9ydL-3BiQhfRXVK1-tKUxhc81eWAXg9E24AOxQ/s200/index+%25283%2529.png" width="40" /></a></h3><h3><b><br /></b></h3><h3><b>'LIKE' us on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautifulGame15">Facebook</a></b></h3><br /><br /><div><h3></h3></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4foZvk6bru2QOiV7sIlfA96YU7BfcIEV8RYB-Ot2EMZpjyxsP2Fmxm4VilRSfPdZDJfbeBkTJSFZqlilTA4Ths9M9wkUiUhuwRgvHvmEg7pWC85gasAFEY8N9-sjwpVHQQw8ldTRL-TI/s1600/index+%25284%2529%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; 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float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDWKJuuAfV6ZIDkih1A9aTz-KZ5FCrwSEcFZRbuaGKexF1VtFs2qunsPteYmOlaj9oONsMnNZnel2WvyMIj4xbPTuQnsxDwcmJTqE8Y-ErCmGahE8BgbSfMPOTb0b2okm8BzsyBUqKvg/s1600/Instagram_App_Large_May2016_200.png" width="40" /></a></b></div><br /><br /><h3><b>Follow us on Instagram - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/beautifulgame15">@beautifulgame15</a> - <a href="https://www.instagram.com/beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers">@beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers </a><span id="react-root">#beautifulgame15</span></b></h3></div>BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-15349824700498827052020-04-07T11:26:00.003-07:002020-04-07T11:26:55.211-07:00I Won't Shake Your Hands - Banbury United FC Vs Oxford City FC, Oxfordshire FA Senior Cup Semi-Final, Spencer Stadium (11/03/20) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbL3uHVUDJizqC0J7zavtxj2oA_JIzYXxNX9-nvMzx7aG_wKJt682IURrFaKvHseCxjvCwMiNjD1mYvPfbLw1z1EzMFGN2D_WVLB2WFaEKkrhZYWih_i5Mza3Y6DdcJO_N3iYkiAej7g/s1600/P1070616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbL3uHVUDJizqC0J7zavtxj2oA_JIzYXxNX9-nvMzx7aG_wKJt682IURrFaKvHseCxjvCwMiNjD1mYvPfbLw1z1EzMFGN2D_WVLB2WFaEKkrhZYWih_i5Mza3Y6DdcJO_N3iYkiAej7g/s320/P1070616.JPG" width="224" /></a>I have to be honest I’m a bit sad that Tom has not said anything about my new shirt, but not as sad that it's the Strokes playing as I climb into his car. Their dirgey New York sound was never one I was particularly enamored with, but let's be honest it wouldn’t have taken much effort to pay my new clobber a little bit of a compliment would it?<br />
<br />
Much of our drive is occupied with the hottest of topics, the Coronavirus epidemic sweeping across the world, Tom’s other half has already been instructed to work from home, but Tom’s profession, a barber, means he’s unable to do it via Zoom, and his clients, much like his wife are able to “work at home” so his days are getting quieter and quieter. As well as the dent it's going to take on his pay packet, how it’s going to affect football and what we do comes up too, but considering what's going on in other parts of the world, it frankly doesn't seem all that important.<br />
<br />
We try to not dwell too much on the negative, Tom is soon sharing another and equally important life choice challenging him right now, the getting of a dog. He thinks a “puppy is a bad idea” his IKEA showroom of an East London pad is not quite suitable for all the chewing, pissing and endless bounding of a young K9, so thinks he might “adopt”. However that in itself comes with its own concerns, an element of the “unknown” with a pre owned pooch has him worried, his biggest one and I’m not joking, is that it might be “racist”.<br />
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As well as animal adoption, we talk briefly about a new mode on Call Of Duty, that Tom explains ends with you in a “Russian toilet” and I don't know how Tom is still awake with the Strokes playing, they are so dull, I can't tell if its still the same song playing when I got in, an hour later.<br />
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It feels like we have been stuck in a perpetual state of god awful weather since late last year, the seemingly never ending rain has played havoc with attendances, so the appearance of the sun, “it’s really hot” comments Tom, has got him very excited and as we head further into 2020, the fact it’s not yet dark as we make our way to our latest game is a pleasant change. However Tom is always on high alert, “it's getting a bit grey over here”.<br />
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“Milton Keynes is weird” pipes up Tom over the sound of the radio, jabbing his finger at the Sat Nav, at the succession of interlinking roundabouts he says look like “alien crop circles”. Prattling on about his new coffee machine, which he explains has a fine selection of possibilities such as “Roma, Caramel and Cosy” but this high end living doesn't come cheap, “34p a pod mate” and he certainly won't be sharing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTcACbVd22rZkTUKQkHjiw-HajSltG4PJEjiul6UsjzQSQO1J0RkVLlk9m58w7VUICWrFQFukr22rDOI2dA35gqBAJfaYFAw5_XZmwvdDp0Qr84kw121KouX-EH0-QLOl4hyphenhyphenDIrg3LL8/s1600/IMG_20200311_174827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTcACbVd22rZkTUKQkHjiw-HajSltG4PJEjiul6UsjzQSQO1J0RkVLlk9m58w7VUICWrFQFukr22rDOI2dA35gqBAJfaYFAw5_XZmwvdDp0Qr84kw121KouX-EH0-QLOl4hyphenhyphenDIrg3LL8/s400/IMG_20200311_174827.jpg" width="400" /></a>We finally ditch the Strokes, who are replaced by Nirvana, which is far more preferable, but it might not actually be a case of us ditching them, more that we've listen to everything they have ever recorded, because as Tom rightly points out it “feels like we've been driving forever”. A spot of the wet stuff gets him all of a dither, “ohhh it’s raining” and this brings its own conundrum, “I didn't bring a waterproof jacket” but he’s relieved that just like Steve McClaren he’s got his “trusty brolly”. More ominous clouds appear on the horizon, but the sun is able to break though them, “Jesus rays” Tom calls them, blazing down on the surrounding countryside, gives us hope that the match we are off to is not in jeopardy, as it flips between an impending downpour and “fucking spring again” mutters Tom.<br />
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“You've reached your destination” announces Tom’s Sat Sav, but there is not a football ground in sight, just our two bemused faces wondering where we went wrong and asking each other why we are sitting in the car park of a train station. We retrace our steps, after seeing a small bit of signage alluding to the ground, but the narrow road alongside the aforementioned station and industrial estate, doesn't really give us much hope. The dilapidated Union Jack covered burger van is a landmark one will struggle to forget for a while and then all of sudden, beyond the latest corrugated roofed warehouse, Spencer Stadium appears, home of Banbury United FC (BU). “It's very red and yellow” states Tom.<br />
<br />
Wrestling with a large gate and the apparatus used to prop it open Stephen, BU’s Secretary has quite the fight on his hands, but is just about able to get things under control before greeting us, “welcome to our humble home”. Tom had said it was quite “breezy” only seconds out the car, and Stephen confirms that “it’s always windy here”. The sky's now filled with a whole gamut of clouds from fluffy Disney ones to alien invasion Independence Day ones. The visiting team Oxford City FC (OX) are already walking the pitch, of a ground that really offers up a little bit of everything.<br />
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A slightly rickety looking cage tunnel on wheels, is where the OX players disappear up after surveying the surface. Surrounded on two sides by the backs of neighbouring buildings, the Spencer Stadium feels cosy, but not cramped. The clubhouse is sizable, a squat white fronted building like something off a caravan site isn't open yet, and other than it, everything else as Tom pointed out is indeed very red and yellow. The large main stand on the halfway line, with BUFC spelled out in yellow seats, sticks to script and is of course in the clubs colour scheme. Behind one goal is a long covered terrace with the clubs name spelled out on its back wall, and yet to be turned on, the four aging floodlights poke out from each corner.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDXJpfacSMhRQ1hEUURQd7g09MMXnGejklxKpx1RvnNgP65vKsDPdx_05RJMNPY3FlpdxJhNA-KL8H_QJkt_yaOlKVzxhj4D0f35pPxRzRRSoJhEcqVZ014JgJvW-ZPgOmPaO36bvgEI/s1600/IMG_20200311_175051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDXJpfacSMhRQ1hEUURQd7g09MMXnGejklxKpx1RvnNgP65vKsDPdx_05RJMNPY3FlpdxJhNA-KL8H_QJkt_yaOlKVzxhj4D0f35pPxRzRRSoJhEcqVZ014JgJvW-ZPgOmPaO36bvgEI/s400/IMG_20200311_175051.jpg" width="400" /></a>Despite the clear amount of cover, Tom reckons because of the many bare trees that surround some parts of the ground, that there is a “distinct lack of protection from the elements” and feels it is necessary to go back to his car to “get” his “hat”. To be fair to him, the constant wind does mean that most things are swaying, rattling or creaking around us. Alongside it, the hubbub of match day life continues. The clattering of beer kegs outside the bar, the sorting of change by the man on the turnstile, the noise of a nearby rumbling train and the lady in the boardroom putting out plates of biscuits for the expected bigwigs.<br />
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I thank the man in the red and yellow scarf handing out the programmes after he doesn’t expect payment, but he’s quick to point out the fact it's free has nothing to do with him, “don't thank me, it's the FA” and the reason for its zero price tag is because as he adds, it’s got “sod all in it”.<br />
<br />
The sound of the floodlights coming on, is one akin to some great battleship coming to life, and our surroundings are soon basking in a brilliant white light. One man tinkers in the doorway of the red portacabin cabin that houses the clubs very own radio station, one dugout is briefly smothered in green and red light as someone sets up the subs board all while one of the bed sheet sized red corner flags, is absolutely whipping in the breeze.<br />
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The opinion of one BU fan is that the National League South side OX will take tonight “very seriously”, not something we normally see in regional cups, when a bigger side comes up against a relative minnow. Some local kids are having a pitch side kick about, as is the norm at most non league grounds, they even have their own goal. Another re purposed portacabin has been transformed into what looks like the world's smallest gentlemen's club, inside the BU coaching staff sit cheek by jowl.<br />
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“Testing 1-2” says a voice emerging over the PA, before the music starts to blare and the players come out for their warm up. The wind is only getting stronger, and our inquiry if the club shop will be opening, highlights non leagues 100% reliance on volunteers, “we’re struggling to get someone to open the tea bar” says a man with a large silver beard in a BU club tie.<br />
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For what will not be for the first time today, the question of to shake hands or not comes up, “welcome to Banbury United boys” says one man cheerily, “I won't shake your hands” he adds laughing, so we take inspiration from the recent SheBelieves Cup and exchange elbows instead.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFSdB2Bt5jpjz9Dy01957vP6zxQbW-9UuNnKyT4sZ9DjGJolbRob7rLvY29U9dndrGD2EfjAPBxcyP0GKy4JxJW4d0WvamfUQJ2dJwqD3EWAPtm9WIAUswRHanW8C7poq2tNbQDSNKeYk/s1600/IMG_20200311_182109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFSdB2Bt5jpjz9Dy01957vP6zxQbW-9UuNnKyT4sZ9DjGJolbRob7rLvY29U9dndrGD2EfjAPBxcyP0GKy4JxJW4d0WvamfUQJ2dJwqD3EWAPtm9WIAUswRHanW8C7poq2tNbQDSNKeYk/s400/IMG_20200311_182109.jpg" width="343" /></a>The playlist is about the same age as the speakers, that struggle with the volume of the music, and I've not heard Black Eyed Boy by Texas in probably fifteen years. I snag my 50/50 tickets from the man by the turnstiles, but Tom is not very hopeful for me, and “warm welcome” from the man on the microphone, is swiftly followed with a bit of Elton John.<br />
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OX’s players are clapped off by a small showing of their fans in blue and white striped scarves. With a spot in the final at stake, the PA emphasises how “important” tonight's game is, and the referee now waiting for the players at the mouth of the tunnel, is put in an awkward position, when someone offers up their hand to shake, and he just leaves them hanging.<br />
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With three minutes to kick off, there is no sign of the players, but a bit of classic Two Tone is a suitable distraction.<br />
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The instruction to the players in the tunnel is that they can shake hands there, but once out on the pitch, they are to follow the recent Premier League example of just walking past each other like a FIFA glitch. Heather Smalls is rudely cut off mid sentence and the crackling PA offers up another “warm welcome” signing off with a “come on your reds”. A single BU flag has gone up in the small shelter behind one goal, where the home fans will be spending the first half, “come on Banbury” shouts one. Another tells me optimistically it will be a “tight game” and a sarcastic “weyyy” goes up, because post kick off, the music is still playing.<br />
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Seconds in, the music finally off, the heavens open, sending those standing pitch side, scurrying up the steps of the terrace we are on and under its roof and with less than ten minutes gone, the home side take somewhat of a shock lead, although Tom points out it's not really a shock considering the games only been playing “six seconds”.<br />
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Standing with his hand out in front of him, his palm turned to the heavens, one young man is checking for his Mum if it’s still raining, “has it stopped?” she asks and said woman is not just a mere spectator, worried about getting wet, but she is also I think the Mum of one of the BU players. “Oh Luke” she cries, when he blazes his shot over, there is no critic quite like your own mother.<br />
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After such a quickfire start by the home team, the twenty minutes since have been rather uneventful, the BU keeper had to be on his heels to claim a poked ball into his box, but that's about it. Wondering what the man next to us has in his pick and mix is proving to be much more entertaining. On the topic of food, Tom is already thinking about half time, “I’m hungry” he tells me, I must admit I am too, and after two successive fish finger sandwiches, I want to complete my hattrick, however Tom thinks I’ll be lucky if I do, “something tells me they won't, but you never know”.<br />
<br />
It’s all gone a bit flat and one nearby warming up OX sub, is far from impressed by one teammates performance, “so fucking shit” he says to himself. A poor attempt at a cross field pass by the home side is easily cut out, resulting in the away side's first real go at goal. The eventual shot a straightforward one, but it’s spilled and tapped in from close range, the match all square. Tom reckons it’s a sign of things to come, “the onslaught begins” he says like a WWE character, “they are going to get ripped apart”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9S-W-Ukt_BsIHKrGEHB4kicCsOtMAxcRX4nkgQcDXhXdQfbb2lZ1kwiU_92gb_o1bw9Ehy68O0aMqvy5tyQOCMqSlq7JCGSgihmIxeYWp8IaMHFjeHC4OPe_lxXYsagyfVM5ukXY_Pc/s1600/IMG_20200311_183532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9S-W-Ukt_BsIHKrGEHB4kicCsOtMAxcRX4nkgQcDXhXdQfbb2lZ1kwiU_92gb_o1bw9Ehy68O0aMqvy5tyQOCMqSlq7JCGSgihmIxeYWp8IaMHFjeHC4OPe_lxXYsagyfVM5ukXY_Pc/s400/IMG_20200311_183532.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
His prediction is not far off, and it almost seems in the blink of an eye that OX have finally clicked into gear, going from almost spectators to being right on top. A swift, crisp passing move ends with a shot just over, Tom muses “you can definitely tell they are from the league above”.<br />
<br />
Ignoring all the angry shouts off “off, off, off” and demands of “ref card him”, “he’s gotta walk” and “do your job properly, don’t fucking bottle it” the referee does not dismiss the offending OX player who has just given away a penalty, much to the disgust of one high pitched home fan, “its a red card every day”.<br />
<br />
Just out of reach of the diving OX keeper, the ball hits the back of the net and BU take the lead once more, rushing off towards the home fans battering the metal stand around them, the scorer attempts to perform a bit of Roger Milla hip thrust, which leaves Tom dumbfounded. “I think that's the weirdest celebration I've ever seen”. He even finds it necessary to replicate it, that's how baffled by it he is.<br />
<br />
A mad scramble in the BU box, almost hands OX an equaliser, the home keepers penchant for spilling straight forward shots at him, is a recipe for disaster. Skipping down the wing, OX’s number 11 rides one tackle after another, before sending in a low driven cross into the box. “He’s good at that” purrs Tom, about OX’s number 11’s ability to beat his man at will and then he gets all technical on me, which always gets my heartbeat racing, pointing out how the OX wingers have “switched” sides, to target one BU full back, who is looking a bit wobbly to say the least.<br />
<br />
Tom takes a brief break from his coaching, to give me a run down on both teams kits, boiling it down to “QPR” for OX, in their blue and white stripes, and “McDonalds” for BU, on account of the red and yellow looking like a “pack of chips”.<br />
<br />
Into the final five and BU showed some of that early promise, with some quick exchanges, slipping in one of their forwards, only for him to shoot wide. They then show their other side, their somewhat calamitous side, with an absolute horror show in the six yard box. One defender after another leaving it for the next, which sees it bounce all the way through their box and out the other side, just missing the goal.<br />
<br />
The half somewhat fizzles out, but not before OX are in again, behind the home defense, “don’t fucking concede” cries a fan, this time the shot is blocked, however there is just enough time for one <br />
last try for an equaliser, this time the head height whipped cross is just out of reach of any of their players in blue and white.<br />
<br />
“£61” confirms the crackling PA, reading out the winning number of the 50/50, the ticket of which I do not possess. I don’t even check my pocket, what's the point. Jump Around by House of Pain plays as Tom strides back from getting food, not only for him, but for me too. “Custom made” he tells me, “ordered off menu” he explains, the fish finger sandwich in my hand, made at his request, that makes up for not noticing my shirt.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnuFVaOeNh4G0O1FG0qraDxTE7QilwacaFYeuq7hL05wyk-GRX32_zaZlQ-PoBEIOaoMTp5ycd6inUGPTQo4pFjHcRzAtwAOkUvHj-x0XAf3dCYWy_HT7OHEdV3HbxQFugz53YqokWaA/s1600/IMG_20200311_184055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnuFVaOeNh4G0O1FG0qraDxTE7QilwacaFYeuq7hL05wyk-GRX32_zaZlQ-PoBEIOaoMTp5ycd6inUGPTQo4pFjHcRzAtwAOkUvHj-x0XAf3dCYWy_HT7OHEdV3HbxQFugz53YqokWaA/s400/IMG_20200311_184055.jpg" width="400" /></a>Confusion reigns supreme as the new half gets underway. Kick off is with a white ball, despite the referee insisting in the first half they stop and change it to an orange one. “Make your mind up” says Tom in his best parental voice.<br />
<br />
If we thought the start to the first half was blistering, it’s got nothing on the start of the second. In what feels like no time at all, less than two minutes to be precise, OX have first equalised, another close range headed finish, but this time after an excellent one handed save by the BU keeper tipping the shot onto the bar, only for it to fall straight to a OX player, instead of a gaff and then a long range effort, that didn't look like it was hit with much venom, that just kind of skimmed its way into the bottom left hand corner of the BU goal.<br />
<br />
“It's all gone quiet over there” sing the OX fans now in the small metal stand, having changed ends. Now standing with the sullen BU supporters, I can confirm it is very quiet indeed, almost silent. Which is only emphasised as the wind gets ever stronger, sending the nearby ginormous corner flag into overdrive. I can't stress enough quite how massive they are.<br />
<br />
After such a spate of action the match has “gone flat again” says Tom, much like it did before. “Concentrate” demands the OX manager, BU being somewhat over run at times, resort to desperate measures. “That was a tackle and a fucking half” gasps Tom, when one OX player is almost erased from history in one fell swoop. Long periods of nothing are punctuated with the odd testing challenge, “you can forgive one foul, but not three” says one home fan, after this time it's one of their players downed.<br />
<br />
OX have a notable fire in their belly now, BU are second best to everything. Their only outlet is Luke, who with every touch of the ball, gets a cheer from this three person fan club. “Come on Luke, come on Luke” they shout as he embarks on one of his mazey runs forward, carrying on and on and on, only for his final shot to be a bit wild and way, way over.<br />
<br />
It’s all a little bit too easy for OX to grab their fourth, with still almost half an hour left to play, effectively killing the game stone dead and it's the OX fans turn to use the metal stand they now occupy to create a bit of racket when celebrating. “Going to be hard to come back from that” affirms Tom.<br />
<br />
The announcement of a “198” attendance doesn't seem enough, “kind of feels like more” says Tom. With OX now comfortably ahead, letting their foot off the gas somewhat, it naturally allows BU back into the match and they are starting to create the odd half chance, however their inability to capitalise on them, is starting to frustrate their fans. “Oh come on” remonstrates one, after their shot is wide of the mark.<br />
<br />
A plea of “do something” from the home bench and sighs of “too easy” from the home fans, resonate every time OX are on the ball. This is not to say BU don't have their moments, and good well orchestrated ones at that. Just shy of the half hour mark they move the ball around with consummate ease, there are goals here for them, but they just can't make it count. “Well done.. Keep playing” applauds the home manager, a former OX player with a bit of a point to prove against his old team.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKJn376MEakzVzloOiy_fX5KiFl44Z3sOQLwaqpsMQ2l8T_JK7lG6gmLxuof2AG0IqwRlpYX4n3F5upaYNi0RDgKEVgdQiY-DB3t8N6dwYTDgn-T-g7xisOLQi3ll27tpkgX7-loegBw/s1600/IMG_20200311_193341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKJn376MEakzVzloOiy_fX5KiFl44Z3sOQLwaqpsMQ2l8T_JK7lG6gmLxuof2AG0IqwRlpYX4n3F5upaYNi0RDgKEVgdQiY-DB3t8N6dwYTDgn-T-g7xisOLQi3ll27tpkgX7-loegBw/s400/IMG_20200311_193341.jpg" width="400" /></a>The appearance of the moon, previously shrouded in clouds, is greeted with a fair few firework display, ohss and aahs. It’s huge and low, and is enough to distract the home fans from what is turning into a bit of a rout on the pitch. The kids who were previously having a kick about are now racing around, and I’m struggling to understand why Tom thought it prudent to make reference of the size of my face, within seconds of the moon coming into view.<br />
<br />
As I’ve said all along there are goals here for BU, they go close with a smart turn and shot, but the strike hits the foot of the post. The rain returns, sending those who had ventured from cover, racing back again, except the kids, they are of an age where rain is yet to be an inconvenience.<br />
<br />
BU waste another good chance, the curling shot lacking any accuracy and one home fan in shorts, <br />
thinks his introduction could be a game changer, “I'm coming on in a minute”. The rain is now battering the roof above us, at one point it's coming in almost on the horizontal. One lady calls her son still braving the downpour, instructing him to get under shelter, “come on you're going to get soaked”. One of our new neighbours driven in by the rain, makes a very salient point, that his side were “doing alright in the first half”. Another reckons the poor performance is down to “too much youth”, the side is lacking any real “experience”. He asks those around him “where is your John Terry, your Drogba” and they all just look back at him blankly.<br />
<br />
Edging closer to full time and the crowd slowly starts to thin, “come on reds move your feet” encourages one supporter, one thinks judging by the collapse, its “no wonder people are leaving”, especially with a fifth for OX looking likely.<br />
<br />
Football is cruel, football is full of false hope, football tests fans to the nth degree. “How the fuck did he save that” screams one BU fan, leaping around with his head in his hands. For a brief moment it looks like BU are going to push OX right to the end, after an excellent half volley from the edge of the box cannons back off the bar. Falling perfectly to the player on the follow up, his side footed effort is somehow stopped by the sprawling OX keeper, at point blank range. Falling kindly for a second time to a BU player, he makes a short pass to a teammate with his back to goal, who spins and shoots, only for this time a falling OX player on the line to block it, but he blocks it quite clearly with his arm, giving the referee no other option than to point to the spot.<br />
<br />
It’s almost the whole length of the pitch the OX player has to walk, while serenaded with a chorus of “cheerio, cheerio”. The resulting penalty, well the resulting penalty much like most of BU’s attempts today, just doesn't quite cut it, it’s saved. “A bloody shambles” tut’s one disgruntled fan on his way home.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZc2kthzkwWJE1G2QntIbXDfLc6rMFkQPuqu2xxhYWCemWHwXizLjDr9gIMVIj42jja5LKY4cS12uPvZsLCPFnlkZ_b39M9taM-ACAiMqZy1JRAFI6hNqAUDYL6S9pkhejhjIUqtv7W8/s1600/08-DSC_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1024" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZc2kthzkwWJE1G2QntIbXDfLc6rMFkQPuqu2xxhYWCemWHwXizLjDr9gIMVIj42jja5LKY4cS12uPvZsLCPFnlkZ_b39M9taM-ACAiMqZy1JRAFI6hNqAUDYL6S9pkhejhjIUqtv7W8/s400/08-DSC_0068.JPG" width="400" /></a>After seeing BU at the same point of this competition last season, go through to the final, that won't be the case today. A final where they played OX, where they led 3 - 1 until the 89th minute, only to lose 4 - 3. Perhaps for the health of the fans, it's no great loss they won't be going this time.<br />
<br />
I write this blog, slap bang in the middle of lockdown, the Coronavirus having stopped a lot more than just football, but life as we know it. No work for Tom, no going outside unless its to the shops or for a walk around the block. It’s hard to imagine how long it’s going to be until we get to go somewhere like the Spencer Stadium again, somewhere well, well worth visiting may I add. Worth it for the long terrace or the winking Puritan on the clubs badge, from which the club gets its nickname. <br />
<br />
The only worry is will BU, like so many other clubs, still be there once this is all over. We just don't know. All we can do is wait and see.<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-18349083268013422992020-03-25T11:58:00.002-07:002020-08-26T04:07:54.843-07:00Snot Rocket - Sutton Common Rovers FC Vs Ashford Town (Middlesex) FC, Southern Combination Cup 1st Round, Gander Green Lane (26/02/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQpuNE1v2SDBrflcNGRL5OfLSPNhPMWOBjerhK0qbmi_joudJDk5dIvUruvpFNt6VDTnjBYmtvJgcqs9vRMwTEHeYe6FZbo1CEMwpfmC8g6AUpQQ5v7P_zfeQ0vrYsP6vOw5JuMEexi0/s1600/SUTTON+PIC.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1600" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQpuNE1v2SDBrflcNGRL5OfLSPNhPMWOBjerhK0qbmi_joudJDk5dIvUruvpFNt6VDTnjBYmtvJgcqs9vRMwTEHeYe6FZbo1CEMwpfmC8g6AUpQQ5v7P_zfeQ0vrYsP6vOw5JuMEexi0/s400/SUTTON+PIC.jpg" width="400" /></a>Pulling up next to Tom, having been in the gloomy car park of Gander Green Lane for all of ten seconds, he is already moaning, holding up his left hand showing me three fingers, I can just about make out what’s he’s saying from inside his dimly lit station wagon him mouthing, “three degrees”. It is soon clear this is not a reference to what is playing on the radio, but the temperature, and he is soon wobbling about on one foot by the boot of his motor, putting on a hefty pair of socks.<br />
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The car park is well patronised, one could maybe even say bustling, sadly though that is not down to an expected bumper crowd at tonight's match, but because of all the extra curricular activities going on. Tom seems to think there is a gym somewhere nearby and beyond the half open blinds in the windows of a large function room, where a group of older ladies are sitting in a circle, they are not playing “bingo” as Tom suggested, but are members of the local Weight Watchers.<br />
<br />
As is usually the case, I only really have half of Tom's attention, he is busy on his phone, in the throws of a domestic with his wife. Some of the purchases on his recent spending spree, have not been well received. Along with his new “coffee machine” the kind you insert those multi coloured capsules George Clooney is always banging on about, his choice of garlic crushing implement has not gone down well either, “she doesn't like the garlic press”.<br />
<br />
In search of food, and still engrossed in ‘garlic press gate’, he heads off hoping “Jenny's kitchen” is “open”. Through the double doors and into the bar, it like everywhere else so far is a bit gloomy and sparsely populated. Despite appearances, I do not possess the same voracious appetite as him, so instead of looking for chips, I have a quick chat with Gary, who has a choice array of football related pins fastened to his jacket, like a well decorated military man. One of which is the blue, red and yellow crest of Sutton Common Rovers FC (SC), who Gary, much like in all of non-league holds multiple roles at the club. Press officer, president and photographer or as he puts it, “everything beginning with P”.<br />
<br />
Gary's opinion of the rather minor cup competition that SC are playing into tonight, is pragmatic, “it’s something else to play”. Especially as he points out when they’ve been “knocked out all the other cups in the first round”. Not that that is the case this season where they've had their “best” ever runs in the FA Cup and Vase. He explains that it will be a “pretty much full strength side out”, and considering how many games they have played so far, maybe this is one they could not try as hard at, but before I have worked out a subtle way to say ‘throw it’ he interjects laughing, “no its not”.<br />
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After the success of the behemoth of a fish finger sandwich I had at Cambridge City recently, and having found that Jenny’s is open, Tom thinks her version on the chalkboard menu to one side of the hatch, the imaginatively named, “Jenny's fish finger bap”, has my “name written all over it”. The bar is dark, the shutter is down, and all I can hear is the sound of cooking and the commentary of the Rangers match playing on the small TV high up on the wall.<br />
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The multi coloured lights that surround the bar are blinking away, as is the fruit machine, but other than that it’s all a bit deserted, reminding me of the days I used to work in a pub, and we’d kicked out all the punters.<br />
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Over the last five years, we have encountered few stadiums better than Gander Green Lane, home of Sutton United, and their lodgers SC. On our previous visit, for a match on a Saturday afternoon, the place was positively buzzing. A large crowd congregated on the various sections of sweeping open air terracing, with its bright yellow barriers, in the all standing shelters behind each goal or on faded blue plastic seats of the impressive main stand.<br />
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Tonight though, and with Gary predicting at a push a crowd of “50/60”, there is none of that life, just the stark white floodlights, illuminating empty spaces, and all manor of football related furniture littered pitch side. The place if I’m honest doesn't really look like a game is going to be happening at all, and as can be the case with some setups where one team is sharing with another, there will be the odd hint of their presence, but not here, it’s United, United, United.<br />
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Back inside the shutters have been rolled up, but to serve who? We are only interested in tea. Gary bags himself some chips, and you can only hope Jenny isn't cooking too much, because much like the bar, I’ve no idea who she expects to buy it, Tom will of course, but who else? He holds off on his dinner, getting us both a tea, that is solar hot. Hotter Tom says then the boiling water that comes out his “kettle” and after ten minutes, it's still as hot now as it was when he was served.<br />
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Parquet floor and no programme, sounds like the start of an Alan Bennett monologue, although I very much doubt he was into football, but I might be doing him a disservice. One patron at the bar, a bloke with a quite terrible cough is somewhat put back by the price of his drink, “£4.20 for a shandy? Blimey” and his payback to the bar woman, is to share some of his recent groundhopping gripes, and judging by the look on her face, she is not remotely interested. She, like me, I'm sure is more interested in hearing how the outcome of the story of the only other two people here will conclude, about a beer called “Dog’s Bollocks.”<br />
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“Yeah I've had dogs bollocks”.<br />
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A single dark turnstile to one side of the main stand, between some toilets occasionally ticks over, and it's there you can find the only sign that SC player here, the admission prices blu tacked to the wall. The introduction of a bit of music has lifted the atmosphere a bit, the beaming dot matrix scoreboard sat atop a tower of portacabins in one corner, a by product I think of Sutton United's fine recent FA Cup run, is a sight to behold.<br />
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Pitch side among all the training goals and aforementioned furniture, are some bizarre training aids, the kind that are used to form a wall for practicing set pieces, that for some reason have faces on. The departing SC players each get a high five and some words of encouragement, as they leave down the cage topped tunnel in the middle of the main stand, and it's around now that I realise that the scoreboard is a lot more than just a scoreboard, as it cycles through a hole host of groovy graphics, worthy of any Hollywood Bowl or Italia 90 venue.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGh1hyphenhyphenlOtDd74PeiDT_OHDzGF4rBhzUtMxUU20D79X-FuQP4Ta_t9ouYB87bUnYYmpi6rHTuSB0LqI4TL3tEhy2WNyCl2hXcpH1x2ukzBkircb2yIvjZ-2e9gMbGbnvpXtsP_DXp_jjQ/s1600/IMG_20200226_192000.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGh1hyphenhyphenlOtDd74PeiDT_OHDzGF4rBhzUtMxUU20D79X-FuQP4Ta_t9ouYB87bUnYYmpi6rHTuSB0LqI4TL3tEhy2WNyCl2hXcpH1x2ukzBkircb2yIvjZ-2e9gMbGbnvpXtsP_DXp_jjQ/s400/IMG_20200226_192000.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
The all pink SC keeper, loudly claps his gloved hands as the players walk out, “come on then yellows”. Those members of the public who were two long in the bar, are held back by a steward as the players enter the pitch, the tunnel for both spectators and players one and the same.<br />
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Making my way round the pitch, while the teams shake hands, underfoot is a soggy squelching green <br />
carpet, and just like when you go to the cinema and its empty, but for some reason, a later comer sits next to you, the small contingent of Ashford Town (Middlesex) FC (AT) fans, one of whom has a very fetching chunky knit scarf on in the orange and white of this team, come and stand almost on top of us. I mean they are almost on our laps.<br />
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Five minutes on the clock and AT are already showing their higher division credentials, skipping through the home defence, one player is taken down and moments later he rattles the crossbar with a sweetly hit free kick. Another away attack, another what looks like a clear foul in a similar position, but this time no free kick, much to the displeasure of one man walking around the pitch who is absolutely frothing. His anger I think directed at the home defender responsible for the foul, “you stopped, you stopped” he screams. However I’m far too scared to get any closer to work out exactly who he is so angry with or about what.<br />
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It’s not like the opening exchanges haven't been lively, SC have just had what looked like a solid penalty shout turned down, the game has started at a million miles an hour, everyone and I mean everyone is in a heightened state, shouting obscenities, but Tom has already moved onto a topic reserved for quieter times, “odd kit”.<br />
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The orange and white vertical steps of AT, with a white shield on the back, looks straight off the front of an early 1900’s cigarette card. I have to admit I like, Tom is not convinced, “shield on back, it doesn't work for me. If you're going to do orange, do orange. Looks like a Sunderland top that's been in the wash too long” The AT keepers kit is a tad more modern, a dazzling neon pink, but as Tom points out correctly I’m “more of a pastel pink” kind of guy, but soon a far more pressing topic dominates our conversation, “cold innit”.<br />
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SC might be from lower down the pyramid, but they move the ball about effortlessly. Out wide, they overload the AT fullback, who manages to take out the winger, but he’s got back up, and the overlap continues. The player with the ball whips in a low cross into the AT box, but this time nothing comes of it.<br />
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“Yes'' shouts one of the AT fans, following a corner that almost results in a goal. Nigh on on the goal line, one of their players has just skimmed his shot wide, down on his haunches with his head in hands, he beats the pitch. It’s clear from his reaction, just how resolutely he should have scored.<br />
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The response from the home manager, after his team are almost punished when their keeper attempts to usher the ball out of play, but an AT player pinches it, but can't find a teammate to tap into the empty net, is a brief and resounding one “we’re too casual” and less than a minute later, his team's lack of urgency, sees them go behind. Not quick enough to close down the advancing AT player, he’s allowed all the time in the world to ping a low bouncing long range shot into the bottom left hand corner. Chasing after the scorer, one AT player lets out a loud, elongated, “yeahhhhhhhhhhhhh”.<br />
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I’m not sure whats better, the all colour clunking graphics on the scoreboard or the goal, Tom is prety clear which camp he is in, “fucking miles out” he chortles. “Come on Rovers” encourages an SC player, attempting to rally his teammates, who in Tom's opinion play in a kit that “looks like a cereal box”, but he admits his view might be coloured somewhat, having been “eating lots of Golden Grahams recently”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBJQneVyyE1uLVBtZXhPMfsdbi7_OMU8CrUtStsKtPqyc66QwDu32OkUpmlGiuSHykN5LNV0F19nN6XFNd31p80SQHAhItQ_FBG9Se05PVV2q5yeb7aaXWmLTpFNhpKmkjGARgJjmank/s1600/IMG_20200226_194312.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBJQneVyyE1uLVBtZXhPMfsdbi7_OMU8CrUtStsKtPqyc66QwDu32OkUpmlGiuSHykN5LNV0F19nN6XFNd31p80SQHAhItQ_FBG9Se05PVV2q5yeb7aaXWmLTpFNhpKmkjGARgJjmank/s400/IMG_20200226_194312.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
Flattened, absolutely flattened, one AT player is stopped in his tracks, and Tom offers up the technical term relevant for such an occasion, “that's what you call a professional foul”. Just over twenty five minutes gone and AT almost made it 2 - 0, but the player in the box can't get the ball out of his feet, and SC are able to block the eventual shot. A minute after, how much he is going to regret just not being that little bit more creative will be apparent come the end of the game, because SC deservedly so, draw things level.<br />
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“Bit of a howler” whispers Tom, as to not rile up the AT fans next to us, who have been left somewhat stunned by their keepers' antics. Caught in no man's land, AT’s man in goal can only watch as the SC player curls in his shot, from well outside the box, after completely misjudging his charge out of goal. “Looked like he was going to miss” comments Tom, but the effort had just enough pace on it, to find the back of the net, and as the players mob the scorer, I’m marveling at the personalized graphics on the screen, with the player who equalised face, looking down over us.<br />
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Tom has a problem, and that problem is an inability to switch off from work. More often than not, I have to endure his constant chatter about people's hair. “Bounces nicely when he runs” he says about one player, he is particularly keen on the SC forward with the “bleached dreads” that has a very definite Allan Saint-Maximin vibe about them, on account of the headband and my Dad always said you have to be bloody good if you want to wear one on a football pitch, and he is casing AT all sort of concerns.<br />
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Without a doubt SC are more than able to to stroke the ball about, however they are also not afraid of putting in a reducer or two either. “You fucking chinned me” says the downed AT player, when the SC one suggests he “can get up” after a coming together near the home penalty area.<br />
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“Come on ref, it came down his arm” is the appeal from the AT fans, when the referee waves away their team's penalty appeal. Since drawing level, it's been all SC, their threat from out wide is troubling AT time after time, SC are looking increasingly dangerous. Into the final ten minutes they nearly took the lead. “That was clever” imparts Tom, after a well worked free kick routine almost puts them in front. A side footed attempt back across goal after the dinked ball finds the man running from deep, is wide and gets the first muted “ohhhhh” from those people hear who are almost exclusively on the other opposite side to us around the main stand, all except for our closest neighbours of course.<br />
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When a rare AT attack breaks down on the edge of the SC box, the group to our right are quick to share their dissatisfaction, “oh come on”. Ventures out of their half have been few and far between, SC are growing increasingly dominant. “Fucking statues” mutters one home player, when AT come forward again, but they can’t make anything of the questionable home defending.<br />
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Quick passing and swift movement, shows once more just what SC are capable of, but they just can’t convert, especially when the finishing is as horrible as that at the end of their latest attack. Into no man's land again, AT’s keeper almost hands the home team the lead, but the attempt at a Beckham Vs Sullivan long range lob goes wide. Holding his hand up to apologise, the AT keeper submits to his bemused looking teammates.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcEhwzeYjRosSc91r22KVhtj-fCXiR3VxXI3TVsptGnY7yJsudy1M6R2kkIXb1ed6y3_z3dFg4Kb81Qri41oOVzKHDYrtZJHenIcjZ1FxRmVKFHqweeXNoT4-G0Du28DhH7rGe_NVYtrk/s1600/08-DSC_0071.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcEhwzeYjRosSc91r22KVhtj-fCXiR3VxXI3TVsptGnY7yJsudy1M6R2kkIXb1ed6y3_z3dFg4Kb81Qri41oOVzKHDYrtZJHenIcjZ1FxRmVKFHqweeXNoT4-G0Du28DhH7rGe_NVYtrk/s400/08-DSC_0071.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
In a slightly unorthodox turn of events, the starting elevens are read out as the teams depart, and a new graphic, a spinning one, straight out of the Eastern bloc, appears on the scoreboard. With Cardi B blaring, Tom’s visit to Jenny’s, returning with “Jenny’s double cheeseburger” has left him a little dumbstruck. “Six quid, that’s Burger King prices' ' and he reports back that more people are watching “City Vs Madrid” in the bar, then are pitch side watching the match.<br />
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“Ref get hold of that, get hold of that” screams the man back on the sidelines for the start of the new half, after a foul on an SC player, meaning that must be which way his allegiance lies, after one of the flying home wingers is hacked down, however Tom thinks the player who has drawn the foul, should be a “bit embarrassed” he had somewhat bought the free kick, is how I think the pros would put it.<br />
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A millisecond of Pulp's Common People over the PA’s is not to Tom’s liking, he’s not a fan of the Sheffield based Brit pop outfit. Someone's hand slipped in the PA’s booth perhaps, the song lined up for some other use later. Post break and a much needed rocket from their manager, AT look a slightly more cohesive outfit, chalking up two chances in as many minutes. Reminding SC they won't have it all their own way, the second coming from the home side giving the ball away needlessly, however this is undone in the sloppiest of manners, when they fail to deal with a rather tame SC corner, and the home side pull in front.<br />
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A close range bundle over the line, the cheers that follow giving away that there are maybe more people here than I thought, and the celebrations of the home players, are verging on the giddy.<br />
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According to Tom, the temperature has dropped a bit in the time we were musing, “I think it's got colder”, and after their opening wobble, SC are back on top, but the latest ball into the box is a fraction behind it’s intended target. The AT fans, now in the main stand, start a song, but it only lasts <br />
slightly longer than the fleeting appearance of Jarvis Cocker. A great ball forward by the visitors splits the home defense, exciting their fans for a moment, but there is just a fraction too much on it, and the SC keeper is able to get to it before the AT player.<br />
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Not that he’s had much of a part to play so far, but Tom’s has noticed in the referee, some “primadonna” tendencies, imagining for some reason he spent all of half time “stroking himself”. The sight of a huge snot rocket from one AT player is not only disgusting, but kick-starts an interesting conversation about the term ‘snot rocket’, which amazingly Tom has never heard before.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhID4oLStFFSvDsiM6H-gRwIBOYBHXylbcmflKOMaSx2v2dHUdc1q7CdgzFiarsL6Oe1qqGbltcYFH1RnV-t39qlwVmwO0FqZHh5vdxgY9AK_Jsf0318FN_Jd_8fwN0r8FTOyA9qAPHc/s1600/11-DSC_0088.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhID4oLStFFSvDsiM6H-gRwIBOYBHXylbcmflKOMaSx2v2dHUdc1q7CdgzFiarsL6Oe1qqGbltcYFH1RnV-t39qlwVmwO0FqZHh5vdxgY9AK_Jsf0318FN_Jd_8fwN0r8FTOyA9qAPHc/s400/11-DSC_0088.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
SC are well on top, the AT players are arguing among themselves, “fuck off” shouts one to another. The game is lacking some of the quality of before, its gone a bit, big hoof back and forth, but it’s enjoyable. Sloppy but fun, you might say. A bit like Tom on a night out and all that hard partying of his youth, has caught up with him tonight, showing me his hands, they look like the old ladies from Titanic.<br />
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The shock wave of a thunderous home shot, sends the AT keeper staggering backward into his goal net like he’s drunk. SC’s player with the red hair is down but the game plays on, down again not long after and Tom thinks his “hamstrings” gone, the physio is called on and he is somewhat unceremoniously rolled off the pitch. The break in play lets Tom indulge in a bit of pudding, a Wispa bar appearing fleetingly from the pocket of his jacket.<br />
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Shouty man reappears for his obligatory roaring input, “come on yellows, we need another 10%”. Right on the edge of the pitch, his front line vantage point, gives him the perfect view of a “hand ball”, that he duly brings to the referees attention, shouting louder than any man has ever shouted before.<br />
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AT are all over the place and another error from their keeper, almost hands SC their third, “oh wow” gasps Tom, following a poor throw out, straight to the home side, and soon he’s back peddling frantically again, trying to get close to a determined cross, that ends up hitting the crossbar. “Was that a shot?” asks Tom.<br />
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“Ref” screams one home player, the whole ground up in arms, after another foul on a flying winger, goes unnoticed, SC are relentless in their targeting of the visitors weak point, and in a moment of pure redemption AT's keeper pulls off a save of the highest draw, tipping a header over that looked destined to go in. Frustrating the player who had connected with the ball so well, to the extent he pulls down his shorts, letting out a mighty “fucking hell”.<br />
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Into the final ten minutes and it’s yellow attack, after yellow attack. “Finish, finish, finish” urges a home fan with a player bearing down on goal, but his side-footed attempt is wide. Comfortably in control, SC do what so many teams in a similar position do, they start to slip back deeper and deeper, allowing AT more and more of the ball. Two corners in quick succession cause little trouble to the sturdy home team defense. The AT bench asks the team to “give it a go”, one home player asks his team to “not give them nothing”. Into four minutes of added on time and it's now that the away fans pipe up with a song, “everywhere we go”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb8wkS2jxmpWKPjqSbMce2iChAWgTsCWuqOy4-ywnN9j71fPpRqqdLTU2E33pLD4N6x7Dxd6K_iEWQsEzjT5Jp1QK4QK0-g71rEChdFhMIxbOTXyTJP1mC9Pjtq0Ph_fOwGUOjLM4vDo/s1600/IMG_20200226_214632.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgb8wkS2jxmpWKPjqSbMce2iChAWgTsCWuqOy4-ywnN9j71fPpRqqdLTU2E33pLD4N6x7Dxd6K_iEWQsEzjT5Jp1QK4QK0-g71rEChdFhMIxbOTXyTJP1mC9Pjtq0Ph_fOwGUOjLM4vDo/s400/IMG_20200226_214632.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Sitting on the corner of the pitch, with a camera that looks like something Schwarzenegger used in Commando, in all weather gear, Gary now has his photographer hat on. “That would have been the icing on the cake” he says smiling, the home number 3 and our pick for man of the match, having been asked by him to choose it, curled the most spectacular long range shot, that came back off the post with the most glorious ping.<br />
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“We’ve got to manage the game” insists one SC player, AT have just threatened again, there is a fine <br />
line between letting your foot of the gas and seeing the game out and keeping you lead intact, at the moment SC have a foot on either side.<br />
<br />
It's the full 4.14 minutes of Common People after the final whistle, the sounds and nostalgia of being eleven, mixes with the noise of jubilant home players and fans, who have claimed themselves somewhat of a scalp with their win.<br />
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I have to admit neither of us were very hopeful with the prospect of much of a match, in a one of what you might say the lesser cups, on a cold Wednesday night in a half empty ground, but tonight was a real surprise. SC really play some entertaining football which helped, come on a Saturday and they do a programme too, which is a plus. Plenty of reasons to come here, plenty of reasons to check out a side who don't have their own home for now, just maybe give the fish finger sandwich a swerve.<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-134378679000589582020-03-15T12:16:00.000-07:002020-03-15T12:41:50.041-07:00They Don't Like It Up Them - Hashtag United FC Vs Hadley FC, Essex Senior League, Chadfields (19/02/20) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg335ebyQYIkZWhPz02MFd2SnTgP_fiIwglzy1hzRBMMyyWTSFVpyBThou34SA8Dw7tj3Kchvh_aFgKhb0BZBKQJKF_pXIAIwEhc3XEP4dKoPA7EJ6mXu7o8j_2FAFEHNkpTX8gHhVERpc/s1600/ERKGJRvWsAcbMlp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1140" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg335ebyQYIkZWhPz02MFd2SnTgP_fiIwglzy1hzRBMMyyWTSFVpyBThou34SA8Dw7tj3Kchvh_aFgKhb0BZBKQJKF_pXIAIwEhc3XEP4dKoPA7EJ6mXu7o8j_2FAFEHNkpTX8gHhVERpc/s320/ERKGJRvWsAcbMlp.jpg" width="227" /></a>As car parks at non league grounds go, the one at Chadfields is a bit of a shocker, I’m not sure it’s even legal. The narrow unlit drive up the side of the clubhouse, leading to the spaces behind, feels fraught with danger. The main car park at the front is already full, I’m late on account of a police roadblock, stopping me from getting here the way I wanted, sending me instead on a circuitous tour of the towns that litter the banks of this part of the Thames estuary.<br />
<br />
My detour does allow me at least to get a good view of the nearby docks, all lit up like a Christmas tree, crane after crane covered in bright white lights, the ships that they service and a whole slew of slowly turning wind turbines. As I wind and weave through the dark Essex countryside, eventually the floodlights come into view, through the cast iron gates, I arrive to find Tom, who is back to his loitering ways, but not before I’m scared half to death by the ghoulish face of, not my compadre, but part of a fairground ride in the neighbouring plot.<br />
<br />
The words of Journey’s Don't Stop Believing drift over the breeze block wall that separates us and the ground beyond. Not even here five minutes and we catch a glimpse of the baseball cap wearing reason for us being in this corner of Essex on a wet Wednesday evening. Spencer Brown of Spencer FC, YouTube royalty and co founder of what might be the most divisive football club in recent memory, Hashtag United FC (HU)<br />
<br />
For the second weekend in a row, the UK has been battered by a storm so powerful, they felt it worthwhile giving it a name, although Dennis hardly strikes fear into the hearts of men. A brief break in the atrocious weather, might just mean we will get a game tonight, with so many having fallen by the wayside already today.<br />
<br />
I’m sure it’s no accident that Bon Jovi's Livin' On A Prayer and the opening line ‘Tommy used to work on the docks’, is the song playing next, as the lady from inside her modestly sized tea bar is setting up. Deep into a game of head tennis, four kids arch their necks standing behind a HU branded head tennis table. Much like a ping pong table, but with sloped edges, that has us both intrigued. “Never seen one of them before” says Tom, with all the amazement of a first time visitor to Jurassic Park.<br />
<br />
Chadfields most definitely falls into the 'a bit worn out' column, but in the best possible way, crumbling, a bit shabby and full of character. Tom reckons since our last visit, long before HU were even an idea in a brainstorming meeting, it's been a bit “tidied up”. Maybe it's the influence of the much vied and followed lodgers, and he is not wrong. There is very little sign though to suggest HU, for this season at least, are calling it home. It’s all very black and white, the colours of the the landlords Tilbury FC. Other than the head tennis table, there is a large blue hashtag painted somewhat incongruously on the wall behind one goal, and that's about it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsQg5ZgT4F7DRAz_ACrqbBSIs5oRQVDDtm3BRD8SoUfn-i5BSJj-kno-Q3QA7eaRtzvCSq1Psst2kZt4Zgznmt5ykjLYUCHwH5M2x33UJOj3OzlwikbV9SKPeyS_dyMOvWD-keDXsH1w/s1600/IMG_20200219_185617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsQg5ZgT4F7DRAz_ACrqbBSIs5oRQVDDtm3BRD8SoUfn-i5BSJj-kno-Q3QA7eaRtzvCSq1Psst2kZt4Zgznmt5ykjLYUCHwH5M2x33UJOj3OzlwikbV9SKPeyS_dyMOvWD-keDXsH1w/s400/IMG_20200219_185617.jpg" width="300" /></a>This close to the mouth of the Thames I imagine it's always a bit blustery, but thankfully it's not raining. It feels like it's been raining non stop for weeks, so the fact that it's not, currently, it's somewhat of a blessing that it has eased off for now. Concern about such things though, are reserved for people of a certain age, which sadly Tom and I are most certainly are, but is of little concern though to the myriad of kids here and I’m not just talking about one or two dragged here by their Dad’s, in fact they might just outnumber the adults. Many of whom are displaying a fair bit of HU merchandise. “Careful in your studs' ' shouts one nervous parent, as a young boy, too young to understand the peril he is in, bombs about on concrete in football boots.<br />
<br />
Youth it seems is very much the theme, and the voice over the PA is chirpy and young, and clearly has none of the concerns of a father of two, with a bad back, and a dodgy knee. He is warm and high spirited, welcoming everyone, but then curiously reminds us all to “stay off the pitch at all times”. The dark underbelly internet inspired semi professional football rearing its ugly face? With their level of popularity and millions of online views, comes a fanbase who like a pitch invasion?<br />
<br />
Did I mention by the way, that there are loads of kids here?<br />
<br />
The warm up of the visiting team Hadley FC (HFC) is far louder and far more vigorous than that of the home side. The top of the table clash, 4th Vs 3rd is as one HFC coach put it, going to “be a tough one”, however they did “beat” HU “at home”, so it’s a hard one to call.<br />
<br />
Standing beside the head tennis table, the reason for the warning about going on the pitch becomes clear, a local band of mini Ultras, have just broken out their HU sticker covered drum and horn, slung around the neck of one. Huddled around the black cage that substitutes for a tunnel here, the kids, let me emphasise again, who there are loads of, have swarmed like bees, many rocking the HU hand gesture to the multitude of cameras.<br />
<br />
“Kick off now only six minutes away” announces the ever increasing ebullient voice of the PA, he nearly blew a casket when reading out the “Hashtag starting eleven”. The mums of tonight's mascots whoop and holler from the first floor seating in the main stand, set back from the pitch, which the tunnel emanates from the base of, a bit like something from a safari park, when the name of the local football team they are representing is read out.<br />
<br />
When the players emerge, the kids still waiting steadfast, push themselves even more against the black chainlinks of the cage, to get that little bit closer to their favorite player. The players inside are somewhat oblivious, they are far too busy exchanging encouraging inspirational slogans like “hungry, hungry” or in the case of the one away player, repeating, “come on Hadley, come on Hadley”.<br />
<br />
As the referee prepares to kick off on what is a slightly agricultural looking pitch, not only am I amazed that the game is actually happening, but that Tom could not be further from the truth with his prediction that there was only going to be around “seven” people here tonight.<br />
<br />
With the ends decided, the game underway, the kids with the drum have now taken up position behind the goal, where a large net prevents the wayward balls whacking them or clearing the monochrome wall, into nomansland beyond, and are quick to beat a rhythm out on their drum “ohh Hashtag United”, followed by a random blast of the horn.<br />
<br />
The action on the pitch is quick to get started also.“Where are we?” asks one HFC defender, after an excellent HU cross field pass has dissected them, finding its intended target, his superb first touch sees him away, however the HFC keeper is on his toes and is there to meet him. Smothering the ball, he then loses it, managing to smother the loose ball for a second time, but getting hurt in the process, resulting in a long break as the prone keeper is attended to.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvU9FV5Df7kT6TzRc96b4NvvtqqRfhWTOU0oguNfHZA7i1ZZHd3aX7sTOSidszawtkKgKsExYYFp1fp-kmQUiDGwogD0GoXp-P1maHRZvGbLKug4lxHwle3TtVXWttfeDZisQF25xyQI/s1600/IMG_20200219_191715.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvU9FV5Df7kT6TzRc96b4NvvtqqRfhWTOU0oguNfHZA7i1ZZHd3aX7sTOSidszawtkKgKsExYYFp1fp-kmQUiDGwogD0GoXp-P1maHRZvGbLKug4lxHwle3TtVXWttfeDZisQF25xyQI/s400/IMG_20200219_191715.jpg" width="400" /></a>Another long stoppage, this time due to an injury to a HU players, gives the HFC fans at the far end of the long covered terrace down one side of the pitch, a chance to break into song, which the kids are quick to pounce on, “who are ya?, who are ya?” they ask. Tom laughing to himself, suggests they are about “the most unthreatening Ultras ever”. They might be young, and might not have the menace of a face covered German with a flare, but they are loud.<br />
<br />
When play resumes, it’s clear HFC have a game plan, and set their stall out very early, physicality. A few early robust challenges have the home players already annoyed. The HFC fans offer up another song, but for now they're being outshone by the constant singing of the home supporters, who have a whole playlist of songs, “Oh hashtag we love you”, “we’re gonna win the league” and “hello, hello, we are the Hashtag boys” and boys they very much are. The fish and chip eating away supporter next to us mind, who has broken away from the main pack is also loud, but a lot less coherent.<br />
<br />
Thirteen minutes gone and a glancing header from the blond HU number 10, sees them go in front. His celebration, a homage of the Borussia Dortmund wunderkind Erling Håland from the night before. Crossed legged sitting on the floor, eyes closed, thumbs and index fingers pressed together, he takes a brief moment of contemplation, before being mobbed and I'm sure that must be some kind of record. In less than twenty four hours, something that happened at the very pinnacle, has already filtered down to almost the base of the pyramid. “You're not singing anymore” chant the kids, leaping on the grief of the travelling fans, just like any fan should do, regardless of age, in no time at all.<br />
<br />
HFC are really not at the races and their bench is livid, so is fish and chip man, shouting angrily with a mouth half full of hake, when HU are awarded a free kick, “ref you're having a laugh”, which sees the home team enough space for a glancing header, but this time it hits a teammate and not the back of the net. HFC need to liven up fast and it takes them nearly twenty minutes to show their first real bit of attacking intent. An excellent ball up the right channel, sends one wide player on his way, the move breaks down, but it was something. For a moment it looked like being over for them, before it <br />
had even begun.<br />
<br />
The tackles continue to fly in, mostly by the visiting team, and when the inevitable blast of the referees whistle that follows comes, it does not go down well with fish and chip man at all, “no fucking way ref”. The kids behind the goal are a lot more sanguine and are serenading their goal scorer “are you Haland in disguise?”, breaking from their revelry to cheer on Halands fellow forward darting into the box, “come on Harry''. Again the HFC keeper is quick off this line, but Harry reaches the ball first and the HFC keeper is unable to slow down, his momentum sending him clattering into the front man, taking him out, and giving the referee no other option but to point at the spot.<br />
<br />
“Spanked that” gasps Tom, as HU Haland leathers the ball into the top left hand corner and instead of repeating his previous celebration, he’s straight off towards the arms of bounding fans behind the goal, who again are quick to pipe up with another new song, “Hashtags on fire, you’re defense is terrified”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApm_8rMFIs1001kwSSV-7DWLWk1FRDQy2X0_PsJSECers5BBQT5H7tOr7Vg9gBT2LNxYEMxJ0jzHmT_qG-PQWa0tZERIfJAONZDRuF2IGz4NEQ4_EFB1lcENHQe5ttHCu-Ey7n42S74A/s1600/IMG_20200219_193659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApm_8rMFIs1001kwSSV-7DWLWk1FRDQy2X0_PsJSECers5BBQT5H7tOr7Vg9gBT2LNxYEMxJ0jzHmT_qG-PQWa0tZERIfJAONZDRuF2IGz4NEQ4_EFB1lcENHQe5ttHCu-Ey7n42S74A/s400/IMG_20200219_193659.jpg" width="300" /></a>A late tackle this time on a HFC player and it's their fans turn to ask for a foul, instead of being appalled at one being awarded against them. The rain has reared its head, but it doesn't dampen the home fans, who increasingly goad the small pocket of HFC supporters, “it's all gone quiet over there”. Talking to a member of the HU club staff, he tells me HFC “bullied us” in the reverse fixture earlier this season, admitting that HFC are the “only team” to have “outplayed” them “this season”. Tonight I’m not sure HFC have even had a shot on target yet, so are clearly nowhere near their best, but are still very much committed to a spot of roughhousing..<br />
<br />
Fish and chip man having finished his fish and chips, is no less angry, whatever was in the white paper has not left him in any better of a mood. “Fucking get up” is quickly becoming his catchphrase, after a HU player goes down, and he’s not having any of it. However when the tables are turned, and one of his players hits the deck in similar circumstances, he is surprisingly quiet. Much to the amusement of the people behind him, “get up, get up” they shout, I say shout, they are too busy laughing their heads off. “They enjoyed that” says Tom grinning.<br />
<br />
“We've got to want it” demands one HFC player, in an attempt to rally his teammates, who with the half rapidly coming to a conclusion, have been second best. “Skin him, skin him” screams one HFC fan with a player flying down the byline, but he’s unable to completely shake his marker, only winning a corner. At the moment the chants of the away fans are about as rare as their sides attacks, “come on Hadley, come on Hadley”.<br />
<br />
Surrounded by almost all twenty two players, it's hard to make out the referee at the centre of the melee, his decision to award HU a free kick has gone down like a lead balloon with HFC and HU don't understand how there isn't at least a booking. The kids in the main stand think he should get a red, “get him off, get him off” but it's not even a yellow. “Ref sort it out” screams fish and chip man, prompting Tom to go a little bit Carry On through pursed lips, “oh angry”.<br />
<br />
The final minutes of the half are a stop start, stop start mess, one tit for tat lunging tackle after another. One HFC player hurdles a couple before the referee pulls it back, the accosted visiting midfielder not best pleased with the treatment he’s getting, and although the final free kick is over, it can maybe at least be considered an attempt on goal. They register one more, the last of the half, the referee playing advantage, but again the final shot is over, the kids behind the goal asking, “how wide you want the goal?”.<br />
<br />
The PA has been affected by a gremlin during the first half, so the voice of the young man manning it, is far from clear, however the kids that line the front row of the main stand make up for it, cheering off the teams, before Sweet Home Alabama drowns them out. Proving it’s not all about the youth here, and there is something for the Dad’s and Mum’s too. Tom is soon back with some quite fantastic chips which I pinch a few of, all while an HFC substitute pretends he is keeping warm and doing his required stretches, but is actually on his phone.<br />
<br />
In Tom’s absence, I was joined by another Tom, a Tom we’ve met before. Tom who in his small sports holdall, has all manner of flags, scarves and banners, which in no time at all he has fastened to the fence near us, as the HFC fans relocate for the new half. From his head, and not his bag, he reels all sorts of fun facts, worthy of the back of any Penguin, about HFC’s current form and having finished his chips, Tom goes all boxing fan on me, when he tells me he “loves this song” as Neil Diamond starts to play.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8juacXhTE-d8P7oqHYgNowv2TrlWrHd2FeEXHD7KgukChyq8QMGn6IQiQuBBcQi5y9zGlV507zorFxtkeiLWfsMbHQ2Ln7eNesVOD67LQSsLkF7T-Y02DanEZSd8DOEmaNPzGTBa_yU/s1600/05-DSC_0047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="1024" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8juacXhTE-d8P7oqHYgNowv2TrlWrHd2FeEXHD7KgukChyq8QMGn6IQiQuBBcQi5y9zGlV507zorFxtkeiLWfsMbHQ2Ln7eNesVOD67LQSsLkF7T-Y02DanEZSd8DOEmaNPzGTBa_yU/s400/05-DSC_0047.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
It's a high pitched welcome back for the teams. The shouts of the home keeper are far more post puberty, “come on yellows, win the ball back” and once the match is back underway, it’s a lightning <br />
start not by the home side as you might expect, but the away one, who come out like a new team.<br />
<br />
A minute on the clock and one of their players has beaten the offside trap, “he’s on, he’s on” shouts one of the HFC fans behind us, but the ball just won't fall right for the advancing player and in the end he hooks his effort right at the keeper. “Great chance Bricks” applauds one of the few, but very vocal HFC supporters.<br />
<br />
HFC almost scupper their strong start when their keeper makes a meal of a hoofed ball from HU’s own half, that doesn't half travel some, the bounce of which nearly catches him out. Joined by more fans, other Tom who is always in a constant state of motion, not my Tom, is joined by some late comers from the bar, this latest chant has a bit more volume, of “come on Hadley”. Admittedly they are nigh on our shoulder, it is only them we can hear over the HU supporters now, who are far off to our right behind the goal, whose drum and horn I can still hear, but nowhere near as much as those from North West London.<br />
<br />
Other Tom’s unwavering optimism, looks like it’s going to be rewarded, “come on Bricks it’s coming” as the away side continue to show all the skill, they were severely lacking in the first half. “You'll get another one” assures one away fan, when the latest chance goes begging. “Come on Hadley” they sing, long and loud, their voices reverberating off the roof of the terrace and when a HU player goes down, let's say easily, it’s met with howls of derision, “Olympic sty-le fella”.<br />
<br />
Thirteen minutes gone and HFC are in again for what feels like the zillionth time so far, round the keeper the shot is blocked, going out for a corner, which is headed just wide. “Much better Bricks” shouts an encouraging away fan, one buoyed by his team's up turn in performance, like Tom did, went a bit Carry On, “they don't like it up them”.<br />
<br />
In a Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game first, although it's not totally clear at first, because Tom is convinced the HFC player has been sent off, we see our first player sin binned, which is effectively an adult naughty step. Other Tom thinks the player has taken the bait, bitten when he was provoked by HU and off he stomps, my Tom says the sin binned player looks very “angry” as he gets “in the bin”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopNZ-hKi3LY_HDlp0K9gOf3wvs4Cs8-hBgXxUi5JY5N0nDtmOxp_r-4Pmumgbo842jgWJFzXVa5aLlczSGBevHXEHAyhDMmbRHpJ0x2DZckOGr9FZLWNHUFFs-KKGJ6trLIPVRkWc5x4/s1600/08-DSC_0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopNZ-hKi3LY_HDlp0K9gOf3wvs4Cs8-hBgXxUi5JY5N0nDtmOxp_r-4Pmumgbo842jgWJFzXVa5aLlczSGBevHXEHAyhDMmbRHpJ0x2DZckOGr9FZLWNHUFFs-KKGJ6trLIPVRkWc5x4/s400/08-DSC_0070.JPG" width="400" /></a>Considering they are down to ten men, it makes HFC scoring that little bit more impressive, rushing off the terrace other Tom is almost over the fence leaping up to celebrate, racing back to pound the back of the stand, starting a song with the opening line “we don't need no Tottenham Hotspur” before giving the sin binned player his very own to the tune of Star Man by Bowie, as he warms up readying himself to return. Tom wondering if he should really bother, “they play better without him”.<br />
<br />
It’s all HFC, it’s like two different sides have come out, HU are showing none of that early swagger. Their mini Ultras group and their drum is all but silent, all the singing is coming from the rowdy six or seven over my right shoulder, “come on you Bricks” and such is HFC’s dominance, it's taken HU just over twenty minutes to muster a chance on goal, my Tom reckons the change in fortunes, is down to the referee having “changed sides”.<br />
<br />
“Fucking hell it cleared the fence” is Tom’s appraisal of HFC’s free kick, in a dangerous position, other Tom reckoned we were about to see the “goal of the season”, but its far from it, another attempt at a Ronaldo knuckleball set piece that is a horror show. It’s then the turn of the HFC manager to get his own song, “black and red army” and the HFC fans have a great knack of switching between their own extensive song book, the next is to the tune of a Supergrass song, and my Tom is very impressed, “very tuneful”.<br />
<br />
There is the odd ripple from the HU drum, but not often. Tom is obsessing over the recent HFC substitute, their number 14 who is running the show, whose beard has him captivated. “Manny is a game changer” comments Tom, as the wonderfully bearded ones hard running sets up a chance.<br />
<br />
“Shocking, what, no” implores one HFC fan, not having witnessed some great tragedy as his response would imply, but the chalking off of an HFC equaliser, which would have been totally deserved, but it isn't given and queue an absolute tirade aimed at the referee and his assistants. The disallowed goal, with a quarter of an hour to play, feels like a massive turning point, after HFC have run HU ragged for the last half an hour.<br />
<br />
With Manny having made such a huge difference since coming on, one has to wonder why he did not start, but Tom has an inkling why, his fitness. Having been on the pitch maybe twenty minutes, as Tom delicately puts it, “he’s breathing out his arse”.<br />
<br />
Into the final fifteen, and HU ventures up field for a rare attack and not long after other Tom is back half over the fence, irate at the referee once more, “how did you not see that?”, when Manny looks to have been felled to the ground in the box. HU look rattled, shell shocked even, it continues to be all HFC and one of their fans are so incensed at the latest mistake by the officials, he circles half the pitch, to give the referees assistant opposite a peace of his mind.<br />
<br />
I do enjoy a hummed rendition of the Entry of the Gladiators, and I know based on a previous encounter with them, there is no better set of fans than HFC's to pick the most opportune time, to mark a gaff or mistake correctly. When HU's keeper and a defender play a game of 'you have it, no you have' when it comes to taking a free kick, the opening bars emitting from the crowd behind me, feels just like being under the big top.<br />
<br />
With the continuing HFC pressure, it's the turn of the home players to start to lose their cool, quarreling with the referee and each other, "boys you're fucking walking". They really have been a <br />
shadow of their first half selves. The sound of home singing and the drum, has now been replaced with the noise of an impromptu kick about and Tom points out that with youth, comes inpatients, "you know what the problem with kids as Ultras is? They get board. Not got long enough attention spans".<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVbkvdg_umdKiB3rHCX0xVDwq0GngsSne8WWf3CyxLcCa1JpK4glGqkMRsh_LdjC_5DeoJzC77Kuo7cLZ2Py8y1o7MJIS52qr1GdeWcjSXNThBffZQTTd0SYwODCOn07rNgq41B1JzAw/s1600/IMG_20200219_203935_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVbkvdg_umdKiB3rHCX0xVDwq0GngsSne8WWf3CyxLcCa1JpK4glGqkMRsh_LdjC_5DeoJzC77Kuo7cLZ2Py8y1o7MJIS52qr1GdeWcjSXNThBffZQTTd0SYwODCOn07rNgq41B1JzAw/s400/IMG_20200219_203935_1.jpg" width="400" /></a>The HFC bench instructs the players to "pile on the pressure", one man in the technical area gets very serious with a string, "until the last". Falling short when going toe to toe with HFC, the HU players attempt a few other methods to finish off their opponents, one taking the art of the dive to a new plain, "like a dying swan" cackles one HFC fan.<br />
<br />
Growing ever more frustrated, the HFC supporters are watching there chance to gain ground on their fellow promotion pushing contenders slip away. "A sending off offence" barks one, after a HFC player goes down, and while still down, has the ball booted right in his face.<br />
<br />
"Keep believing reds" cries one HFC player, "big fucking effort" replies the HU keeper and the departure of HU's goal machine could be telling. "Oh no Haland is off" says Tom, the player on course for his "hattrick" looks to have "done his back in".<br />
<br />
There can only be minutes left to play and one HU defender orders his teammates to "keep switched on, these are the last fucking moments". A big tackle up the touchline by a HU player sees the tension raise even higher, "getting spicy" murmurs Tom. When a big away tackle leaves one home player rolling around, the whole of the main stand are on their feet and up in arms. There is an underlying feeling that things might boil over any second.<br />
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From point blank range, what looked like HFC's final chance to bag a point, is cleared. The tackles are flying in now even more frequently, the home fans are getting tetchy, "he's having one" says one when the referee once more keeps his cards in his pocket. "Heads up, heads up" are now the shouts from the home bench.<br />
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Standing at the back post, Manny looks on hand to grab the glory, right at the death, but a teammate pinches the chip aimed at him, and that feels like that. Flooding from the sidelines the home fans are doing whatever they can to will their team over the finishing line, "come on boys want this", everyone, I mean everyone is shouting, players, fans, from all corners. HU are just about hanging on.<br />
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A late away corner is poor, the claim for a penalty feels a bit more like desperation than reality. HU counterattack, bearing down on goal there are calls to "finish it", but the shot is right at the keeper. "How much longer ref?" is the question now on everyone's lips.<br />
<br />
To quote the person on the PA, I would agree that the game we just watched was indeed some "scintillating non league football". The points are HU's, just, and just how just, is clear from the relief painted all over the faces of the players in yellow and blue congratulating each other on the pitch.<br />
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Plenty of people have their own opinions on HU, and have been more than willing to share them, when this club grabbed all the headlines in the last few years. Opinions about the way they were formed, where in the pyramid they were allowed to enter, and for some just their name.<br />
<br />
There is so much snobbery in football, plain and simple, at all levels, and walking hand in hand with traditionalism, it can get a bit unsavory at times. I'm sure in 1882 when a team called Hotspur FC was formed, plenty of people thought that was an odd name too, and when in 1886 a group of munitions workers started a team, people thought who are these upstarts, thinking them can form their own football club.<br />
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My point is a name is just a name, be it based on something on a keyboard or a character from Shakespeare, does it really matter? Is a team started by a YouTube channel, not just the 2020 equivalent of a team started by the workers of an electronics company, like PSV?<br />
<br />
I saw two things today, that in the five years we've been doing what we do, are far from common sights at all levels and especially non league, an atmosphere for one and at the end did the players march off, get in the shower and go home, did they hell. They signed the autographs, posed for the selfies, they took the time to thank the fans.<br />
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If that's what Hashtag United FC are going to bring to the football universe, then call me a Hashtag United FC fan.<br />
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For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2816638648444111&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARCM1_K_FJglSk4KiLaC2s4guFnb3rEuTzUgElRW1vtkyjQYvDTOyETIeo_oJ-KfUwHizBxKw6RU79T47WpnZpgtlO_VwlxdMNxRDogfaEOVyMt68kDZAKwJVUZJMHj7S-TZ51ig_Brb_JaDu2tdd3_GvOden_Oodw6NQ2UK59mkaaC41q1NghziVPJYdKEMTpCGA3rlqt2JVYPUw-OzTtCp53r5PstEpDLcI2tg1SSVHhMOpP7qWXsMPujCp_0KMiLEJtDjApveFEpIV8jtGL_4aWinb8nH7pHOt4ndUiLxaeZ9xp_syYUVRl3SQsasi-mqQibzOASh9YFGQwVytcYnSYJ6tTuY40KQEh16Iz_SYRor6O7S9vqosMgIzsDRphhMsEt2D24IdRPbM9sUCnPFO5byaVUNqNy9G06Ng5xfGecWb62QYDHXBhW-Lixa9furyQwqmQKtdE_T6NwZvJy0v1BoR-hmBn0uL8-PbQrJilmIglkYwki81BqPe6q2O86o7r3_pmmAgbmLwfqi-MQbuiBqRC0n6QEUK-vyZrU&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-78086049335663617312020-03-08T13:15:00.004-07:002020-03-08T13:27:06.103-07:00I've Tried Cashmere - Horsham FC Vs Burgess Hill Town FC, Isthmian League Trophy 2nd Knock Out Round, Hop Oast (12/02/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvu3bejf-i0aOYfa8PL3PKOOTGga5_QnUcQPfCQdViapFcwaBYxL83Ju2OonkjaOw4vHKLrUDFsw9XmdlIEOIC89TQwLk_bh24sWCNjqfbeyBzk1zAMqz1u6_8r0-hBpxc-QYiTY93o70/s1600/P1070218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1123" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvu3bejf-i0aOYfa8PL3PKOOTGga5_QnUcQPfCQdViapFcwaBYxL83Ju2OonkjaOw4vHKLrUDFsw9XmdlIEOIC89TQwLk_bh24sWCNjqfbeyBzk1zAMqz1u6_8r0-hBpxc-QYiTY93o70/s320/P1070218.JPG" width="224" /></a>With a belly full of Mexican food I should really be preparing for a siesta, not embarking on a two hour drive towards the South Coast. It will be of no shock to hear I’m without Tom, but like some kind of minor miracle, call the Vatican and tell them I saw the face of Jesus in the display of my until now broken radio, it now, without explanation is working again. So I flit between Michael Jackson’s History, and Radio One’s drive time show.<br />
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The further into Sussex I go, the signs on the motorway read more and more like the Isthmian league table, each exit seeming to have it’s own team. Passing through Dorking, there are an abundance of cocks, and in a couple of rare moments of excitement I notice first a dog in its own car seat, and at one point have to wait behind a police roadblock, because someone has been dragged from their estate car and is currently face down on the roof, with their hands in cuffs.<br />
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There are new football grounds, The Emirates, really new grounds, White Hart Lane 2.0 and really, really, really new grounds, which is the category tonight's tongue twister of a venue falls into, The Camping World Community Stadium or as I believe it’s known as by locals, The Hop Oast.<br />
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The driveway in and the tiny lights that guide you, is more like the kind leading to a plush day spa, then a non league football ground. Most car parks we encounter put your life at risk, such are the magnitude of the potholes, but there is no chance of that here. You are more likely to be asked by a waistcoat wearing valet if you would like your car parked, then fall down a crater.<br />
<br />
So small are the trees and shrubs that fill the borders surrounding the car park, that one could be forgiven for thinking they are in Lilliput, but it's actually just a case of them by the looks of it only having been planted last week, and if it wasn't for my slightly dodgy sense of smell, I’m sure the scent of fresh paint is probably still hanging in the air.<br />
<br />
Loitering in car parks seems to be Toms MO at the moment, if he’s not careful he’s going to get himself a reputation. Stepping out of his car, he is quick to tell me he “feels like Pepe'', and he doesn't mean over priced and severely lacking in end product, but because he has a woolly hat and a snood on. Overlapping, I can just about only see his eyes.<br />
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Inside the Horsham FC (HFC) crest fronted clubhouse, it is sparkling. In one corner a small TV welcomes the away team, hoping that they “enjoy” their visit, “but not too much”. On a much larger screen front and centre the cricket from some far flung corner of the world is playing, which has most people already here engrossed. Tom’s visit to the bar, where a HFC scarf is stretched out across the optics, is a short one, because in the place of a cuppa, is one of the vending machines in the corner, just past the obligatory non league clubhouse dartboard.<br />
<br />
We get an oh so brief and teasing glimpse of what's beyond the door with club shop written above it, but it doesn't look like it’s going to be open any time soon, so we will have to wait a little while longer to see if we are able to purchase a HFC mouse mat.<br />
<br />
The TV in the corner is not only dishing out the niceties learns Tom, but also informs all of the Sunday breakfast club they have here. “Eggs Benedict” he says, far from your normal non league football fayre, which he will learn soon is a theme, because really where we are right now, is not very non league at all.<br />
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I want to ask the man why he is whistling the Indiana Jones theme, but leave him to it and just enjoy the John Williams tune. Tom is oblivious to this, instead he is studying his phone, and as is normally the case, the weather app especially. He is concerned, rain is forecast, and lots of it, double black raindrop amounts according to the Met office.<br />
<br />
His mood is lifted when we overhear the discussion between a couple of HFC club officials, “scores level after extra time, straight to penalties” one tells another and seemingly of all the things to dislike about football, a game going beyond the scheduled ninety minutes, is by far Toms biggest bug bare.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy_uj1KkcXHjQ_UqUxPQFP30JZoRb_Uvog5EWJXkw9zIWtqrpHO6vMaqbbk0T_SJZnkB9IPTcGM-d-xiFzTrV3ocsYg-W_AKv4ke70dbxCPMsT19UAs-RExz0xseEFpYvHTGKxXQAQQQ/s1600/IMG_20200212_174855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoy_uj1KkcXHjQ_UqUxPQFP30JZoRb_Uvog5EWJXkw9zIWtqrpHO6vMaqbbk0T_SJZnkB9IPTcGM-d-xiFzTrV3ocsYg-W_AKv4ke70dbxCPMsT19UAs-RExz0xseEFpYvHTGKxXQAQQQ/s400/IMG_20200212_174855.jpg" width="400" /></a>One young man takes advantage of the facilities, and is chucking a few darts, each one landing on the board with that tell, tale thud. The referees pass us, newly arrived, off to the board room in search of biscuits and Tom is also thinking about food, it is very rarely far from his mind, telling me, “I think I might eat early”. Interrupting him, a person approaches our table, stopping me from gormlessly staring at the cricket, “gentlemen can I interest you in a 50/50 ticket?”. The answer is of course yes, and the lady in her yellow and green club scarf, with a handful of tickets is soon in possession of my £2, which disappears into the small black bag slung over her shoulder.<br />
<br />
Not that I admit to be an expert on cricket whatsoever, but Tom clearly knows even less about it then me, at one point shouting “thirty points” indiscriminately. When not channeling his inner Boycott, he is somewhat taken aback by the man at the bar wearing shades, “is it sunny outside?” he asks me, before I comment that the man in the Bono’s might have a pre existing eye condition, and he is to be kinder to old men in massive specs.<br />
<br />
Tom’s final bit of cricket analysis, is a very excitable mention for the “little things on the stumps” the bales I explain, that “light up”. Flashing red after the latest wicket has been taken and although I’m slightly suspicious of the side by side vending machines in the corner of the room, they are at least “super stocked” as Tom puts it, as one women does her best to get every packet of Mini Cheddars in existence inside of it.<br />
<br />
Taking in our customary wander around the ground, it's hard not to be impressed. “For a 3G” says Tom “it’s one of the better ones” and he’s not wrong, even if his praise is a tad muted. My favourite bit has to be the clubs initials spelt out in yellow seats, among the green ones, in the sizable main stand on the half way life. There are a couple of flat pack terraces dotted around, and for the discerning fan, a veranda outside the bar, where you are protected from any scary shots, by a large black net.<br />
Having been outside for less than ten minutes, the cosy shroud of the clubhouse has already fallen and I’m starting to feel the cold. Noticing this, and through his steamed up glasses, “yeah that’s the only downside” Tom once again regales all the benefits of his mighty snood, “you need to get one” he implores, “wear it as a scarf, as a hat” he explains, however his sales pitch falls by the wayside, when his hunger kicks into action, “smells like roast down here”. Looking at him blankly, he continues regardless, “you know what I mean? Broccoli?” I don't know what he means at all.<br />
<br />
Leaving me in the main stand, to deliberate just how much the dugouts look like fish tanks, Tom is off, his hunch that he was going to eat early has come to fruition. Returning not long after, he seems almost a bit overwhelmed, shell shocked even, only able to tell me, “I might have to eat twice”. Sitting down next to me and after composing himself, he explains the reason for his bewilderment, the menu. Reeling off such delights as “chicken tikka and chips' ', “chilli and chips” and not any old hot dog, but a “chorizo” one, he is astounded. HFC’s new home continues to dazzle, and if Tom was not unable to get as excited about the stand as I was, he makes up for it, by going on and on about the refreshments.<br />
<br />
As important as a nice setting is, good food and the chance of a flutter. It's kind of irrelevant if the match, because despite what Tom thinks, it’s that and not the chips we are here for, is not up to scratch, then it can ultimately detract from all the peripheries. HFC would “normally” according to one of their helpful stewards expect “five or six hundred” on a match day, however today will probably be half that, “if we're lucky”. Why I hear you ask, are the people of West Sussex not hardy, don't fancy a late night or perhaps Bake Off is on the TV, nope it's because as the steward so eloquently puts it, it’s because it's the “Velocity Trophy thingy”.<br />
<br />
Not that him telling us this is a something we didn't know, we learnt very quickly that the League Cup, of whatever league we happen to be watching a match in, at all levels of the game, is held with such disdain, and so very rarely makes for good viewing, the opinion of it shared by fans and players alike, you have to wonder why they bother with it all.<br />
<br />
Warming up nearby are the HFC players, one of which the steward points out is playing his “six hundred and third game” tonight, having been with the club since he was “eighteen” and is “ still doing a job” for them. The zeal of his warm up, suggests he is still very much enjoying himself. The same though cannot be said for one player in a big long black coat beside him, “looks like he's never <br />
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warmed up before” laughs Tom. The player, who I suspect already knows he is not starting, is hardly giving his pre match routine his all.<br />
<br />
It did occur to me Tom had been quiet for a while, I allowed him some grace considering he was eating, before checking on him, but that's all gone now, and he’s still silent, and I soon learn why. “I made a mistake” he admits, as nice as his burger was, he seriously regrets his choice, he just wasn't brave enough to order something other than his norm. By his own admission, his lack of exploratory spirit means he’s missed out, “I wanna eat again!”, he says, falling short of slamming his fist, like a massive bearded toddler.<br />
<br />
“50/50” is the high pitched call of the lady by the turnstiles, adjacent to the man selling programmes from atop an ornate garden table. The turnstiles which for the moment are in a constant state of motion as more and more fans arrive, one of whom appears optimistic, “might be a good game tonight”. Although the competition is not all that well respected, the fact HFC are playing somewhat local rivals Burgess Hill Town FC, might give it a little extra verve.<br />
<br />
Leaning in to tell me, one BH fan, with his black and green tie hanging around his neck, the club's supporters group way of distinguishing their allegiance, informs me they have had their drum “confiscated'', which is a shame to hear. The reason the clubs “neighbours”, they must mean the woodland creatures in the surrounding forest, because I didn't see any houses nearby. As the traveling fan puts it, “we wanna get a bit of noise in this sanitized ground” which is something I can certainly get behind.<br />
<br />
Quiet, but jolly is how I would describe the man on the PA, “good evening ladies and gentlemen''. Showing a slight spike in energy, when it's time to read out the home starting eleven, “and for the Hornets”. He confirmed what we had overheard earlier, that “if the scores are level after ninety minutes. It's straight to penalties, no extra time”, adding that “if you see ten substitutions, don't be surprised. Five each are allowed”.<br />
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Edging ever closer to kick off, people continue to arrive, “smart isn't it” says one. Still coming over the speakers, the man with the microphone is plugging away the “Hornets lager” and if you happen to have come straight from work and “not been home yet, not been able to get any dinner” they more than have you covered. Hanging from the net in front of the clubhouse a couple of home flags have appeared and the players feel well overdue. It is though not far for them to come down once they start to appear from the small door at the top of a gentle slope, passing through at the bottom the world's smallest tunnel, which can be no longer than five feet.<br />
<br />
It’s about the most rapid of handshakes you are ever likely to see performed, it’s now well past kick off, but the formalities must still be observed and there is one last request over the speakers, “ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls enjoy the game”,<br />
<br />
Considering BH are from the division below, they are not showing any sign of their underdog status, straight out the traps and on the front foot, they threaten the home goal within minutes of the start. Two blocked shots in quick succession, the second after winning the ball back superbly and supplying the man in the box, there is an early case for them looking like they might bestow HFC a tough night. Their “high press” as Toms puts it, I do love it when he gets all technical, wins them an early free kick, and their fans to one side of the goal and the giant black net, let out their first chant of the night.<br />
<br />
More home flags have gone up, now at the opposite end to the clubhouse and a rapid counter attack by the home side is the first time they've been able to flex their muscles, however the shot at the end of it, is right at the keeper. Back and forth the home fans call and respond, “yellow, yellow” quickening the pace of the chant each time until it's almost inaudible. The BH fans then change the noise level game pretty comprehensively, with not even ten minutes gone. They may have lost their drum, but they were allowed to keep their bugle.<br />
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Another blistering home attack sees almost the whole team surge towards the visitors goal. The awarding of a corner after the shot was deflected is greeted with more shouts of “yellows, yellows” and with about just over five minutes on the clock, and after such a promising opening run by BH, they find themselves behind. “Too easy” grumbles one of the BH managerial duo in the technical area, “deal with the first ball coming in” shouts the other angrily.<br />
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The unwaivable BH fans reply with a few shouts of “Burgess Hill, Burgess Hill” happy to carry on, unaffected by conceding, but they are somewhat drowned out by the now much louder home supporters “Horsham, Horsham”.<br />
<br />
HFC officially have the bit between their teeth now, fizzing a low cross through the BH box. Tom thinks it’s a “bold move” by the home side to try and “emulate Brazil” with their yellow and green trim kit. The BH bugle player strikes up, I say player, he’s just holding it up to his mouth and blowing through it, and BH have gone full circle, from being well in it, on top even, they now feel well and truly on the skids.<br />
<br />
“What happened there?” asks Tom, BH initiates their own counterattack, striding out of defence the player makes it to the edge of the centre circle and attempts forward a pass, but it's like he had forgotten how to play football and it's horrible.<br />
<br />
The BH fans team might be behind, however they keep singing. Their own flag has gone up now, and their resolve is tested again, ten minutes after going behind, the deficit increases, again from another corner, again the corner is received with shouts of “yellows, yellows”, they really like a set piece around here. All the BH bench can do is slump. Two nil down, and looking a shadow of the team who looked so promising, Tom confirmed just what I’m sure everyone is thinking, “it’s going to be a long night”.<br />
<br />
Hammering the metal hoarding by the side of the pitch, the BH fans make just as much noise as any drum would, “oh Burgess Hill is wonderful ''. They do the opposite of what most supporters do after conceding, they do all they can to lift their teams spirits, instead of compounding them with negativity. This holistic approach is then rewarded with a glimmer of hope. Letting loose their number 8, he rides the incoming tackles as he enters the eighteen yard box, momentarily losing possession, he is able to recover, but his cross to a teammate, is just out of his reach.<br />
<br />
Twenty four minutes gone and the game is all but over or at least it seemed that way, until the linesman on the far side raised his flag to chalk off HFC’s third. “Liven up” insists one of the HB coaches, the home players on the other hand are more than fired up. Getting into the referee and his assistant, “how the fuck was that offside” screams the home number 3, whose persistent profanity, makes Tom think he’s “going to get sent off for swearing”.<br />
<br />
Tom’s weather app is correct to almost the second as the rain starts to fall, the home fans are relatively quiet, where the BH one's, and remember their team are being pretty roundly trounced, are still going, “ole, ole, ole”. The home fans are now huddled underneath the flat roof stand to our right as the rain gets harder, seemingly not concerned with such a trivial thing as keeping dry, they come over all 80’s Classics Volume One, with a song to the tune of Bryan Adams ‘Heaven’.<br />
<br />
More HFC corners surely spell more trouble for BH, again the kicking of the ball from that flag by the corner, proves to be a real crowd pleaser, each one without fail is met with a rousing shout of “yellow, yellow”, however this time nothing comes from them. A very slick HFC move proves its not only from set pieces that they are dangerous, the eventual shot though is straight into the grateful arms of the HB keeper. The away bench is growing increasingly concerned with how much heads have dropped, “it's getting quiet again”.<br />
<br />
Eight minutes from the break, and without any doubt that the goal should stand or not, HFC added to their tally. “Sums their night up” prophesizes Tom about BH and specifically their number 4 who is having a bit of a shocker. The goal kick whacking him in the back, the ball falling straight to a HFC player, who with the goal gaping, had the simple task of rolling it into the empty net.<br />
<br />
Tonight might have to go down as one of those occasions when if a team had just taken their chances,<br />
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how different a game it could have been. It’s not like BH have had no time in front of goal, they've just been unable to convert, they spurn a chance to grab one back just before the break, shooting wide. Half watching the match, half talking to Aveley FC’s Chief Executive Craig, all while trying to avoid having my eye poked out by Toms large black and white golf umbrella he scampered off to the car to get, Craig tells me there was no way the HFC 'offside’ goal should have been ruled off. It was in fact an own goal, “he stuck it in his own net”.<br />
<br />
One HFC player stabs the ball wide of the post as the home onslaught continues in the dying seconds of the half, but there is just about enough time for their forth before it’s time for tea and orange segments. A swinging effort from outside the box, that from behind we have a grandstand view of just how much it moves, it’s an absolute belter.<br />
<br />
Under an emptying sky it’s BH who have the last chance of the half, “get in” shouts someone from the bench, but the header back across the goal is over and come the whistle, the rain now lashing against the top of Tom’s brolly, there is an understandable exodus. The voice back over the PA reminding everyone “the bar is open”.<br />
<br />
Getting soggier by the second, the fact I'm not the winner of the “£91” up for grabs in the 50/50, does little to lift my morale. The PA is back plugging everything from the “curry” being served to the availability of the “function room”, his chirpy voice coming at me loudly from less than an arm's length away, the speaker attached to the floodlight, right above my head.<br />
<br />
New HT flags now adorn their new end, for the new half, which include a rainbow one, and one that I'm sure is the national flag of Peru. The new half sees them up their flag game quite considerably, going from one, to at least six. A big one hangs from the back of the stand, and they now have green and black ones on the end of white flag poles. “Come on Hillans, come on Hillans” they sing, drowning out the sound of Tom reminding me that when I bought my 50/50 tickets, he told me I wouldn't be going home with the money, “told you, not winners”.<br />
<br />
One day we'll see the Ronaldo knuckleball free kick pulled off, but it won't be today. The first chance of the new half a free kick to HFC in a good position, but the toe punt is well over. More goals seem inevitable mind, but HFC haven't really got their shooting boots on yet, the majority of their fans playing sardines in the small stand to our right, who have the ideal view of their teams next effort, which not only clears the goal, but the net and the clubhouse too.<br />
<br />
The rain is close to torrential, and the home fans are singing a song I’d only ever previously heard sung by one of the seven dwarves, “hi ho, hi ho”. On one of BH’s all too rare attacks, a BH player hits his shot so hard, sending it thundering into the back of the stand his fans now occupy, if it was any lower, there could have been a death.<br />
<br />
“Every time” mouths one of the now exasperated HB coaches, they have just watched their team concede a fifth, and despite the away fans upbeat song “we’re going to win 6-1” in reality we are close to a rout. Five goals in my mind does not quite constitute a rout yet, more a drubbing or a thrashing, but there's still plenty of time, “could be six/seven/eight” says Tom.<br />
<br />
I could have my eyes closed, and just by hearing “yellows, yellows” know that HFC had won a corner. We are both sad to hear that “Sparks” is coming off, I’m not sure we have ever encountered a namesake playing before, and it's a bit of a slight on Tom’s heritage if I'm honest, that he couldn't even last the whole ninety, “oh I went off”. Still much the louder of the two groups of fans, the BH ones are now partaking in some kind of Olympic relay. Two fans, each with their own flag, are entertaining themselves with their own time trials. From the stand to the corner flag and back in the quickest time.<br />
<br />
“Finish it” screams one of the home fans braving the rain and sans a brolly unlike us two Steve McClarens. A low free kick is spilt by the HB keeper, but the attempt to convert the rebound is put wide.<br />
<br />
Having conceded five, it would be fair to say the HB keeper has not had the best of days but having learnt at half time he is only seventeen and thinking what a useless bag of stoned bones I was at that age, he’s actually done remarkably well. His standout highlight of the night is a save right out the top drawer, one that prevents what Tom said would have been the “greatest goal” he'd “ever seen”, which is no faint praise.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwd_6iyfc8f7fATHm6azoPluO_iYDjVW7P2nwQup7HPmtnBo45ohkKx9ZPHeMe7_P-TSaQ-f7Uny-f4JZqv6Dq9Y75RkLomPvLGoiOJy9jT7Ag_kYmyQBIT4a3esu0BO7IEUXaPzmLcw/s1600/IMG_20200212_192924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwd_6iyfc8f7fATHm6azoPluO_iYDjVW7P2nwQup7HPmtnBo45ohkKx9ZPHeMe7_P-TSaQ-f7Uny-f4JZqv6Dq9Y75RkLomPvLGoiOJy9jT7Ag_kYmyQBIT4a3esu0BO7IEUXaPzmLcw/s400/IMG_20200212_192924.jpg" width="300" /></a>A flick, a spin, a back heel, a step over or two all leads up to the wonder save, a one handed lurch to his right, that stops the bouncing ball hitting the back of his net. Recounting the build up has made Tom go all high pitched, “like watching Holland'' he reminisces, but the save was more equal to all the fancy footwork that preceded it.<br />
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Rattling the stand, the home fans belt out a few songs, the Lardy Army, as their flag reveals they are called, have not been super vocal this evening, unlike the BH fans who one way or the other have not stopped, “Burgess Hill, Burgess Hill”. I wish I could say the rain had stopped, but it's now a fine mist, that is excellent in luring you into a false sense of security.<br />
<br />
With a simple square ball available, the BH bench don't understand why the player out wide has chosen the speculative drive from an and acute angle, instead of passing, “why are you shooting from there?”. Five goals to the good, HFC have eased up a lot, allowing BH much more time on the ball, which in turn increases their time in front of the goal. Another chance presents itself, but the forward snatches at it, and the bench have seen enough, turning their back on the pitch in disgust.<br />
<br />
The BH fans are of course still singing, the Lardy Army belt out the odd tune, “we all follow the yellow and green”, the terrace outside the bar is well populated, but you could almost hear a pin drop at times, the game is done. The silence is only broken briefly by the referee barking at HFC’s manager, “I gave the foul Bill, what are you moaning about?”, after one of his players was clattered to the ground right in front of him.<br />
<br />
Some might call it the phantom zone, others the twilight zone, I’m not sure what's the right terminology, but whatever it is, we are stuck in it. That time between the last goal of a one sided hammering and full time. Tom does what he always does, letting his mind wander, he informs me that a HFC fan on the terrace is wearing some dubious leg ware, “there is a man in there with shorts on” and he soon realises why people don't generally take umbrellas at football, other than the obvious ‘wally with a brolly jibes’, when he is unable to judge the flight of a high clearance coming our way, the ball casting a large silhouette on his canopy, “is that going to hit me?”. It doesn't, but it was close, instead it almost destroys the woman next to us.<br />
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On the realization that he is OK, and so is the woman next to us I'm glad to report, he is noticeably upset, “I didn't see you jumping to my rescue”.<br />
<br />
One could be forgiven for thinking BH were still in this game, with the amount of possession they are getting, but don't be fooled, it's not a case of them finding some old form all of a sudden, but that HFC have well and truly clocked off. They actually hit the target with one effort, their first of the half I think, and one player shows a high level of determination, riding one tackle after another, eventually being brought to a halt on the edge of the home eighteen yard box, much to the delight of the BH fans, “oh Burgess Hill”.<br />
<br />
Both wet and cold, Tom tells me he has “given up with double socks” and no matter what they're made of, “I’ve tried wool, I've tried cashmere” the results are the same, frozen feet. The sight of one HFC sub in a full waterproof suit, gets Tom all giddy, but I'm not sure he has the figure to pull it off.<br />
<br />
I know you have to set an example to your players, but the BH bench should just save the attempts to rally the players, “composure” urges one man, with five minutes left to play and five goals behind, it just seems like a waste of breath. The departing home crowd has not gone unnoticed by the BH fans, “we can see you sneaking out” and guess what's just happened, I'll give you a clue, “yellows, yellows”.<br />
<br />
In one last gasp attempt to reward their fans with something, BH bit the bar. The home fans still left on the terrace let out a sarcastic "weyyyyyy", before staring a song, the relevance of which needs pointing out. "Riding on a donkey" they sing, after which one fan makes sure the BH knows they are talking about them, "that's you Burgess Hill". A late home challenge almost mars the night, "someones in trouble" mutters one of the stewards ready to pull the tunnel into place, but its not even a yellow.<br />
<br />
The BH Olympics has been expanded to include other events, the quick sprint from before, is now a marathon, well a lap of the pitch at least. Still with flags in the hand, the two participants belt in around the ground. Once back in place and having caught their breath, their next song fells appropriate, "we have more fun than you".<br />
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"A minimum of two added minutes" says the PA, one home fan leaving who has seen enough points <br />
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out correctly that both sets of players are now simply "going through the motions". There is some gentle ribbing by the local kids come the final whistle, as the HB players depart, "cheers for the results lads", those dejected players having been serenaded by their fans, while they all shook hands and there is plenty of loud clapping from the home supporters, gathered around the tunnel, as their players head off victorious.<br />
<br />
When the first visitors to Disneyland walked though the gates, they must have felt like they had stepped into the future, and we felt a bit like that today, just minus the beaming Californian sun or massive walking mice. The Hop Oast is quite something, its not a crumbling character filled ground, but as they become fewer and fewer, I suspect that more and more of the grounds we visit, will look like this one, anyone looking for ideas of a new place to call home, could go a long way to model it on this corner of West Sussex.<br />
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The problem is though, a day at a theme park is nothing with out colour, noise, and overpriced chips. So I hope HFC and any other club who are not pro drums, will reconsider in the future, because in my opinion it's that, along with flags and singing that makes for an excellent experience, not just chicken tikka and chips.<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-26223740524579209312020-03-01T12:18:00.001-08:002020-03-01T12:18:08.188-08:00The Curse Has Been Lifted - Dagenham & Redbridge FC Vs Stockport County FC, National League, Victoria Road (08/02/20) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm38FnjhY_Q3oo3HOqESNyHWLmc7VCcTzxz8p62D2-BowMDhyphenhyphen7qw36SQYLnxgVEPldfpTi7BigMRj_km58d4tZrLLRrLS5CU6FbzSvQgzM73exRcPNYggbnBbqvL7mJNtXNXYvWahjvZo/s1600/P1070144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm38FnjhY_Q3oo3HOqESNyHWLmc7VCcTzxz8p62D2-BowMDhyphenhyphen7qw36SQYLnxgVEPldfpTi7BigMRj_km58d4tZrLLRrLS5CU6FbzSvQgzM73exRcPNYggbnBbqvL7mJNtXNXYvWahjvZo/s320/P1070144.JPG" width="223" /></a>“Ohh it’s sunny” says Rachel, as we beat a controlled retreat from my Mum's front door towards the car at the bottom of the long array of steps, having just ditched the kids, on the promise that we will return at some point later today after the football, baring fish and chips. Fiddling with something in the boot, Rachel is confused at what's causing the hold up. We are sans children, which is an all too rare occurrence these days, so she asks me quite plainly, “what are we still doing here?”.<br />
<br />
I imagine the fans of Stockport County FC (SC), regularly ask themselves a similar question, ‘what are we still doing in the National League?’. Nine years since relegation from the Football League, how have they still have not managed to ascend back to the promised land is anyone's guess. Until our visit to their home Edgeley Park in early January it was looking like a possibility, but since they've not won a game, not scored in the league, and have crashed out of the FA Trophy to a team from the step below them, their form has been of some concern.<br />
<br />
We said after watching them take a bit of a hiding from Boreham Wood, that we would give them some space, as they never seem to do all that well when we are there, but the fact they are playing thirty minutes from our house today, it’s too hard to resist.<br />
<br />
There are a couple of welcome differences from the last time Rachel and I went to a match. It’s sunny for one, my right ear is being toasted as we head east, for the first time in a while catching a glimpse of Spurs’s new ground which looks majestic. Secondly, and most importantly Rachel is not hung over, and I mean puking when you get up, trouble speaking, need to eat four Greggs sausage rolls before you can even consider moving, kind of hangover. Which is nice.<br />
<br />
The sky is clear pale blue, there is not a cloud to be seen, one could not ask for a better day for a match, and although the kids are not here, we still spend most of our time in the car together talking about them. It seems like there is one McDonalds drive through after another as we get closer to the ground and a learner driver and their panicking passenger prove to be of some entertainment, before we eventually see a small brown sign high up on a lamppost, pointing us towards Dagenham & Redbridge FC (DR).<br />
<br />
I’m frankly shocked at how close to the ground we can park, non league football showing once again its many benefits, but having parked, and after Rachel's impromptu sojourn had concluded, where she crossed the road, then realised she was on the wrong side, so crossed back, it became clear why such a prime spot was free. Adjacent to my car was a front garden full of dogs and not lively pooches enjoying the late winter sun, but a strange selection of furry statues, one of whom had “died” according to Rachel, pointing to it lying on its side.<br />
<br />
A short street that's lined with terraced houses, one of which someone is having a bit of a barney in with the windows open that everyone can hear, leads us to the ground that shares its name, Victoria Road. This is made abundantly clear by the red and white henge that towers over the way in, welcoming you and despite the very loud and sweary domestic and the prospect of some football, Rachel is still somewhat perplexed by the sight of all those dogs, “I've never seen anything like that”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4qboWCcYQ-hX7-CzwzVAaXhZuWf2OkDYsCfjo9qjosarWukJ2N8CNNJ-819CoTI3rfDPaGOh47EecG87t0EaEPXKrLAQjQKcoqzxtFfWG0wxyVKzCWyHzXmcp_jxxR7XfpPY_fbv9qQ/s1600/IMG_20200208_141642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4qboWCcYQ-hX7-CzwzVAaXhZuWf2OkDYsCfjo9qjosarWukJ2N8CNNJ-819CoTI3rfDPaGOh47EecG87t0EaEPXKrLAQjQKcoqzxtFfWG0wxyVKzCWyHzXmcp_jxxR7XfpPY_fbv9qQ/s400/IMG_20200208_141642.jpg" width="400" /></a>Under the monolith and past a silver haired lady in the car park, her timing is impeccable, “50/50?” she calls out, “it's like she knew” laughs Rachel. Opposite her a couple are selling programmes and golden goal tickets, and within less than a minute of arriving, as Rachel put it I’ve “all the bases covered”. The man who has joined the silver haired lady flogging the 50/50’s, is slightly less cheery than his silver haired counterpart, “£1 a ticket or I'll beat you up” he says to some potential customers.<br />
<br />
Victoria Road offers up not one, but two opportunities for a bit of pre match shopping. The supporters club office is essentially a bric-a-brac shop full of tatty cardboard boxes full of programmes, a rail of fading t-shirts hanging from thin wire hangers, and that’s only outside. Inside among the framed shirts and pennants, there is plenty more stuff, tons of it, however its chaotic organisation means it’s not exactly clear what's what and there is barely enough room to swing a cat.<br />
<br />
If it’s a more sterile and organised shopping experience you want, the official club shop is not far away, where the latest training gear or branded hoody is available, however much to Rachel's disappointment there are no “keyrings”. Nothing to add to her jailer sized bunch of lock openers, that she has picked up from everywhere from the RAF Museum to the Ampelmann shop, but despite this and although she has minimal retail experience, she bizarrely tells me she “likes” their “stock”.<br />
<br />
Much like at every football ground, the away fans entrance is the least well kept and it's no different here. It’s also nine times out of ten the place with the highest concentration of stewards, and there are no end of men and women in long hi vis coats waiting to look at you suspiciously, before rummaging through your bag.<br />
<br />
Led Zeppelin greet us on the other side of the red turnstiles, the red turnstiles which just took £21 each off us each. “Get it now, so I don't have to get it at half time” says Rachel, making an immediate beeline for the back of the long queue to the burger bar. Our time waiting allows her to fully peruse the significant menu, “might get a pie, didn't get a pie last time”, offering me all sorts of options that I decline. “You can get a Pot Noodle”, “sure you don't what a jumbo hot dog?” and by the time we’ve made it to the front, having listened to one SC supporters attempt at a southern accent, roundly laughed at by the woman serving, the pies have “run out” we are told.<br />
<br />
The two interlocking yellow polystyrene trays can barely contain Rachel's food, as she staggers over toward the condiments table, having left my coffee to fend for itself on the counter. No pie, meant she went for a “pasty” and although it's not a long walk to our eventual seats, it's slow going. The DR mascot, a large dog in a home shirt, marches past us, clutching a red bucket, as Rachel devotes all her concentration into not spilling any of her mountain of chips.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmMJT0ZLFBmj3_T-sG7xs_x1dmZSO5Hs1b1CTLz55zpLVjfnyflN12EOtCLbukr4DSSdvjYsDAmqRpa1-UIMhehtcErs79_rHK__9EVZAgf7XS1plX2r7E1q9EGUQJIqA6Xpqm33VD0g/s1600/IMG_20200208_142157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmMJT0ZLFBmj3_T-sG7xs_x1dmZSO5Hs1b1CTLz55zpLVjfnyflN12EOtCLbukr4DSSdvjYsDAmqRpa1-UIMhehtcErs79_rHK__9EVZAgf7XS1plX2r7E1q9EGUQJIqA6Xpqm33VD0g/s400/IMG_20200208_142157.jpg" width="300" /></a>As I have come to expect from the SC fans, they have done their best to transform their little plot of East London into a home from home, plenty of their flags adorn the red seat filled stand at one end of a ground, that for all you Fifa connoisseurs out there is basically Court Lane. The Who are now blasting over the speakers, and the first wave of “I O County, County I O” rivals Roger Daltry.<br />
<br />
The announcement that we are all to welcome the “guard of honour” by the man on the PA, which is a troop of flag carrying children doing a lap of the pitch, is given short shift by one SC fan “who?”, when it's added that they are all players from a local team the “Romford Fliers”, and although Rachel is having no issue whatsoever dealing with an Eddie Hall amount of food, she does admit the pasty is a bit “flaccid”.<br />
<br />
Almost flattening half the guard of honour, one SC player warming up does well to stop himself just in time before we have a major disaster on our hands. When the players do depart up the red vinyl tunnel that extends curiously from the middle of the away end, this will prove to be significant come full time, they are serenaded, “we're the famous Stockport county and we’re from Edgeley”.<br />
<br />
Three quarters of the ground are bathed in brilliant sunshine, except the away end which is shrouded in frigid shade, this though does little to deter the SC fans coming over all Lion King with a song to the tune of In the Jungle the Mighty Jungle, “win away, win away”. Moving between the two dense lines of kids and their flags, one tries to add a bit of showmanship to his waving duties, seemingly keen to try a bit of baton twirling, but not quite having the confidence to toss it up in the air, the returning players emerge and head out across the pitch.<br />
<br />
Even more flags go up, following the teams DR’s mascot and SC’s manager Jim Gannon, who then share a strange moment of synergy, when both at the same time raise their hands above their heads to applaud their respective supporters, within just a couple of feet of each other.<br />
<br />
Not that the away supporters were thin on the ground before, but edging ever closer towards kick off, the bar in the bowels of the stand Rachel and are are sitting on the front row of, empties, flooding out through the double doors to our right, to find somewhere to sit. The extra fans adding a bit more volume to the chant coming from the standing last five or six rows behind us, “can you hear the Daggers sing?”.<br />
<br />
More jabs are aimed at the locals, “you’re support is fucking shit” however to be fair to them, many can’ actually see whats going on, one benefit of the shade is being able to see the game, 90% of the home fans have to raise their hands to shield their eyes from the blinding sun. The SC supporters deducing that the lack of singing for their own team, must mean then they are “here for the county”.<br />
<br />
“First one gone” declares the man behind me, the game only minutes old and the first hoofed clearance sees the ball clear the main stand and off into the neighbouring car park and much like the Dr’s famous Tardis, more and more people continue to emerge from the tea bar, some in various states of inebriation, Rachel asking “where have they all be hiding?”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOj5VfeGfo9Z1bxUze3dqe26H8wnYzwkcn-nuWg25i3xF6CDOxU8Y6mkMoDUzj0UPamlD4v2TgZ2KmBtbJ-jSTfW9XirAA2W8eilSSG9wUthqWl3_WOhHgOILrxdBspKcOfdXqO9-mlg/s1600/P1060948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOj5VfeGfo9Z1bxUze3dqe26H8wnYzwkcn-nuWg25i3xF6CDOxU8Y6mkMoDUzj0UPamlD4v2TgZ2KmBtbJ-jSTfW9XirAA2W8eilSSG9wUthqWl3_WOhHgOILrxdBspKcOfdXqO9-mlg/s400/P1060948.JPG" width="400" /></a>The singing is non stop and the opening exchanges are far more like that of a basketball match, than a<br />
football one. Up and down, up and down the players go, I want to say it's because of intense quality attacking football, but it's more a case of each team being unable to hold onto the ball for more than a few touches.<br />
<br />
Rachel lets out a satisfied groan as she finally finished her food, and somehow more and more people appear, although admittedly the flow is slowing somewhat. The all colour dot matrix scoreboard at the far end of the pitch reads 0 - 0 and the songs keep on coming, “I O County, County I O”. None of the back rows have sat down, and I’m sure none of them will, it is from there the songs emanate, “hello, hello we are the County boys”. One person who is sitting, although she doesn't look very comfortable, is the woman sharing her foot space with a large suitcase, almost having to sit side saddle on account of the massive piece of luggage.<br />
<br />
Stuck in a loop of “blue army” the SC fans take direction for a moment from a large man at the front, “look at the capo” points out Rachel, at the man conducting the crowd, she does though make a good point adding, “in Italy though they don't have a burger in their hand”.<br />
<br />
Twelve minutes gone and a low DR shot strikes the SC keeper and spins out wide and having thought that SC had a good chance here today after reading that they are undefeated at Victoria Road, it's pointed out to me by someone that they have only ever played here “once”. The early signs are though that SC might not be able to keep up this illustrious record. Having advanced close to the DR box, their attack breaks down and the home team is off. Jim Gannon is appalled, and scolds the players from his technical area.<br />
<br />
I’m starting to wish the sun was in our eyes, because the less than convincing start by SC, is making for difficult viewing. “Same issue again” bemoans Rachel, SC are unable to retain possession. A “good corner” as she puts it, almost punishing them after giving the ball away. Zipping right through their box and right out the other side. Rachel's biggest peeve is that her hometown team is coming off second best in all the aerial duels. “If you're losing the ball in the air to Dagenham it's a worry, they are midgets”.<br />
<br />
As the sun slowly starts to set, the shadows it casts gets longer and longer and one of the group behind us are not very hopeful we'll see any goals, “got 0 - 0 written all over it”, and just as the final syllable leaves his lips, SC are in, but are thwarted by the courageous DR keeper, whose Herculian save, stops an almost certain goal, but also sees him injured in the process.<br />
<br />
A a complaint about flags blocking advertising, forces some SC fans to move them, distracting me from the match for a moment, but it's right back on it, when one of DR’s “midgets”, a very diminutive forward glides away from the SC defence thanks to a great first touch, but his shot isn’t on par with his ball skills and he shoots, well, well over.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOMKuGhuLNkd_dm1W85C3KjumhhIUYxPYfMYGXxUidStLBzD1_RbdEpJjHhoM5_4xUikQ2WQY8iK23nhUfav9zN_webE3iubYvo-SG6LvM8udcqxHTeAE6qDOqwV9XXlY85ROVcBkT30/s1600/IMG_20200208_143038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOMKuGhuLNkd_dm1W85C3KjumhhIUYxPYfMYGXxUidStLBzD1_RbdEpJjHhoM5_4xUikQ2WQY8iK23nhUfav9zN_webE3iubYvo-SG6LvM8udcqxHTeAE6qDOqwV9XXlY85ROVcBkT30/s400/IMG_20200208_143038.jpg" width="300" /></a>I’m not sure what they mean when they sing “we’re Stockport County we’ll do what we want'' maybe it's putting out the recycling a day early, but the fans are singing it anyway. Just shy of the half hour mark and SC are in on goal, but the DR keeper is equal to it again, and in saving it he awards SC a corner, the SC supporters excited at the prospect, let out a booming “I O County” but the corner is poor and Rachel rightly points out, “it's easy to forget a football match is on” with all the goings on in the stands. The fracas with the flags, the singing, trying to work out why the woman has brought a suitcase, the football can sometimes become a bit secondary.<br />
<br />
If it hadn't been for the off field antics, then the last thirty minutes would have been just about the most unforgettable of my life. The game has been dire, it’s only the SC fans stopping me from slipping off into slumber, the latest jibe at the home fans, penetrating my coma, “football in a library” and not that either team has looked remotely dangerous, SC are at least having some joy down their left. “He’s done that twice now” comments one man, as the winger sails past his marker. “Skin him” demands one fan, and the player does it with ease, but the final cross is poor.<br />
<br />
“Everyone is off for their pie, you see I was clever” bristles Rachel, as the crowd starts to thin in search I think is more likely beer, than limp regional baked goods, but I could be wrong, and the group behind us are proving to be good for a quote, summing up the half pretty perfectly, “a game of very few chances”. When people are getting excited about disappearing footballs, and I include Rachel in that group, “oh my god that’s three” she says, like they are going to run out, as another is hammered into oblivion, it's a poor reflection of the state of the match.<br />
<br />
Those in search of refreshments miss the final action of the half, DR’s keeper is back at it again, this time with face, stopping another nailed on SC effort and keeping his side in the match. “Two added minutes of added time” advises the PA, with a powerful air of the Wizard of Oz about him. SC star Danny Lloyd gets a song as he approaches to defend a late DR corner, giving the fans an understated clap and a wry smile. Much may I add, to Rachel's absolute disgust, “you wanna concentrate on the game”.<br />
<br />
The exodus from the stand is almost complete come the half time whistle. Gimme Shelter strikes up, but not before the Wonderful Wizard of Oz instructs us to “stick around” for the 50/50 and a “special presentation of a new signing”. He however doesn't leave me hanging on for long, fading out Mick and the boys, to of course inform me I haven't won. He thanks me and every other mug for “taking part”, but it doesn't really soften the blow.<br />
<br />
It turns out the “special presentation” is a tractor, “he won't score many goals” jokes the announcer, who for some reason has decided to assign a gender to the red ride along mower. The accompanying joyful tractor song Rachel thinks is “cute”, a programme seller is doing the rounds with a copy of Dagger held above his head, which is a bit of a throwback and I’m hugely envious of the group with a big green thermos, and box of biscuits. “Help yourself” offers one man to another, I wish we were that organized. The sign pointing to the tea bar nearby suggests I might be able to bag myself a Kit Kat in there if I wanted, but what is beyond the double doors is far from a tea bar. More like a dingy speakeasy, where anything but tea and biscuits are being served, and the SC fans are in fine voice, tossing around an unfurling roll of loo paper.<br />
<br />
The stand is half full as the referee raises his whistle to his lips, and gets the second half underway. A<br />
man below us becomes my own personal football hero, when I spot him inserting his programme in a zip lock freezer bag and at the moment the children at the front of the family stand, are louder than the entirety of the rest of the home support, “Dagenham”. Inside the ‘tea bar’ the fans are still singing and with the sun fading, the floodlights have come on.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALp21D4Tgw2G0ob1x6QHhiZP1uYXkbvct7R6O4ZJEuRFYijf2ciLNlFi0KfeLTrjWuIFSgD8ojHzNbIC0WRTOncfM0Yy84ullXfNpIokxfBjmFl1IrZVB_Invi0LAaz_PUdP5SIlGv_Y/s1600/P1060962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALp21D4Tgw2G0ob1x6QHhiZP1uYXkbvct7R6O4ZJEuRFYijf2ciLNlFi0KfeLTrjWuIFSgD8ojHzNbIC0WRTOncfM0Yy84ullXfNpIokxfBjmFl1IrZVB_Invi0LAaz_PUdP5SIlGv_Y/s400/P1060962.JPG" width="400" /></a>Dribs and drabs are slowly slipping back from the bar and the DR kids are putting the grownups to shame. “Fill the fucking box” shouts one SC fan, with a player venturing down the wing, but with few options to aim at. Rachel has now come to the conclusion if she was “a scout”, this train of thought inspired by having bumped into an acquaintance pre kick off, a once non league manager and now scout for a League Two side, her notes would simply read “these lot are shite”. Her sweeping summary of all twenty two players is only a mild improvement on the Spinal Tap album review, “shit sandwich”.<br />
<br />
The fact that it's cold only makes what has continued to be a rather drab game, seem even worse. SC’s fans almost back to full strength fire off a shot at their opposite number and the lack of noise, “football in a library”. When we are treated to three quickfire chances in succession, two for the home side and one for the visitor, it feels just that, a treat. First its SC when the DR keeper is slow to claim the ball, bobbing around in the box, it just won't fall right and they don't capitalize. Minutes later and DR are in, but SC’s keeper is far more decisive, and he’s able to smother the ball.<br />
<br />
It’s taken almost twenty minutes for what seems to be the last of the bar dwellers to return, their sing song, and pints far more appealing than the prospect of more sub standard football and the falsetto “win away, wooooooooooo” is commendable by one of the aforementioned late comers.<br />
<br />
If you put a gun to my head, I’d say that DR are edging it, they do just seem just that bit more composed. Winning the ball back in midfield, and taking an early shot, the ball ends up in the garden behind, is though the antithesis of composure and as Rachel points out its “number 4 ball gone”. Summarising that your position in the pyramid, directly relates to how many footballs you go through in a season, “the lower down the leagues you go, the more balls you loose”.<br />
<br />
A home corner sets away heart racing, but it's just about scrambled away. DR are in again, not long after, but the shot is tame and easy for the keeper to claim. All of DR’s chances now stemming exclusively from SC being so unbelievably bad. The moon is now visible, a tiny sliver hanging above the pitch and after the latest ball to exit the ground is noted, “number five” mumbles Rachel, I’m starting to lose the will to live.<br />
<br />
With a couple of the stairs next to us proving to be a bit tricky for some people to negotiate, one person after another stumbling up them, I find myself cruelly waiting for their next victim, rather than subject myself to more the dross in front of me. My favorite line, from my favourite SC song “is the scarf my father wore”, goes some way to rouse me, but the SC performance is getting worse. “Get hold of it!” pleads one fan. Each time an SC player is in possession it's like they are playing a game of hot potato. The chorus of groans, sighs and tuts is deafening. “Come on” pleads another, one reckons if SC do somehow manage to bag a goal, as unlikely as it seems, it's worthy of vaulting the railing, “we're on the pitch if County score”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AoIMRjizXXU9fvY0mkVy3IRdDRx5loJQ6IiI3FqhiFV2v_grP9s_rebvX-sFurdZRJX4LhRajOPVbIZzGTZ-bBKoCvAvQh2YaoiKcGX0DHdzzQXIkAytCtzemLMSwrfnJxrrpdk93_s/s1600/IMG_20200208_144101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AoIMRjizXXU9fvY0mkVy3IRdDRx5loJQ6IiI3FqhiFV2v_grP9s_rebvX-sFurdZRJX4LhRajOPVbIZzGTZ-bBKoCvAvQh2YaoiKcGX0DHdzzQXIkAytCtzemLMSwrfnJxrrpdk93_s/s400/IMG_20200208_144101.jpg" width="400" /></a>“They're going to have to change that song” sneers Rachel after the latest rendition of the “win away”. Into the last quarter of an hour and an SC corner is so poor, it allows DR a free run at their goal, luckily for them the shot is right at the keeper.<br />
<br />
All elements of the SC performance are riling up the fans, “what's this long ball, get it on the floor”. When a home player goes down injured, they take their frustrations out on him, “let him die, let him die” they sing. The break for the player to be seen to, allows the teams to congregate around their respective benches for some last instructions and for the SC fans to remind along with their local National League rivals, they are on course for relegation, “you're going down with the Chorley”.<br />
<br />
The length of time to attend to the injured player, is not to one fans approval, “get him off the fucking pitch shit house” and with the sun almost gone behind the tress in the distance, the temperature has plummeted, and Rachel is now tapping her shoes to the rhythm of the cold feet dance. Through almost chattering teeth she tells me, “I think next time we should bring a thermos”.<br />
<br />
Until now the away fans had little more than their own devotion or the quiet home fans to sing about, “what's it like to see a crowd”. For the final ten minutes, all under the watchful eye of a couple of the Metropolitan Police's finest, it gets as close to pandemonium in the away end as you can get, without it being classified a riot, and the army being drafted in. The spark for my most enjoyable and depressing ten minutes of the season so far, all starts with a low stinging Danny Lloyd drive, which is followed by a song all in the main man's honour.<br />
<br />
Despite the upturn in SC’s performance, Rachel is far from happy with their propensity for a hoof, “can’t they play it on the ground?”. When Danny Lloyd, the focal point for all of SC’s new found endeavour, is scythed down, and no foul is awarded, the response from the SC fans is a furious one.<br />
<br />
“Jim Gannon's blue and white army” is now stuck on repeat, it’s SC, a curled in cross is headed over and for the first time today, it feels like SC are on the ascendancy. DR are placid, and SC still feel a bit toothless, if anything is going to happen it will be down to Lloyd. The DR kids are quite commendably still at it and the SC supporters are begging for everything their team has left, “get at him”, “chase him down”.<br />
<br />
DR flash a shot across the SC goal, which gets a “ohhhh” from all quarters. A loose SC pass offers them up another chance, but the shot is over. Rachel in one of her many moments of punditry today makes the point, “if Dagenham were a better team”. One SC fan is close to having seen enough after another “wasteful” long ball, taking his displeasure out on the plastic seats, “horrible” moans one fan,<br />
as SC revert to type with aimless punt up front.<br />
<br />
Danny Lloyd is a man on a mission, and almost single handedly provides SC with the goal they want, the goal they need. Running to the byline he bustles his way to the edge of the six yard box, where he stabs the ball towards the penalty spot, ricocheting and bouncing all over the place, it falls kindly to one SC player whose half volley looks destined for the top right hand corner only of a combination of the DR keepers hand and a man on the line, is it kept out. Having picked himself up, the DR keeper gives his defender the bear hug of all bear hugs, lifting him up off the ground.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYXwFp43o1lfK7JzNCqCmiGnt-6XNb1-dV-2w1pLCSDwzVsZj92OeI09CpAuU9UtpW-ZsPjf3raRtxPk-uWfgf_7oZNDpS0l_MRPCxsQtP7AtwFf0u0yBxV4m8ga5SEooDfKhr1HVMW8/s1600/IMG_20200208_145708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1346" data-original-width="1600" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYXwFp43o1lfK7JzNCqCmiGnt-6XNb1-dV-2w1pLCSDwzVsZj92OeI09CpAuU9UtpW-ZsPjf3raRtxPk-uWfgf_7oZNDpS0l_MRPCxsQtP7AtwFf0u0yBxV4m8ga5SEooDfKhr1HVMW8/s400/IMG_20200208_145708.jpg" width="400" /></a>Other than goals scored by Spurs, very rarely, if at all, do I get caught up in the emotion of goals scored by other teams. I can appreciate a fine move or the significance of one, but never does it affect me like ones scored by one's own team. That though goes right out the window on eighty nine minutes, when in the scruffiest of fashion SC takes the lead. The back post tap needing the help of the post before hitting the back of the net, sending me, Rachel and all the SC supporters around us into raptures.<br />
<br />
The fans rush from their seats towards the pitch, none vault the high metal railing, where they are met by the celebrating faces of the players, pumping their fists and embracing, only inches away. Rachel and I are both out of our seats, I bring to an end a, ‘weyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy get in’, that seemed to go on forever.<br />
<br />
It’s not only the back few rows on their feet now, the whole stand is bouncing, the singing reaching an all new decibel level, “County”. Rolling across the scoreboard that has taken so long to change since three o'clock, is the amount of time SC have to hang on, four minutes.<br />
<br />
“Ally, ally O, SCFC” chant the fans, as quite astonishingly SC go in search of a second, no sitting back on their laurels, no attempt at game management, they have the bit between their teeth. The DR keeper once more on hand to frustrate the SC players, scoping the shot off his line, after a storming run down the right and the cut back ball into the box.<br />
<br />
Jostling with the stewards, the ever growing group pressed up against the railings, wait out the final minutes, “I’ve not seen the board” says one man, unsure of how long is left, how long SC have to hold on, it soon transpired, it was just that little bit too long.<br />
<br />
I have to admit I don't see the DR goal, it's only when the wave of cheers from the DR fans hits me and the sight of the prancing DR keeper, stood in the back of his goal goading the baying SC fans, do I realise they have thrown it away. “Can you not use that language please” repeats one steward to a man, who is only able to use expletives in response to his teams fragility. “Cheer all you want you wankers, you're still getting relegated” screams one man in attempt to feel just a tad better about his team falling at the final hurdle, missing out on a vital two points as the scoreboard goes into overdrive, goal, goal, goal, goal, is plastered all over it in red.<br />
<br />
It's far from the result anyone wanted, but it's no excuse for the silly bollocks that came after the final whistle. I want to blame it on the fact that the tunnel I mentioned at the beginning dissects the away fans exit and the actions of the DR keeper really got some people very agitated. So sadly as the players leave there is some kind of melee, police rush one way, fans the other, and the hapless stewards just stand there looking hapless. One man when asked to "move along" points out he would happily leave if only the ground had been "properly designed"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN87rAdCeO6Bwz7YfTMmYYy6Zibxy3m2zuc8OVx98sMul1_Wnn2cNI_1YAiuDenMy3UfB3jz7a5kZrwBMvTZHnRAUSN1UFmj3f7CyHXaO0eBgzuxsCDEuTamy5XVPNLaPo-hyhq4VbsI/s1600/P1060987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN87rAdCeO6Bwz7YfTMmYYy6Zibxy3m2zuc8OVx98sMul1_Wnn2cNI_1YAiuDenMy3UfB3jz7a5kZrwBMvTZHnRAUSN1UFmj3f7CyHXaO0eBgzuxsCDEuTamy5XVPNLaPo-hyhq4VbsI/s400/P1060987.JPG" width="400" /></a>I'm far from blinkered from the reality of some of the SC fans behaviour, a minority leaving an unsavory taste in the mouth. However as ever I'd rather focus on the positives, on the amazing travelling support, the welcome from so many of them Rachel and I received, and the man with the sandwich bag, oh I could have hugged him.<br />
<br />
I've said before how much I like SC, I've said how much I think their fans are fantastic, It's probably worth adding how much I like Victoria Road too and I never knew I had it in me, that visceral reaction to another team scoring, like I had today, it almost felt like cheating. All I can think about though as we leave, once we finally left after all the nonsense had simmered down, was what one SC <br />
fan looking me dead in the eye, in the moments after the goal said to me, "the curse has been lifted", after I suggested before there was some voodoo a foot, whenever Rachel and I watch SC play.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure It's totally gone, I'm not sure why he felt it necessary to say anything in the first place, have you never heard of a jinx, but at least its getting better.<br />
<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-25894300814743294322020-02-23T12:08:00.003-08:002020-02-24T15:00:22.847-08:00Bloody Flags - Cambridge City FC Vs Soham Town Rangers FC, Isthmian League North, Bridge Road (05/02/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSzBxB2RnAy-XTLOPM4nK8KowbmKu2lUI2t6YHwhvCfD88UvFieQ4CjOnZmI89wg9LM9sNjkB2QIC-rp4drU8S45nIgiAcAPyhMu1zCVJ2JGUcH0QTPBdXt20IujEbie7MEMu-QV8DIw/s1600/P1070084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSzBxB2RnAy-XTLOPM4nK8KowbmKu2lUI2t6YHwhvCfD88UvFieQ4CjOnZmI89wg9LM9sNjkB2QIC-rp4drU8S45nIgiAcAPyhMu1zCVJ2JGUcH0QTPBdXt20IujEbie7MEMu-QV8DIw/s320/P1070084.JPG" width="224"></a>Necking a handful of Ibuprofen, I bid my daughter farewell, but it's tinged with a modicum of disdain. It is after all because of her and all her snotty little friends at playgroup that I feel like shit. Her kinds propensity for bad hygiene, sneezing and drooling on everything, means it's only a matter of time before I’m struck down with whatever lurgy she has brought home, along with her latest collage of painted pasta shells and glitter.<br>
<br>
I’m sans Tom once again, a sentence I seem to be writing more than not this season. Instead I have Trevor Francis for company, the “million pound man” proves to be a worthy replacement, his self-deprecating tales of making his debut for Forest in the European Cup final, where he scored the winner, all said in his slightly monotone West Country way is very endearing and helps the time pass satisfactorily.<br>
<br>
We're both early, both because we made the mistake of believing Google Maps tells the truth, so it means we have some time to kill, and I find Tom hunkered down his car, with the heater blaring. There is some time of course for a brief bit of Fifa chat, Tom is back at it after a short hiatus, but more interestingly he tells me after effectively retiring, he is playing Pokemon Go again, yeah I didn't think anyone played it anymore either. Like many millions of people I was too caught up in its initial fanfare, but had stopped long ago. Much to his delight tonight's ground, Bridge Road, is a Pokestop. So while I talk at him, getting very little back in reply, he is catching a whole host of Snorlax and Rattata.<br>
<br>
Although Bridge Road is only the temporary home of Cambridge City FC (CFC), uniquely, and certainly not something we have seen before in similar circumstances, they have their very own turnstile, with their very own sign above it, the landlord's entrance a little further along. Beyond it a black roofed gazebo, the kind of which you crack out for a family BBQ, but on account of it being black it would be a family of goths, the semi permanent garden furniture, is in all intents and purposes a pop up shop. A table underneath it is laden with a fine array of branded gear from hats to pins and near by an immaculately turned out lady is selling 50/50 tickets, using a chair from a function room to prop up her kitty.<br>
<br>
“Pitch is a bit dog eared” sneers Tom, the playing surface not up to his high standards. On it one team's physio is taking a player through their paces, before by the looks of it is determined if he is fit enough or not to play. Tom then embraces his inner Titmarsh when he notices pitchside some considerable mounds of sand and mud, “mole issue?”, but leaves his final cutting comment for the state of the sorry looking six yard box, “ohhh that is an awful goal mouth”.<br>
<br>
The fact that in his eyes the pitch is in a far from ideal condition, is somewhat of a “surprise” to him, “for such a nice place”. Bridge Road is the home of a team who not so long ago plied their trade a bit further up the pyramid and you can tell. It’s got a bit more to it than your average ground at this level, like stands on all sides, more seats than not, and at a push, and maybe with a slightly squinted eye, it could maybe pass off as a League two ground, just.<br>
<br>
Football fans commitment to the cause, never ceases to amaze me, and in Chris CFC’s media man, who has traveled all the way from Lincoln to Cambridgeshire tonight, is a gleaming example of this. His side's “results” this season so far “do not reflect the performances” and he ensures me that’s with an impartial hat on “I'm not just saying that”. He expects a “couple of hundred” here tonight, considering its a bit of a local derby, and he becomes the second person to flag the food as being a bit special here, someone already telling me the burger is an 11 out of 10, he tells me the “fish fingers are ace”.<br>
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George Ezra is not what first comes to mind when getting in the right headspace for a sporting event, but the players now warming up I’m sure don't have much of a say about such matters, so like me will just have to endure him and one is never quite sure with a ground share what kind of a turnout there will be, however the steady flow of arriving supporters, who have not baulked at the sound of Mr Ezra and run away, means quite a crowd is forming. Life is slowly being breathed into the place and I should never have doubted Chris, because if it keeps up like this, it will be bang on this predicted attendance. Which if I'm honest I never imagined would be the case, I had pictured Tom and I and our fish fingers rattling around this big old place.<br>
<br>
The man on the PA is a professional to the hilt, reading what I’m sure are copious notes from his clipboard, he’s plugging all the options available to the arriving fans, a programme of course or the 50/50. The duo in high vis coats by the turnstiles are doing a roaring trade.<br>
<br>
It’s from the centre of the older of the two main stands, that sit side by side, the newer of the two with a blue Meccano roof, that the rolling tunnel is extended from, deep wide and long, all surrounded by quite a formidable looking cage, right out of a Copa 90 video about South American football. The Scissor Sisters strike up as the referee patrols it’s mouth, already looking cold, he bounces the match ball to keep himself busy, while the players shelter inside the cavernous depths, who I can just about hear though the red vinyl, over the sound of the New York disco revival.<br>
<br>
There is a healthy mix of the black and white of CFC and the green and white of their opponents Soham Town Rangers FC (STR), milling about behind the dugouts waiting for the teams and then the toss. Which side each person is rooting for, is made clear by the colour of the their bobble hat and I must admit I’m starting to fade a little, my malady is starting to take hold, but the infectious voice over the PA rouses me a little, “time now to welcome our two teams” he says, while people continue to arrive. The man with the mic showing the first bit of personality, with his final run through of the CFC starting eleven “and for Cambridge City”.<br>
<br>
The burger bar is rammed and the food is flying out, as are the teas, one of which someone has rested on top of one of the fishtank dugouts, the back of the players heads lined up next to one another like a mixture of a low budget Big Brother and a Jermaine Jenas quote. “Enjoy the game” says the voice and once again he lets us know it's not all business with him. Two bits of revelry in two minutes, maybe someone spiked his tea.<br>
<br>
“Bloody flags” angrily says one lady, fastening one to the back of the stand behind one goal, she like me having missed what Tom later tells is a goal of the season contender scored by the home side after about a minute. The ball flying in over my right shoulder. The early goal has the home fans now hurriedly hanging their flags encouraged, “should be a good one” they tell me, “no love lost” between the two sides they explain.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpon8DuWKbf_ZQg7rBWJagPoM9MY-LLOK-ErIolJcGf4-7iXqQTayzZahpLos6G_FGywgEWggiCU8W-GcZCZge_vI0prHobwL9TKhKly5OD1Bbvz6vA0fan1kGj7U7mTdIbo0L4RwQIpM/s1600/IMG_20200205_184216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpon8DuWKbf_ZQg7rBWJagPoM9MY-LLOK-ErIolJcGf4-7iXqQTayzZahpLos6G_FGywgEWggiCU8W-GcZCZge_vI0prHobwL9TKhKly5OD1Bbvz6vA0fan1kGj7U7mTdIbo0L4RwQIpM/s400/IMG_20200205_184216.jpg" width="375"></a>It’s probably worth mentioning now, that today's vantage point to watch the match from, is a little bit of a departure from the norm, where we are not trying to get comfortable lent up against the railing around the pitch or are sat in a brittle faded plastic chair in a stand. With a big grand ground like this, come certain luxuries, and twenty feet up in the air, Bridge Road has a TV tower or gantry I guess you might call it, worthy of Match Of The Day.<br>
<br>
By the time I’ve climbed the scaffolding and plank stairs, squeezed through the tiny swing gate, to find Tom has drunk my tea, more home flags have gone up, and I've just about caught my breath when a back post header sails inches over the STR bar.<br>
<br>
Having had a chance to settle, Tom has been chilling at top of what we’ve dubbed the ‘Tower of Power’ for a while, while I’m still panting, so struggle to reply, Tom shares with me his thoughts on STR’s orange top and socks, paired with white shorts, “I like the Holland kit” and CFC are showing none of the signs of their poor run, in fact it's quite the opposite, they are positively strutting. At the quarter of an hour mark, they almost scored a “replica” of their first says Tom, but this time the curling shot is right at the keeper.<br>
<br>
Unfortunately the gloss is somewhat taken off the fine home sides start, because moments later it’s all square, thanks to “big chunky number 20” as Tom has christened him, who trundled up from the back for a STR free kick and with a delicate backwards flick of his head, draws the game level. Much to the delight of the STR fans behind the goal who let out a hearty “wehhhhhhhhh”.<br>
<br>
The lack of love loss mentioned by the CFC supporter soon becomes apparent. Not long after the equalizer a frustrated crunching home tackle has the STR players up in arms, “fucking hell ref”, but the man in charge is happy for things to continue, signaling play on with his arms out in front of him, STR almost benefit from his relaxed approach. In on goal, the debut CFC keeper, after the regular stopper was sent off last match, rushes off his goal to scoop up the dangerous ball.<br>
<br>
“Big chunky” then almost gives STR the lead, getting his loaf on the end of another free kick, his large head proving to be quite a formidable weapon, all while the robust challenges are coming thick<br>
and fast. “How is that not even a booking?” wonders Tom, the CFC forward scything down an STR defender, a real strikers tackle, only results in a talking to. “Feisty” says Tom, but not like Yoda, which is very disappointing.<br>
<br>
Home confidence has notably dipped and another unpunished cruncher leaves the STR number 8 limping. An almighty clearance from one STR defender is in danger of “hitting my car” worries Tom, a booming hoof is sent into the stratosphere and if CFC are going to prosper at all, it will be with the ball at the feet of their number 9. Their sole outlet, prowling on the right wing, fast and unchecked, to make a second Star Wars reference in as many paragraphs, he is their ‘only hope’.<br>
<br>
“Ref, I got the ball” is the inevitable line that follows every bad challenge, that and motioning the shape of the ball with your hands, but that's absent on this occasion. There is a scream a terrible straight out of Saw scream from the halted STR player, “Ginola” the terrier like home number 4 responsible, who because of his quite luscious mane Tom thinks resembles the Frenchman, is destined to get himself “sent off”.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQjmJyKLHFBvgBcs2bES8WObH1uqR1D0B-csuQKi7bmYknFPz0gftLIEVSy7Iz39Ynx7jZ9krlImpHor97oSPUmKjVfZPKzNGeGJqseb-JIVFdA9rfi5z6ACCCm39HiDkcsLsjMkGR6k/s1600/11-DSC_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQjmJyKLHFBvgBcs2bES8WObH1uqR1D0B-csuQKi7bmYknFPz0gftLIEVSy7Iz39Ynx7jZ9krlImpHor97oSPUmKjVfZPKzNGeGJqseb-JIVFdA9rfi5z6ACCCm39HiDkcsLsjMkGR6k/s400/11-DSC_0102.JPG" width="400"></a>STR are awarded a free kick, which sees number 20 up from the back, and the away fans assist the referee with the placement of the CFC wall, and how many feet it should be from the ball, “it's not seven, it's supposed to be ten ref”. The fouls are mounting, and the game is getting a little stop start. The latest set piece is CFC’s, however it just travels through the STR box and out the other side.<br>
<br>
Tom, a spectacle wearer himself, is impressed by the home side’s sponsor “Specsavers” which he considers “big” for a “little team” and it’s thanks to his competitively priced lenses, that he is able to see and then laugh at the most laughable of fouls. This one is without malice or pain caused, the STR player simply “flopped” on top of the CFC one, as Tom adds he “lay down on top of him”.<br>
<br>
It’s turning into quite the debut for the stand in keeper, who has looked solid so far and because of his defence, has had a fair bit to do. What almost turns into a most spectacular own goal, is prevented only by his quick feet, he’s able to scramble away the header from a teammate after a cross, that went towards the goal and not away from it, almost creeping in under the bar.<br>
<br>
Stop start, stop start, the game is really now failing to get going for more than a couple of minutes before another foul, grinds it to a halt. CFC have their strengths in attack, as do STR have there's, winning almost everything lumped into the home box, another header this time bobbles wide and the referee is close to losing all control, after another foul this time a CFC players is hauled down. One fan asks quite rightly, “why don't you get your card out?”. The offence right on the edge of the STR box, looked like a yellow card in anyone's book, but not him and it's only another free kick, which like many of the ones that have preceded tonight, is not very good.<br>
<br>
“Handball” shout the home fans, but nothing is given, and then a CFC mistake in midfield hands STR the ball, who are on to it in a flash, but the cross is poor and is greeted with a roar of disappointment.<br>
<br>
Minutes from the break and we’ll be lucky to make it without a red card or the need of the air ambulance. “I’m alright, I’m alright” says a shaken CFC player, face down, talking to a teammate after coming off second best in a fifty fifty challenge. The remainder of the half is a cacophony of shouting from players and fans. “Dear, oh dear, oh dear” says one of the small group of cantankerous old chaps below us, their elegance not clear, each one of whom is one of the two men from the theater balcony in the muppets.<br>
<br>
“Ginola” though is unable to finish the half without a booking. What’s more surprising, that the referee has actually made one out or it's taken this long I’m not sure. A barrage of verbal follows his yellow, and he’s lucky not to get a second. “I hope you're not being assessed” is about the only thing he says without a swear word.<br>
<br>
The half ends, just like it began, with a goal, but not for CFC. Football fans powers of the clairvoyant does scare me on occasions. “Here it comes” says a STR fan behind the goal, as his team prepares for the corner, and comes it does. Missed by the defender at the front post, it makes its way all the way to the back post, where a player in tangerine, who is being grappled somewhat, is still able to execute an impressive flying volley, giving STR the lead.<br>
<br>
There is little of the half left, what minutes are played are full of scrappy mistakes and misjudgments, the home crowd and players are baying for blood, after such a strong start, it's all taken a major turn for the worst.<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10gaua9APAHd4ATazvS2knrEBlj7uxfj3Onivpt1op7TB91Sync-vlU3ob1IFf5CzDv0lfvVvGC52SD89jfQuHbkV4DzM8hS0xMSd6BxEneaXkL_4zLOAG9yOhrkCBl_nxg9iLyteVG0/s1600/IMG_20200205_195016_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10gaua9APAHd4ATazvS2knrEBlj7uxfj3Onivpt1op7TB91Sync-vlU3ob1IFf5CzDv0lfvVvGC52SD89jfQuHbkV4DzM8hS0xMSd6BxEneaXkL_4zLOAG9yOhrkCBl_nxg9iLyteVG0/s400/IMG_20200205_195016_1.jpg" width="400"></a><br>
“Useless” barks one home fan “have a word” shouts another, before the furore dies down and the substitutes start their half time warm up. The PA pipes up and the “£54” prize won't be mine today, but unbeknownst to me, clutched in Tom’s right hand, scaling the steps behind me, he has my prize already, in the form of the fish finger sandwich, off all fish finger sandwiches.<br>
<br>
“For the first time I think I'm jealous” mumbles Tom, his gourmet looking burger looks and by all accounts tastes as good as we had been foretold, but my dinner, what is effectively two slabs of crumb covered cod in a baguette, is a thing of beauty, and I have no hesitation tucking in, feed a cold and all that. As we both chow down on our ‘Tower of Power’, he regales me with tales of the extensive menu of the burger bar opposite, “they had everything, pizza, chicken nuggets”.<br>
<br>
You could hear a pin drop in our lofty hideout, the 50/50 has yet to be “claimed”, neither has the “match day draw” another form of gambling I was not aware of, and along with the £54 I won’t be winning a box of chocolates or a bottle of Baileys either, that the PA rightly points out are both “worth having”.<br>
<br>
Burger completed, but not quite satisfied, “should have got a chocolate bar”, Tom tells me his reason for not getting one was on account of him “trying to eat healthily”, all while he mops the juice of his cheese smothered patty and chips from his beard. The home flags have swapped ends and Tom fills me in on a momentary flare up around the burger bar, an over zealous away fan and her enthusiastic “clapping” for the second goal, riling up the the home fans, it all getting a bit “spicy”. One man attempting to silence her, by reminding her, “alright love, you've not won yet”.<br>
<br>
With the new half only minutes old, “Ginola” is back at it, asking the referee, “is this your first game?” after he awards CFC a free kick, but there is no booking. The home crowd is growing increasingly disgruntled, I think I even saw one person sharpening their pitchfork. A low STR cross is then easily dealt with and cleared out from the CFC box, a few minutes later and the game grinds to a halt once more, this time it’s an STR foul. CFC floats in the free kick in, it's met by a home player whose header strikes a STR defender and a half hearted appeal for “handball” goes up, but nothing is given.<br>
<br>
We like to consider ourselves rather highbrow, lots of culinary chat, culture and architectural observations, but sometimes we drop below our own high standards, to explore topics we wouldn't normally, and today is one of those days, because I’ve just asked Tom, ‘why do footballers always tug on their cocks?’. To be honest Tom is a bit quicker to engage in the conversation than I thought he would be. We can both agree that “you wouldn't in normal life” so why would you on a football pitch, and then he suggests something I'd never even considered, “does it get trapped?”<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhnBpCOpCTjbSebh5pJbQw4kB6_83IhnhTrydrzyFoHkAexHy2P4yCLZWVei24qaoVjLd_1mdlhGToj3m_jxpxFjiIFskCgtjlvgc11Q1GUEDcQxMjzVveKP_Hvp1IEF8Ot3xblXYsWw/s1600/IMG_20200205_203818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhnBpCOpCTjbSebh5pJbQw4kB6_83IhnhTrydrzyFoHkAexHy2P4yCLZWVei24qaoVjLd_1mdlhGToj3m_jxpxFjiIFskCgtjlvgc11Q1GUEDcQxMjzVveKP_Hvp1IEF8Ot3xblXYsWw/s400/IMG_20200205_203818.jpg" width="400"></a>At the quarter of an hour mark, CFC showing a little bit of that early tenacity with a quick pass, turn and shot in the STR box, but the shot is right at the keeper. CFC’s number 4 might have “Ginola” esq locks, but unfortunately he can't pass like him, Tom describing his attempt at a cross pitch diagonal as “horrible” and the game is descending, getting “dirty” as Tom puts it. No one even bats an eyelid when an STR player lunges at the CFC keeper on the floor, everyone having become so desensitized to the horror. Tom’s reaction to what is in all intent and purposes a tackle from the NFL by one CFC player, makes him unwittingly channel his inner John McEnroe, “are you serious?” when the referee simply taps his own shoulder, to imply it was fair.<br>
<br>
One foul after another, means again the game is never going for more than a few minutes, before the referee blows his whistle. The referee who Tom brands a “funny one” because he is both “lenient” , but does not stop awarding fouls.<br>
<br>
CFC are looking the stronger of the two teams, the fans numbers behind the goal have swelled since the change of ends and the winning of a corner sees them pound the metal stand for the first time. The downing of “Ginola” results in a bit of afters on the pitch, but even though it was him who ended up poleaxed, the referee awards the foul the other way, which you can imagine doesn't go down well on or off the pitch, “what are you doing man?” asks one player. The game is getting angrier by the second, a bit filthy even, some home fans look ready to vault the railings and set upon the referee. Other than the whistle all you can hear are the two words “fuck” and “off” and the constant rattle of clattering boots and shinpads.<br>
<br>
It takes STR over twenty minutes to fashion their first chance of the half, another header, but the <br>
flicked effort is straightforward for the keeper to claim and such are the levels of aggression, Tom thinks is pertinent to ask me if I’ve ever seen “Mean Machine”. STR’s number six is snarling and their number 20 then does an atomic bomb of a header in midfield to clear his teams lines, all it’s missing is a mushroom cloud.<br>
<br>
STR starts to probe as we head towards the final fifteen. Slowly building, they bide their time, however the slide rule pass has just a bit too much on it, but the intention is well received, “different class mate”.<br>
<br>
The pace of Ginola's departure, and it’s definitely him being replaced and not the referee as a couple of the home fans joke “off you go ref, well played, off you go”, has Tom a bit perplexed, “why is he walking, does he know they are losing?”. There is zero urgency in his demeanour and the lazy toss of the armband to the new captain, is not exactly encouraging.<br>
<br>
CFC almost equalized with a quite marvelous goal, one that inevitably someone would have said, ‘if Barcelona would have scored that…...’. Slick interchanges, quick feet and good movement almost brings about the perfect goal, only for a last minute block.<br>
<br>
“That was it” states Tom, after what might just have been CFC’s best chance of the game, let alone the half. A header from point blank range, is somehow put the wrong side of the post. “It's coming” shouts one CFC fan optimistically, but I’m just not sure that is the case. With the home side desperately in search of a goal, they are leaving some major gaps at the back, and it's only a save right out of the top drawer, that stops STR bagging their third. Somehow, and by the looks of it having seen it late, CFC’s keeper was able to get enough of a hand to the powerful shot after a nifty chest tap and turn by the STR forward, to push it wide.<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKcDSp304M-wT19rFvZjKA4zM6vAbI1iR9KA2mujgai994XGt4y9leaevHbUwqHZS1Stqva7e2jEIAp4ETvYmIPfzRvSKzwQmcxwzjcOkhc58pFoyexi94S5odFbeU-QBC-dA36eTuUU/s1600/19-DSC_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKcDSp304M-wT19rFvZjKA4zM6vAbI1iR9KA2mujgai994XGt4y9leaevHbUwqHZS1Stqva7e2jEIAp4ETvYmIPfzRvSKzwQmcxwzjcOkhc58pFoyexi94S5odFbeU-QBC-dA36eTuUU/s400/19-DSC_0146.JPG" width="400"></a><br>
It’s getting to a point where it feels like CFC don’t want a point, if it’s not all three, then who the fuck wants just one. “Just meh” responds Tom, after a spooned shot clears both the goal and stand, after the player responsible was so well set up on the edge of the STR area, only to balloon it over and another big shout for a penalty is ignored, but if I'm honest it was more the fans than the players who claimed for it.<br>
<br>
“Come on boys” pleads a CFC supporter, they have been knocking at the door for so long, surely they can convert something. A home corner is whipped in, cleared, possession is won back and the ball is tossed back in a second time, but just about summing up their evening and touching on what Chris had said earlier, results not reflective of performances, somehow STR are able to stop the goal bound header with a frantic goal line clearance, almost certainly confirming another tick in the loss column for the hosts, but with a fixed asterix for, ‘but we deserved much more’.<br>
<br>
When CFC are awarded a late free kick, but no one seems to know why, it gives a good example of the caliber of refereeing tonight. “Up, up” urges the crowd, but the towering header on the end of the cross is cleared, initiating an STR counter attack, but a bad touch, bearing down on the CFC goal, allows just enough time for the keeper to get a block in, “unlucky” shouts a visiting fan to the frustrated forward.<br>
<br>
CFC have officially gone ‘all up front’ and STR are poised to hit them on the counter. One fan suggests “corners” when they are presented with the ball, but no chance, they want to stick the knife<br>
in they want a third. Their manager though is clearly a keen student of the art of game management, time wasting to you and me, deciding now is the ideal time for a double substitution, “well played lads” praise the supporters behind the goal, neither of the two players seemingly in a rush to get off.<br>
<br>
The chance of some last minute drama seems high. A foul on the edge of the STR box, sees no booking, much to the dismay of the travelling fans, "come on referee, that's two bad ones". What must be the final kick of the game is up and over. and gets a sarcastic jeer from the home crowd.<br>
<br>
"Referee you're rubbish" screams one STR fan, after a yellow card is awarded to one of their players, sending those being the goal into a mini melt down. "Work hard Soham" insists one, they are not exactly on the ropes, but it's that time in the match when the slightest slip in concentration could end in disaster. The CFC keeper makes one last attempt to rally his team mates, "keep going, keep going" and both the STR players "how much longer?" and the fans, "come on referee" are badgering the man in charge to bring this match to its conclusion.<br>
<br>
The cheer from the away fans is a considerable one come the final whistle, "big chunky number 20" pumps his fist towards the applauding supporters, "fucking get in" he cries. The STR players congratulate each other and are greeted with more vigorous clapping as they walk off. The CFC players on the other hand, are deep in consultation huddled on the pitch, long after the ground has emptied.<br>
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I could conclude with a few paragraphs about how crap it is CFC don't have their own home, and how they have to sofa surf, but I'm sure that's how I ended things when we saw them before and as far as temporary digs go, Bridge Road is pretty smart. Although I'm sure each and every one of CFC's supporters would rather their own residence, they could do a lot worse then their current abode.<br>
<br>
I could go on perhaps about how smashing the CFC keeper looked in footballs most under utilized colour, purple or how from the 'Tower Of Power' the illuminated five a side pitches in the distance were quite a sight, but I won't.<br>
<br>
Come to Bridge Road for the football, sure, come for the ground, it really is a nice one, come for the warm welcome, everyone we encountered was delightful, but what should be your motivation is the food. From the succulent burger to a fish finger sandwich, made from a fish with fingers the width of Roberto Carlos' thighs, that's why you need to get there.<br>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-26780327306322990252020-02-16T11:21:00.000-08:002020-02-20T12:17:36.687-08:00Skittle Master - Long Buckby A.F.C. Vs Lutterworth Athletic FC, United Counties Football League Division One, Station Road (29/01/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeVUOJhEX_NZ_5HnRO9L3g-1COdzUHozIp7J4ZTPj6nJ7qZC9uCRqgyJk9thwdx9i-gV21hVq2ZlxmNeUpu1he3wYa0iKa2wdr7TPEguDNiI3_c-q9RbJv5XsIIu1ElaR54Kiz8rBh94/s1600/P1070020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1129" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeVUOJhEX_NZ_5HnRO9L3g-1COdzUHozIp7J4ZTPj6nJ7qZC9uCRqgyJk9thwdx9i-gV21hVq2ZlxmNeUpu1he3wYa0iKa2wdr7TPEguDNiI3_c-q9RbJv5XsIIu1ElaR54Kiz8rBh94/s320/P1070020.JPG" width="225" /></a>“There is not much fun in a 15 nil’er” says my other half as I peruse the league table of the team we are heading off to tonight, while I wait for Tom to arrive. The home side Long Buckby FC (LB) are second and have an impressive goal haul so far this season, over + 50. The away side, Lutterworth Athletic FC (LA) who are bottom of the table have a goal difference of - 50. Each team's form couldn't be more polar opposite if they tried. As I rub my hands in anticipation of a bit of a goal fest, Rachel reminds me of the match where we saw a team get pumped 15 - 0 and the referee called it early, which on reflection, was a bit of a relief, it made for very uncomfortable viewing.<br />
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The admittedly stunning sunset means I have to endure Tom singing Nants' Ingonyama, after pointing out that it looks “a bit Lion King”. The rest of our journey North is thankfully sans any more Disney singalongs, and by the time we arrive at Station Road, Tom is getting tetchy about quite how far from home we are, its pitch black and the only real sign that we are in the right place, is a charming back lit sign high above the doors of what I’m guessing is the clubhouse.<br />
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“Can I ping you in?” asks a man with wispy white hair, unloading music equipment from the back of a van, probably wondering who the hell are these guys. The unfamiliarity of our surroundings has us a tad flummoxed, and neither of us really know if what is effectively a working man's club or British Legion in front of us, is anything to do with where we are supposed to be or not. Passing through the double doors he kindly held open for us, we enter a scene from the lesser known Back to the Future spin off, Marty McFly does the 1970’s.<br />
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What very much turns out to be LB’s clubhouse with its low slung ceiling and bar so long it doesn't seem to have an end, the front of which is adorned with a whole host of pennants, is probably, and I don't say this lightly, the finest one we have ever been in.<br />
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It has all the required staples that any good clubhouse should have, a dart board, fruit machines, those half sized pool tables and of course a dance floor, but what elevates it to the next level, into a stratosphere we’ve never reached before, are things I’m not sure we'll ever see the likes of again.<br />
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Big cushioned benches, a trophy cabinet pulling the screws from the walls, it's so full, that you need sunglasses just to gaze upon, it's so sparkling. Once you've overcome the initial glare, you'll spot maybe the finest trophy you'll ever set your eyes upon. One that is simply the silhouette of the Victoria's team, one that I’m struggling to actually describe, so will simply ask you to reference the attached photo, which I’m sure you will agree once you've looked, is magnificent.<br />
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A jukebox fastened to the wall, which at the moment is offering up some quite serious EDM, not quite in keeping with the surroundings. but hey ho. Tom’s time at the bar is reasonably lengthy, his request for a hot chocolate has come up against some resistance, only because the woman serving him is not sure how to use the machine, not on account of her not being accommodating. When he finally returns, its with a mocha and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps and whereas normally I would chide him for his chosen food combo, I’m far too transfixed on the goings on in one corner of the room, I could not give a shit.<br />
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Again it's hard to adequately describe exactly what I’m looking at, exactly what the man who someone at the bar has just called the “skittle master” has just pulled a cord above him to illuminate is. Open faced, with padded dark leather sides and brass studs, a hard beige base and a net at the back, its looks more like something out of a museum, than something that should be in a clubs den, and it's not until the “skittle master” has set up the small wooden skittles, does it become clear what is going down. Standing at its very own oche, clutching onto what look like wheels of cheese, the room is soon filled with the clattering noise of dispatched pins, that the “skittle master” as his name would attest, is able to displace from range with ease.<br />
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Such a treat could not go untried, and much to my amusement Tom is absolutely shit. I’m told by the quite delightful “skittle master” who is happy to coach us two fools, that I’m a “natural skimmer”. Skimming being one of the two recognised techniques for the game, the other an under arm toss, neither of which Tom is able to get to grips with. What I thought and told Tom looked like cheese, are confirmed to be called just that and the Guardiola of skittles, informs me there is both a “summer” and “winter league”, all while someone in a neighbouring room, rattles off a few fills on an electronic drum machine.<br />
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“Can we just stay here?” wonders Tom, the draw of the clubhouse is strong, but having been here since we arrived, and having not got any further than it, and as nice as my Lotus biscuit with my coffee was, I guess we should really venture a little further. The woman at the bar points to what looks like a fire escape at one end of the room, as the direction we should be heading in search of actual football.<br />
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The poorly lit, narrow path leading from the clubhouse to the pitch and the time on it, I think constitutes a mission. It’s certainly a case of needing to keep your eyes peeled, the chance of taking a tumble feels quite high, at the other end of the trail, Sherpa optional, past the kids enjoying their training session, despite the far from ideal conditions, is a pitch and its long main stand beside it, and very little else, all shrouded in darkness.<br />
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Welcome To Station Road says the sign on the front of the way in, that is not quite a turnstile, just a hole in a white wall, with a kiosk to purchase your ticket. When the lights eventually come on, mist hugs the ground and Tom reckons the whole place has a bit of a “World War Two” vibe about it, on account of the main stand, which as I said much like the clubhouse bar goes on forever, looks a bit like an “Anderson Shelter”.<br />
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I do my best to distract Tom with what someone has just told me, that they have been to Station Road “three times” this season, and have seen LB score “four every time”, but he’s far too distraught. His attempt to go and get something to eat wasn't very fruitful, he informs me there is “no food” and when he says there is none, he means none. Not even a pasty, some chips or a sausage roll, he has to make do with his second packet of crisps, disappointingly telling me he'll “get something when we leave” and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so sad.<br />
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There is not really a tunnel to speak of, just a concrete slope between the changing rooms behind the <br />
main stand and the edge of the pitch. The players are forced to loiter around for the stragglers, acclimatizing to the wintry conditions, before the referee leads them out. There is no noise from the modicum of a crowd on the green seats of the stand, just the noise of the players cliched slogans, “come on, heads on”.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGaCjdDJxZGEq7gY45nrbYKht-d-tcgYKTUb2oG5mw-mLqRqRRNSjIAR3gsfftTL9kMkX_iAdy7pnsKMwlZYtLrTIcc1lZSsQ-H2qEbaYoFI-81d7ppf4CVAkOeBVPjntdRK-aWSXl2rs/s1600/IMG_20200129_180702.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGaCjdDJxZGEq7gY45nrbYKht-d-tcgYKTUb2oG5mw-mLqRqRRNSjIAR3gsfftTL9kMkX_iAdy7pnsKMwlZYtLrTIcc1lZSsQ-H2qEbaYoFI-81d7ppf4CVAkOeBVPjntdRK-aWSXl2rs/s400/IMG_20200129_180702.jpg" width="400" /></a>Less than a minute gone, and it's soon apparent why LA are struggling this season, “oh my god I can see why they are bottom” mutters Tom, a rather straightforward long range shot is pawed wide by the visiting keeper, who makes a hash of the following corner, spilling what again look liked a rudimentary cross. Tom is slack jawed, “has he got no hands” he ponders, telling me in no uncertain terms, “they are going to get absolutely battered”.<br />
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Considering their shaky start and league position, it seemed that this game was only going one way, but a flurry of possession and a rising snap shot by LA, has somewhat settled the nerves, “they’re not that bad'' reconsiders Tom, whose fingerless gloves are out and the underdogs are slowly growing on him. “I quite like their kit” he tells me, “who’s the Portuguese team who play in hoops?” he asks me. The green and white of LA, reminiscent in Tom’s eyes of a bit of Lisbon.<br />
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In fact the amount LA have pushed LB back into their own half, is of concern to the home bench, who are demanding they “step it up”.<br />
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A slight break in proceedings, because for some reason I’m doing the tea run, sees me pay the tea bar with it’s front door right off a terraced family home, behind the main stand a quick visit. Returning past what is now a reasonably sized crowd, more than one person had the bright idea of bringing a blanket, I asked Tom if I had missed anything, which he emphatically told me, “no”.<br />
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LB’s roving cameraman Lee, who is in his shorts, yes shorts, its freezing, with his wild ginger beard and beanie hat, who is not afraid to mount any nearby wall or ledge to get the best shot, tells us with the game almost twenty five minutes old, that is “not going as expected” and in fact in his opinion he thinks LA have “been the better side”.<br />
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The home side test the questionable LA keeper again with a shot from inside the box. Attempting to play out from the back LA give the ball away and the player responsible gives a damming precis of his own performance, “I’m having a fucking mare”. An LB substitute instructs the players on the pitch that they have to “hold on to the ball for a bit” and we both shudder, when one has to venture into the thick pocket of brambles pitch side, to retrieve the ball. Continuing with the World War Two theme, the brick wall and thorny weeds, severe enough to halt any invading Nazi.<br />
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Still claiming offside, one LA player stands still despite the lack of a flag, the game carrying on around him, allowing LB to sting the keepers palms with a powerful shot, and the same defender still it seems oblivious to the match going on, tells the lino to get his “fucking flag up” and then a stunning LA tackle wins them the ball back, LB on the attack, the slide, the winning of the ball and getting up again all in one motion, it's almost balletic. Tom reckons the game is getting “dirty”, but I'm not sure, and now perched atop a wall Lee encourages his team, after going close, “unlucky Bucks, that's better”.<br />
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The celebrations of the man manning the gate to the pitch, which is basically a scaffolding pole on a hinge, the kind you might see on over spill car park, is understated to say the least, “well done Buckby” he says quietly, between puffs of his latest cigarette. “Didn't think that was ever coming” says Lee, popping up between us, having leapt off a nearby wall like a mountain goat, and by the way I’m still alarmed he is in shorts.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEZrBgmdVR9fB7T4MvSOO0EHRP954p4J82dI5B4Q_pZUE62UDykOfyr3KzcPgCFPXW6Fvuz4Iky2cdybN8xqggKVAE0vrSTmVRVztTWRMf5RHWbFvHxlqO0PWT8-dUqZhXsBAgqjZPZc/s1600/IMG_20200129_183501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEZrBgmdVR9fB7T4MvSOO0EHRP954p4J82dI5B4Q_pZUE62UDykOfyr3KzcPgCFPXW6Fvuz4Iky2cdybN8xqggKVAE0vrSTmVRVztTWRMf5RHWbFvHxlqO0PWT8-dUqZhXsBAgqjZPZc/s400/IMG_20200129_183501.jpg" width="400" /></a>He tells us diplomatically that LB has the bad habit of dropping to “the level” of teams they play, who are below them in the table, his explanation of why they are making such hard work of tonight's game.<br />
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Called into action again, LA’s keeper still looks iffy and Tom asks Lee if they only have “one sub” the solo player looking “very lonely”. Their bench is a little sparse, but it's just a case of them trying to keep warm, and those ready to come on are jogging along the touch line and Tom can sympathize. His “thermals” are not sufficient, and he asks me in all seriousness, if we should just “go and play skittles”.<br />
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“Fucking hell” shout both LB players and fans, an LA defender has just hit his own cross bar from the edge of his six yard box, in an attempt to clear an LB cross into the box. “Heads on boys” says the keeper, having picked himself up, after doing his best to stop the ball across his six yard box, looking behind him and wondering what the hell had just happened.<br />
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My suggestion to Tom that we get another cup of tea at half time, is met with mixed emotions. He’s not much of a fan of my tea making skills, my last one he explains was so milky it was “like a bowl of cereal” so I think he’ll be getting them then and on almost the stroke of half time, and deservedly so, LB double their lead.<br />
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Rolling his marker with ease on the edge of the LA box, the LB forward lets fly a low powerful shot, which LA’s keeper this time is equal to, getting enough on it to force it upwards, where it strikes the bar and rebounds back into play and following it up the scorer has the simple job of poking into the empty net, the LA keepers final lunge to pull off a miracle fails, and he can only watch as is rolls into the back of the net.<br />
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Having picked himself up, you can't question his optimism, “keep working, that came from us slacking off”, but I think that’s hopeful at best. It might only be behind by two, but they feel now well out of it already. The man on the gate stays true to form, “come along Buckby '' and the remaining minutes of the match, all belong to the home team, they go close to a quickfire third, but the lashed shot keeps on rising and clears the bar and it’s never a good sign when a team starts arguing. “Shut up and get on with it” grunts one LA player, another determined to have the last word, brands a teammate “shit”.<br />
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LB go close to a third again in the dying moments of the half, “he had more time” says Tom, the home player in the box in acres of space, drags his shot wide, but it's surprisingly LA who have the final effort of the half, drawing the entire crowd into a considerable “ohhhhh” when they fire the ball across the home box, just out of reach of the players inside and the chance goes begging.<br />
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When the whistle comes its shrill, the players and crowd are silent, many of whom are straight off for tea. It is so quiet, I can hear the LA keeper discussing LB’s second, “two fucking away players right next to me and I’m like what the fuck.” Half time is subdued, with no burger to eat, Tom is instead engrossed in his phone, only looking up to tell me “oh I'm cold, go and warm the car up”.<br />
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With the new half underway and Tom having put his phone away, he asks Lee “do you start every <br />
half slow?”. The home side's sluggish start into the first half, has been replicated at the start of the second. “Wake up guys” shouts a nervous sounding Lee, a loose LB pass is latched onto and LA are in, great persistence on their part nearly gets them a goal, but that little stroke of luck just won't come their way, and the ball is cleared. “Come on Buckby” says the man on the gate, with no change of inflection in his voice as to how he’s said it after each goal, but somehow I still know what he means.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdSNR3Zvjc3o2Mrmcziww_EpMtntBVXwf_baAwoq75E9V5tRwVvDqgZGg_-LzQ6F1OmKif4j7rX6lK610p3lv-KwIIPs9OklGX7a1-UZI8DQ3bmgRdZTa5W_H-1kCJC4Cq_XI1MZ7RxQ/s1600/IMG_20200129_190148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdSNR3Zvjc3o2Mrmcziww_EpMtntBVXwf_baAwoq75E9V5tRwVvDqgZGg_-LzQ6F1OmKif4j7rX6lK610p3lv-KwIIPs9OklGX7a1-UZI8DQ3bmgRdZTa5W_H-1kCJC4Cq_XI1MZ7RxQ/s400/IMG_20200129_190148.jpg" width="400" /></a>Ten minutes gone and LB hit the bar directly from a free kick, “finish it” shouts one player, but this time the rebound cannot be converted. The crowd are silent and Tom has a good explanation as to why, “because its fucking freezing”. To be fair to LA they have had plenty of possession so far this half, but they have no cutting edge, however soon any notion they might be able to make a contest out of it becomes a distant memory, because LB finally score a third and the game is effectively over, with thirty minutes still left to play.<br />
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Breaking from their frigid state, the crowd let out an excitable “yeahhhhh”, at the sight of what was a quite marvelous goal. A slick passing move, pulls LA apart and all ends with a nutmeg through the keepers legs. Despite the quality of the goal, there is no change again in the tone of the gate man's voice, and he gives up his own brand of mild mannered encouragement, “well done Buckby, carry on Buckby”.<br />
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To give you an inkling into the state of the game, yes we've had three goals, but really it's not up there with the classics, we are discussing the pros and cons of VR pornography. The referee comes in for a bit of grief, not because he has joined in on our conversation, but because of his failure to give LB a corner which gets some players very animated. “Fucking hell ref” screams one. The back post tap in, after a long ball right across the box is seemingly saved, but not rewarded with a corner, which is greeted with the same level of anger I suspect he would get, if he was demonstrating VR porn on the centre circle.<br />
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A quick LA free kick, this time sees their forward roll his marker, but his shot is lacking any fervour, and the LB defender who was so easily circumnavigated, is putting it down to a “fucking arm in the back” and is having a right old moan at the ref.<br />
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It’s no longer VR porn, but C&A and the United Colours of Benetton, we are discussing now, the game has got worse. The gate man is full on chain smoking and the match is going at half pace, case in point when a good pass forward by a LB midfielder which was ripe for conversion, is met with all of the enthusiasm, by the intended forward, of someone who has just had seconds after Christmas dinner. He’s hardly busting a gut.<br />
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Much like a scene out of Space Jam, one LA player hurdles two LB ones after they collide and I half expected Daffy Duck to appear or R Kelly to start singing. LA are now coasting to say the least, one player pleads “lads this is too easy”. LB are cruising, allowed a criminal amount of time on the ball, it's turned into a training match, but gate man, regardless of what is actually going on, still offers up his own brand of cheer, “come on Buckby”.<br />
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Tom is close to polar and with still a quarter of an hour to go, the game is deader than dead. A halfhearted hooked cross by LB, could of easily led to a forth but no one is in the area, no one cares, and I’m either seeing things or I'm so desperate for something to happen, that I concoct it, but I’m sure I’ve just seen someone bend over and vomit, until Tom tells me he was just sorting out his “shin pads”.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWTkx8rrhJznLC0PJaPnOskVl3NClXB-JIrTUumkU-19Tub6lz6aO1F1AeLxuHtlUTqswEvQ9-hS_bAaWxpXzSU2ufASp6ZtYHz0VZZ4DiWaXKLxOnE4mUu_jK1NaGsIABGWoQM3TzD8/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="642" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWTkx8rrhJznLC0PJaPnOskVl3NClXB-JIrTUumkU-19Tub6lz6aO1F1AeLxuHtlUTqswEvQ9-hS_bAaWxpXzSU2ufASp6ZtYHz0VZZ4DiWaXKLxOnE4mUu_jK1NaGsIABGWoQM3TzD8/s400/DSC_0010.JPG" width="250" /></a>“Go warm the car up” instructs Tom and this time I’m close to doing just that. The game is plodding along at best, “end already” mumbles Tom, the half eventually ends with a sarcastic jeer from the home fans. What was probably their easiest chance of the half has just been missed, a glaring miss, a cross from the right and all it needed was the finish, but somehow the player missed it, but we are soon all saved by the whistle and his error is soon forgotten.<br />
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Proving he can say other things, the gate man on gate man duties as the players depart, congratulates LB’s manager on the “clean sheet” and a young Statto among us, asks if he is correct in thinking that LB’s fifth tonight is their “98th of the season” which is confirmed by a broad smile on the face of the home gaffa.<br />
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In the middle of Northamptonshire, at the end of a long path you will find a rather unremarkable football ground, and a club that play there who are sponsored by a vape company, that according to the “skittle master” produced the “youngest person to ever be on the winning side of a European Cup”. A team flying in the league, who scored in the FA Vase and are scoring goals for fun, managed by someone who became the “manger by default” after the previous one “quit ten days before the season” and I think it’s fair to say he is doing an alright job.<br />
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According to the man in charge, it would be a “disaster” if they don't get promoted, even though they have far exceeded their targets this season, and by how effortlessly they saw off LA today, I would imagine going up is a certainty.<br />
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All of this, and the obvious “good buzz about the place” Dan the LA manager alluded to makes it a visit well worth making, put on top of that the clubhouse of all clubhouses and really you've no excuses not to get yourself to Station Road, except if you want a burger perhaps.<br />
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For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2757886577652652&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBjCyZ9iVDoDpRZw2eeJQE-hGcp8Y0P6A1WxSGsi-OioAJ25_QUxMJx5O44UTvFkUXMWVCNM1sK4y9NxuMZkD1JxCf0eljqWocXeiQ9bqmjUKaipVeW900WfBMOrhYX4E7zigppLlqb7KjSWXmleG40es-sNueAGv7IVh7v9RwmdmOVTVtGkl1pqLSj33ORh-0B2OwhcHuPZ075wGswLQgorfV_I13lgm8MxTeVEG5NcNZdx91-IlWB6VjsrpfeYgtdM9vodd21ekjqZj10ZyTw1D6SldBAPGu6SYU0v-OMhOKrNzF9Un5TFEKbi3xjroVTmVIpTZXDqtZeHTuTTTJCf6yMITpU2yVI0FfxWDj7Ca_BZlCADHTe1tL-9XL-nkRpSeGav6torZjvAUjSsBWxtYl55aonZSk6L4aqexpy-C2WJ9cYyOWmXOvA3YXTQulhDAYCqD0vOrKsFIhD&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE</h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-44350963557391246742020-02-09T11:21:00.001-08:002020-02-09T11:21:24.188-08:00Head Says Move, Heart Says Stay - Chesham United FC Vs Taunton Town FC, The Meadow, Southern League Premier South (25/01/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zP3mqbSJHpE-nH8NJ4wuKwJ6oAMxxWqOZ9Fbmuw274JhO46MTjW9X74jUId-IJCYC5UHPc_3vLqX8OR9DxaV2v0cPBYTeorTx6F11yjWSf9yaIZdXjg2PUJDTN7LfZqduuc4E7KX9AY/s1600/P1060990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1118" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zP3mqbSJHpE-nH8NJ4wuKwJ6oAMxxWqOZ9Fbmuw274JhO46MTjW9X74jUId-IJCYC5UHPc_3vLqX8OR9DxaV2v0cPBYTeorTx6F11yjWSf9yaIZdXjg2PUJDTN7LfZqduuc4E7KX9AY/s320/P1060990.JPG" width="223" /></a>Sitting in Tom’s car, pootling along through the Saturday afternoon traffic, Feeder tumbling from the speakers, I can’t quite get my head around why Tom isn't anywhere near as tanned as I thought he would be.<br />
<br />
Two weeks in the Maldives and I expected him to come back looking not far off beef jerky, but not quite David Dickinson. Tom very much falls into the sun worshiper category and admittedly he is glowing, he’s taken on a bit of colour, however I frankly thought I was not going to recognise him.<br />
<br />
Not long into our journey and I'm starting to slightly regret accepting his offer to drive, by his own admission he is a little “spaced”, having only landed forty eight hours ago, and still feeling the effect of a five hour time difference. I do manage to coax a bit of detail out of him, his trip to “turtle reef” where most of the passengers vomited on the transfer. His evening on the “top deck of a boat on a bean bag” being “given canapes'' and the night of the “three lobsters” and sounding a tad spoilt, admits “I never want to eat lobster again”, as well as lazy sun drenched days “kayaking” and “paddleboarding” a “once in a lifetime” experience.<br />
<br />
Clearly his mind is still on holiday time and his driving is let's say a bit distracted. His explanation that he is “spaced and hungry” starts the alarm bells ringing.<br />
<br />
Having been doing what we do for five years now, Tom is not wrong when he says “I feel like we’ve been here before” big houses set back from the road at the end of gravel drives, countryside pubs with twee names, it's the Lazy Pig today, do seem to inevitably lead to where we're going most days. Pointing out to him that this part of Buckinghamshire is untraveled by us, he admits “it does all kind of blend into one”.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for my nerves, Tom’s driving does not improve, he has the vibe of someone who has not driven for a while, “so sleepy” he admits “feel stoned” he adds, which means a Redbull is required ASAP. The pit stop at a petrol station does not result in a can of synthetic bull semen, but a packet of crisps and a Lucozade. The go to drink of footballers of the mid 90’s and people in hospital, offers him just as much “pep” apparently.<br />
<br />
Nestled beside a gym and a cricket club, before entering the home of ‘The Generals’, sitting in the car park I have the joy of listening to Tom devour a pack of Flaming Hot Monster Munch. Inside the the Meadow, home of Chesham United FC (CU) it’s soon clear we could not have asked for a finer setting for an all too rare Saturday out.<br />
<br />
The ground and the idyllic backdrop are not undermined by the overcast sky. The undulating tree covered hillside behind one goal is more than picturesque and is clearly popular with local dog walkers, one such K9, a brilliantly white one, is by the looks of it walking its owner, rather than the other way round. Pitchside there are a whole host of different options for the discerning spectators. A corner bank of concrete terracing, a tumble down covered stand on the far side of the pitch, some much newer looking flatpack stands behind each goal, and the all seater main stand high up one one side, flanked by the clubhouse.<br />
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Such is the descent from the main stand to the pitch, the staircase, yes staircase, looks mildly hazardous, and is not something I would want to do in studs. The bright yellow handrails screaming health and safety nightmare, huge potential for a lawsuit and if you make it to the pitch in one piece, you have to pass between two of the finest examples of greenhouses being repurposed as dugouts.<br />
<br />
The welcome from Tina CU’s Commercial Director is a warm one, and standing in the bar overlooking the pitch through the large UPVC windows, she fills us in some news that has recently caused a bit of a stir among the CU fans, they are “moving”. Before then there will be some refreshments to the Meadow, but puffing out cheeks as she tells us, highlights non league football's biggest problem, “money” and having enough of it to make the changes it’s so desperately in need of.<br />
<br />
Tina tells us that the “board has ambition” to climb up the pyramid and “promotion” is the goal, but as it stands the ground “wouldn't pass grading for the next level”. Emotions among the fans she explains are still a “bit raw today” as is the case with 99% of fans put in a similar situation they of course “wanna stay”.<br />
<br />
For today though, there is a much more pressing matter at hand, a visit from fellow promotion rivals Taunton Town FC (TT). CU sit top of the table, something Tina is far from a fan of “hate being at the top” she muses, she'd much rather be “nipping” away from behind. The Meadow has become somewhat of a fortress, “we've not lost all season” explains Tina's partner, who points out “statistically” it's got to happen soon, which gets a withering look from Tina, whose nerves are getting the better of her, “I feel sick”.<br />
<br />
Creeping into view the TT coach makes a muted entrance and soon the players have disembarked and are out on the pitch. The music is blaring from the home changing room and the first song over the PA sets the theme for the day, Dad Rock. A genre I can usually fully get behind, but the first two songs, Rod Stewart and Foreigner's ‘Cold As Ice', which Tom loves singing along with, but only because he admits to liking the sample used in the M.O.P. song, is a far from ideal start.<br />
<br />
“It's going to be tough” admits one TT fan, suitably wrapped up in his sheepskin coat, TT scarf and flat cap, any bit of visible flesh littered with tattoos, with a voice so rough it makes me feel terribly inadequate. He reckons his team might just edge it “I’d say 2-1 to Taunton” but he is sure to reiterate, “today is going to be a real test”.<br />
<br />
Tom’s “tapeworm” he picked up on honeymoon or the two weeks of all inclusive has somewhat boosted his capacity to eat through the roof, means he is off for a burger early. Trying the door of the still locked clubhouse, a blue and claret portacabin, before stopping at the traveling funfair style burger van.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ea4tISBYJnSNLZNHXMEHyp4YHhcH1keb3rCNI3GNXj1DFpsfHwOfRIBnnOKu4f3DEnGLCpR_Sf3a5MR9-BJnWYk3N7mmYeHJaWDvJKi7ughKbKA6Z4JKHMF0M4zow7A_dcAeGcaKGTE/s1600/IMG_20200125_131844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ea4tISBYJnSNLZNHXMEHyp4YHhcH1keb3rCNI3GNXj1DFpsfHwOfRIBnnOKu4f3DEnGLCpR_Sf3a5MR9-BJnWYk3N7mmYeHJaWDvJKi7ughKbKA6Z4JKHMF0M4zow7A_dcAeGcaKGTE/s400/IMG_20200125_131844.JPG" width="300" /></a>The opening chords of Owner Of A Lonely Heart roar out of the PA and we discuss the lack of middle ground in non league football between classic rock and euro dance, all while Tom’s eats his ever so slightly Brexit sounding lunch, his “good old British burger”. The following announcement over the PA though is a sad one, today's game being played “in honor of John Plank” a recently deceased fan, and to commemorate his passing, some “Sri Lankan food” is on offer, which “when it runs out, it runs out, that's life” says the man on the microphone somewhat poignantly.<br />
<br />
Both teams are out warming up, as are a group of kids doing the same. Perched on a chair by the turnstiles, a man sells programmes out of a brown cardboard box, as a steady but modest stream of TT fans arrive, many in their distinct colors. Which are very similar to those of the home side, and that of Tina’s nail varnish. Although this season they are playing in a changed strip, one in homage to the clubs visit to Wembley for the 1968 F.A. Amateur Cup, which caused a “bit of a furor” she tells us. Football at all levels, is overflowing with traditionalists.<br />
<br />
Marching towards the now open club shop, we follow in his considerable wake, the TT fan in the flat<br />
cap who having heard some team news, has lost faith in his prediction, “our top goal scorer, the league top goal scorer is out”.<br />
<br />
Like every club shop should be, CU’s is packed, a bit messy, not very big and full of all sorts of stuff I want to fill my rucksack with, but will get in trouble at home if I do. Books, programmes, scarves and a whole rail of old shirts occupy the little bit of floor space there is. The man who runs it Tina told us, Dan, is a man of many talents, “trust member, runs the tea bar and programme editor”.<br />
<br />
What Tom thinks is a “weird drug deal” going down, huddled together outside the door to the bar, is in fact not anything anywhere near as sinister. It's just the golden goal seller, a duo hustling comers and goers with a promise of happiness, so really it's not that far off a drug deal at all. I try my luck of course, dropping my change into the pint glass and for some reason let one of the two sellers pick my tickets for me, which I wish I had not bothered, twenty two and thirty eight minutes, hardly fill me full of hope.<br />
<br />
It would have been rude not to try one of the Sri Lankan nibbles, so I opt for what the man dishing them out tells me is a “pattie'', which is more than delicious, and I really should have gone back for more. The man puffing away nearby on a large cigar seems content, however a few passing people are far from impressed with the smoke recoiling in horror as it hits them, and someone who I’m sure has his own food squared away in his bag for life, with his thermos, is the CU fan in a CU scarf on the terrace, working out the best place to stand.<br />
<br />
A spot of Lou Reed is about the first agreeable song, the kids who were warming up now pose for a group photo on the pitch and the voice over the PA who is forthright, far from showy and very much to the point, informs any of “those interested in the cricket” that “South Africa” are “41/2” which is received with a mild smattering of ahhhs and the noise levels fail to get much higher, when he tells all to “welcome on to the pitch the two teams”. I was expecting a bit more of an ambience as the players traverse the stairs, but it's near enough silent, other than Marc Bolan.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpniPJA6u7QTSfTGCyfd5Y4glyAo0vxQG2g8EICLlYdxLSu-EE4TkHbN86Ux1OWOElGoeSosq0s-kjrikYk8GXQeOB4nmFNG_j_1pYl0qIQlMryO_xD1VqvPmLrGaATBjx9KmDUNi6Yg/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpniPJA6u7QTSfTGCyfd5Y4glyAo0vxQG2g8EICLlYdxLSu-EE4TkHbN86Ux1OWOElGoeSosq0s-kjrikYk8GXQeOB4nmFNG_j_1pYl0qIQlMryO_xD1VqvPmLrGaATBjx9KmDUNi6Yg/s400/DSC_0032.JPG" width="400" /></a>Even the players, who you can normally put your money on for a bit of racket pre kick off are relatively quiet, “lets start fucking bright” hollers one TT player, but it's not until the away fans off to our right, standing in front of their large Pride Of Somerset flag fastened to the back of the stand, do we get any semblance of atmosphere, “we love you Taunton we do” and as will be the case for the rest of the day, each song thereafter is started by the man with the most gravelly of voices, “yellows, yellows, yellows”.<br />
<br />
The CU fans have a flag too, a single doctored Union Jack hanging over the railing around the pitch, but at the moment only one end is singing. The flood lights flicker on, piercing the murk and the game has barely started before a long stop, because of an injury to a TT player, means kick off was a bit of a false dawn. The home fans as you would expect, unless there is an obvious sign of a horrific injury, didn't think there was much in it, “he hardly touched him”.<br />
<br />
A nearby man in a CU scarf and Leeds United hat, shuffles about, unable to commit to one spot, and ten minutes gone the home fans metaphorically stretch their legs, with a low and slow “Chesham, Chesham”, however four or so minutes later, and after a opening period of almost exactly nothing happening, the home side take the lead.<br />
<br />
What I later hear described as a “non league bicycle kick” is the best way to illustrate the CU goal, a hooked effort over the shoulder of the player with his back to goal, not ever leaving the ground, and without any of the risk of falling badly and breaking your collarbone. As the TT players trudge back to their half, one CU supporter gloats “wehhhhh enjoy the journey?” and the fans behind the goal break in to “deh, deh, deh, deh, Chesham”.<br />
<br />
Tom’s tapeworm pipes up not even fifteen minutes in, “I’m hungry”, but even the parasite in his lower intestine has to take a back seat, when a CU player goes down whaling clutching his leg and I fear the worst. Except Tom seems totally unaffected by it and quickly puts my mind at ease, ”he hardly touched him” he says. His opinion backed up by a nearby home fan, who doesn’t agree with the awarding of the foul, “what game you fucking watching?”.<br />
<br />
The TT fans have fallen quite, even flat cap. The goal having knocked the wind out of their sails. A handball decision given against CU, stirs one of the group of older men directly next to us, into taking a few steps forward, another bloke in a flat cap but with quite a different overall look to that of the TT supporter, a lot less punk, a lot more Radio Times, he cups his gloved hands to his mouth and shouts, “rubbish referee”.<br />
<br />
Despite the early goal and all the promise of a top of the table skirmish, twenty five minutes have elapsed and quite literally nothing has happened. A wicked curling TT free kick and a “well claimed” TT corner as one man announced, are just about all the highlights I can muster, that and a booming clearance by one CU player so big, it clears the main stand and heads into the car park.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYKDmJ_nAhnnJVNX1YEMox0iRyvn4Lw58o6E6V4Xbp6UocmlJ5e_mfwE4x-4iiwq9jWoVidOMvrzpNu29oQ_Hi3jNPh4M6AtYX1bD9WGStetD_f4UuUbLQsZ7Y8mRkn6ldBd3WEC3Ct4Y/s1600/IMG_20200125_140452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYKDmJ_nAhnnJVNX1YEMox0iRyvn4Lw58o6E6V4Xbp6UocmlJ5e_mfwE4x-4iiwq9jWoVidOMvrzpNu29oQ_Hi3jNPh4M6AtYX1bD9WGStetD_f4UuUbLQsZ7Y8mRkn6ldBd3WEC3Ct4Y/s400/IMG_20200125_140452.jpg" width="400" /></a>It's a tipped over shot come cross, that almost catches out the back peddling CU keeper that inspires the first TT song in a while, “yellow, yellow, yellow” and it’s from the resulting corner, that something of note happens, a goal.<br />
<br />
In, out, in, out and in again. The final time the ball is lobbed back in the eighteen yard box, it finds a player who is able to swivel, walloping the ball over the CU keepers right shoulder. The fact CU had so many chances to clear their lines as they say, but failed to, will be of much consternation to their manager and fans, but TT’s will take encouragement from their dogged determination to keep plugging away, and it worked. Running along behind the goal, the scorer, quickly followed by his teammates, high fives the outstretched hands of the fans, who don’t beat around the bush cracking out a song, “we love you Taunton we do''.<br />
<br />
The CU manager, that if you weren't really concentrating, could be mistaken for a man just pottering about outside his new extension, asks his team for “energy, energy, energy”. I’m not sure that is what the game has been lacking by any means, however being pegged back can I’m sure be a little sapping, but this doesn't seem to be the case either, and its “energy” he gets, as his team almost take the lead again straight after the restart.<br />
<br />
“He’s on” gasps a home fan, the wide player is away and into the box. He finds a team mate, however the finish is scuffed, but the intent excites the the CU supporters.<br />
<br />
The home fans are frankly bemused at why exactly the referee has just given a foul against them, and if the free kick that followed had resulted in a goal, the header across the box is held, we might have had a riot on our hands. TT are poised to counter attack at the drop of a hat and it's only a great recovering tackle by one CU player, who is then on the end of plenty of plaudits, that prevents them racing into the CU box.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's the standard of the football or because no one wants to make themselves a target for one of the large birds of prey circling above, but the CU fans have been a little slow in getting started. To be fair to them Tina did say this was usually the case, normally because of the skinfull from the night <br />
before. Their reaction to a glaring miss from a free header, bang on the penalty spot, gets a suitable “ohhhhh” but there have been no real songs as of yet, they don't seem to have in their number a flat cap, a leader, a middle England capo to get things going.<br />
<br />
TT’s supporters' heart beats rise suddenly on the realisation that they are in, the celebration of the goal they have just scored though are cut short at the sight of the flag having been raised. Tom beside me is playing out the same internal struggle he puts himself through every match day, “I don't know what to have”. He wrestles with the notion of, “can I eat two burgers in the space of an hour?”.<br />
<br />
An explanation perhaps for the lack of any real consistent noise, other than cider from last night, is there is no one committed congregation of people. Neither gatherings behind the goal are very big, there are small groups dotted about, the majority of people are either in the stand, where it's more blanket and a thermos, then raucous singing or they are gravitating to the steps outside the bar, steeling themselves up to head off for another pint.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfa2I5H-vvkq8-_x0IgZ1hecJJ92sniCQUmfF2ziAH6UmSC0tWud9q692VBoPXm4zy1hxtQP5diq2RgUbzstFsH9A56RA4SQ370BieFHbqJJByX_8dF541gg284ViXzuK3ALVenHI6-Do/s1600/IMG_20200125_154515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfa2I5H-vvkq8-_x0IgZ1hecJJ92sniCQUmfF2ziAH6UmSC0tWud9q692VBoPXm4zy1hxtQP5diq2RgUbzstFsH9A56RA4SQ370BieFHbqJJByX_8dF541gg284ViXzuK3ALVenHI6-Do/s400/IMG_20200125_154515.JPG" width="400" /></a>Serenaded with a chorus of “wanker, wanker” the referee comes in for more stick, this time a booking for a CU player, but no one knows why he has ended up in the book. The same fans are then left a little embarrassed, after doing such a good job in controlling the ball, their number 9 goes down very easily, “bit Saha that” laughs Tom. One home fan though expressing what we all really think, when our team wins a free kick in similar circumstances, “I'll take it either way”.<br />
<br />
The slightly fortunate set piece is accompanied with not quite a rumbling home chant, and for the second time right on the edge of the six yard box, unmarked, a player misses a free header.<br />
<br />
Tom’s conclusion to his predicament was ‘yes’ I will eat again, but he’s not sure if it will be a burger, and he’s disappeared along the crumbling concrete steps in search of something to satisfy whatever is growing inside of him and I have to admit he is lucky. The final five minutes of the half are just short of a farce, all starting with a hand of god attempt by one TT player, that's not punished, much to the annoyance of one home fan, “you've got to book him, prick”.<br />
<br />
Another ball heads towards the car park, one TT player is rolling around all over the place and like something from a comedy of errors, both teams play musical statues, all thinking that the ball has gone out, but it hasn't. Everyone to a man is dead still, until it dawns on them that the referee hasn't blown up, and it's still in play.<br />
<br />
A late bit of CU possession comes to nothing, it's scrappy and the passing of the added time, comes under scrutiny from the old man in the gloves, “that was a quick two minutes”.<br />
<br />
The Dad Rock returns, as does Tom with some chips. “Regretting my choice” he says ruefully, no reflection on the chips, they are great chips, but he tells me “I should have got another burger”. On the pitch the kids are back, taking part in a penalty shoot out, some of which are top class, which the crowd behind appreciate. Applauding accordingly as the latest one crashes into the top right hand corner.<br />
<br />
Tom reports that the TT fans “have a drum” but for some reason “they're not hitting it” and the celebration of some of the child's penalties are getting out of hand. The flags have swapped ends, and I hope the drum has too, could do with a bit of that in the second half. One TT fan struggles to find somewhere suitable to hang one of them, on account of how big it is, so has to make do with just hanging a much smaller one instead. A youngster wheels away in delight after scoring what I assume is the winning penalty, and the appearance of the teams, is hardly greeted with rapturous applause.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQ0JNldh9l5Wlr44c_owkFJO16LHcWm1FSgzT3gA67SE53Zhj_nvhfNu2YVJ2OvVrY27FT06MiLSCOIqemoExT4LD1HZQKMG5SBF5VMFSgWOf6fmaj6YPNGDc8n1UEZBLZ0PgOkTO0LQ/s1600/P1060814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQ0JNldh9l5Wlr44c_owkFJO16LHcWm1FSgzT3gA67SE53Zhj_nvhfNu2YVJ2OvVrY27FT06MiLSCOIqemoExT4LD1HZQKMG5SBF5VMFSgWOf6fmaj6YPNGDc8n1UEZBLZ0PgOkTO0LQ/s400/P1060814.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
Like the Oracle Tina clearly is, the home fans in their new end, hangovers subsided, are straight at it, whacking the metal stand around them and hammering out the chants. TT’s flat cap wearing Capo now has some competition, the home team's quick start, a deflected shot wide after only five minutes, means for the first time today the home supporters are the louder.<br />
<br />
Buzzing around in front of us, the non league staple of kids bombing about, makes the Dad in me come to the fore. If one of them goes down on this rough ground, there will literally be tears and probably a trip to A&E, and I’m not bloody driving them, oh wait, these are not my kids, phew. Tom then comes out with a line, said by someone who has no children, “kids just love to run”.<br />
<br />
Both sets of fans have well and truly turned up now, feeding off each other perhaps. The TT ones have their now familiar go to's, “yellow, yellow” and “Taunton, Taunton”. The home ones sing one to the Adams Family theme tune, which I’m pretty sure I'd never heard used until New Years Day, and now it seems to be all the rage.<br />
<br />
TT are struggling up front, thanks in no small part to the dominance on the home number 6, who is gobbling up every long ball up to the forwards. An issue flat cap had pointed out to us in the break, the latest victory for the home defender, sees the TT number 9 concede it might just not be his day, patting his counterpart on the back.<br />
<br />
The home fans now follow every TT goal kick with “you shit bastard” and the TT supporters want their player in midfield to “shooooooot” with the CU keeper way, way off his line, but he doesn't. Both sets of supporters are revelling in the back and forth, and much unlike in the first half, except for the goals of course, stuff is happening, there are no longer these empty periods of nothingness.<br />
<br />
A swift home move, ends with a player in the box five foot out missing a chance to put CU ahead, but he puts his attempt wide. The reaction, from the entire ground the same, how did he miss? Everyone, home and away letting out a “oh” in unison. CU are turning the screw, having noticeably ramped it up, now flexing their top of the table muscles, which is making for a far more entertaining half.<br />
<br />
The referee shows his laissez faire approach when nothing is given for a blatant shove, but this is all soon forgotten when a minute after a surging home run ends with a dipping long range shot just over the bar. “Come on boys, lets go again” insists the TT manager, his team are starting to fall off the pace.<br />
<br />
CU’s increase in intensity is starting to affect the TT back line. A CU dinked cross over the box is <br />
headed clear, but much like with TT’s goal, it's not cleared far enough, allowing for a snap shot from the edge of the six yard box. However the TT keeper is equal to it and is down in a flash, extending an arm, and somehow getting a hand to it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFTcSMKqW_nsB3WW0XH_oJ4s8NkZvzMT4coHnFIUWMaYOyumoA9CrnGxRK0VgLMwCiNi1A0F_l2Xl7wHOxyaeBB8D5q0qAxehuT7x7-Tjx7l_ZSbpGDc7S-pjMqXB3NVmG6rd4Q3lMUM/s1600/DSC_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFTcSMKqW_nsB3WW0XH_oJ4s8NkZvzMT4coHnFIUWMaYOyumoA9CrnGxRK0VgLMwCiNi1A0F_l2Xl7wHOxyaeBB8D5q0qAxehuT7x7-Tjx7l_ZSbpGDc7S-pjMqXB3NVmG6rd4Q3lMUM/s400/DSC_0164.JPG" width="400" /></a>Away for all of two weeks, Tom has well and truly forgotten himself, coming out with lines like “I forgot how cold this country is”. CU continue to probe, they are as Tom puts it “looking the far better side”. One defender tells them not to “force it” it will come, and on sixty four minuets, the opportunity to take the lead, is handed to them on a plate.<br />
<br />
“Off, off, off” bay the fans behind the TT goal, the visiting defender having effectively by the looks of it attempted a slam dunk. Never I don't think have I heard an entire ground call for something, it was as plain as day, and there was no doubt in the referees mind at all, his assertive point towards the spot, confirming the penalty. The Adam Family song resurfaces as the referee chats with the offending TT player and the cheers that goes up, after he is awarded a red, were probably bigger than the ones for when they scored.<br />
<br />
“Cheerio, cheerio” sing the home fans, in that slightly smug way football fans do, when they feel ‘ooh we’ve got to win now’. TT’s keeper is lived, and soon the Meadow is silent, like a rugby ground when a player is about to kick a peanlty, this means that the sound of the ball striking the foot of the post, letting out a distinctive ping as it does, is almost deafening.<br />
<br />
The TT fans can all but laugh, but it doesn't mask their obvious relief. The CU supporters, much like the players, all have their heads in their hands, many letting out a frustrated “arghhhhh”.<br />
<br />
What I’m sure will be even rarer now they are down to ten, a TT attack almost sees them take a shock lead, a great ball across the defence from the wide, almost completely undoes them, only for the stretching keeper to hook it clear.<br />
<br />
“Four people!” exclaims Tom loudly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a four way tackle before” this phenomenon I must admit I’ve never seen before either. The football equivalent of a mosh pit takes place not far from the edge of the centre circle, where two players from each side collide in one hell of tangle. The PA surfaces for what feels like the first time in a while, thanking all “five hundred and fifty one” of those here, and praising them for their “support”. Edging towards the final ten, the TT keeper is getting into ‘how long can I get away taking a goal kick’ mode, you can see the cogs whirring away, and the referee insists he “sped it up”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWO2G444NSL-Zp1QX8lTjZa9Z3IogQhe1WFd7SVzI9sEwVh6YDgisYQ-j5bnxQGTvZl9psnl64MEo0Dp-Rke3k6aemUsGUe0NXQ-vTxaHU3d1XHWB1Ae8pcyeizEGit7YLyN85Otyc9w/s1600/IMG_20200125_163329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1600" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWO2G444NSL-Zp1QX8lTjZa9Z3IogQhe1WFd7SVzI9sEwVh6YDgisYQ-j5bnxQGTvZl9psnl64MEo0Dp-Rke3k6aemUsGUe0NXQ-vTxaHU3d1XHWB1Ae8pcyeizEGit7YLyN85Otyc9w/s400/IMG_20200125_163329.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
CU’s number 7 is dangerous, carries the ball into the box with ease, though his final balls are lacking a bit of cutting edge, CU are just not making that extra man count. Skipping past one defender, then another into the box again, this time shot is spilled, but a last ditch TT tackle stops the tap in, and not for the first time today, like the boughs of a great old ship, the whole place groans.<br />
As you would expect when the traffic is all going one way, the home fans are buoyant “since I was young” and when the CU big number 9 beats the keeper to the ball, the forwards touch taking him well and truly out of it, after rushing out of goal to meet him, it look like we might have our winner, but the bobbling shot towards the empty goal is cleared. “Doesn't feel like it's going to happen for them” says Tom.<br />
<br />
“Come on Taunton, keep running” urges flat cap, who has been shy of a song for a while. “Push them up harder” shouts a CU fan, Tom now more convinced than ever, the games “got 1-1 written all over it”, despite what is now effectively a siege on the TT box, I’m just waiting for the trebuchet to be rolled out, but Tom reckons for all the “huffing and puffing”, “nothings going to happen”. The sound of a powerful CU shot crashing into the stand behind is a little sobering, it was close to decapitating someone. The home fans now literally and metaphorically on the edge of their seats. Flat cap has now occupied the role of commissar, “concentration boys, dig in”.<br />
<br />
The final minutes, much like those of the first half are protracted and it just feels like a succession of <br />
free kicks, one after another, for one reason or another. A high foot here, a hand ball there, all with the added drams of a mist that has rolled in off the hill, “it's a bit foggy” says Tom.<br />
<br />
“Referee get on with the fucking game” snarls one TT fan, the match having slowed to a tedious pace. Another handball, awards CU a free kick on the edge of the D, the fans behind build the tension “Chesham, Chesham” as the player prepares himself, but as is normally the case: the amount of time it takes to talk about it + amount of time trying to look like Ronaldo = shit free kick and in the end its well over.<br />
<br />
“Three points” laughs a TT fan, after the successful CU conversion.<br />
<br />
I have to be honest it’s “you fat bastard or nothing for me, the CU fans insist on saying “you shit bastard” but like I have already said, football is about traditions. Tom doesn't think you can say it if the keeper in question is “not fat” but what does he know?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmJf-u3EjqvtoHsXEB5tLp1gvatqfvzephbOshJqHzGilYYHuOLffCysF0DevnSvB9SOiB0B8C3i-iIFSrXPH4q0gRl9gpzqdmEEGeRCt97Xc3S0rmOlCIl8zbVpel3sIgFrCntcExvE/s1600/P1060815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmJf-u3EjqvtoHsXEB5tLp1gvatqfvzephbOshJqHzGilYYHuOLffCysF0DevnSvB9SOiB0B8C3i-iIFSrXPH4q0gRl9gpzqdmEEGeRCt97Xc3S0rmOlCIl8zbVpel3sIgFrCntcExvE/s400/P1060815.JPG" width="300" /></a><br />
The PA heaps on the anxiety, by telling us there will be a “minimum of five added minutes” and then flat cap belts out one of his last songs of the day, “ally, ally o”. Only seconds into the added on time and Tom already feels like things are dragging, “is this game going on forever?, and someone on the TT bench does their best Mutiny on the Bounty impression, addressing the referee, “give us something referee, give us something man”.<br />
<br />
A rising thundering CU shot, moving at a rate of knots is well held by the TT keeper, and Tom says its “do or die” time. CU almost nick it, right at the death, only for a header, deep, deep into injury time to be cleared off the line and before anyone can react, the referee has his whistle to his lips and each team will have to be satisfied with a point a piece.<br />
<br />
There is much that can be taken from today, firstly how has it taken us this long to make it to The Meadow, it's only thirty minutes from my house and it ticks all the boxes, this afternoon made even better by the TT fans, and flat cap, making for a quite superb day.<br />
<br />
The Meadow might not be here for much longer, so for that reason alone it's worth paying it a visit, as nice as CU's new ground will be, modern, tidy, not falling down, it won't come close to what is on offer the other side of the big gates and the sign on it that reads Welcome To The Meadow, home of The Generals. Tom and I know more than most, what it's like to see your team move home, some a bit further than others yes, but move all the same.<br />
<br />
Tina made a fine point, it's about their "legacy, their future" which I completely understand, football being the business it is today, at all levels, you have to be so conscious in making sure you can survive. However another point she made is the most telling, the one that will ring true with most if not all fans, who have had to already or are in the process of contemplating packing up, and saying goodbye to somewhere associated with so much history, "head says move, heart says stay".<br />
<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-56862303710262000792020-02-02T11:23:00.001-08:002020-02-02T11:35:21.767-08:00No Need For The Boos - Stockport County FC Vs Boreham Wood FC, National League, Edgeley Park (04/01/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6i3MvNc1bUQ41YrZYXIZQUS3lxaCmACJHspSkqRsw0h8SHkxO4VBix6TT-7C7mWt0LtLErAXlUHb4Kj9aqhTzz_eO0KpVtGUL3fc-wVHRGH4u9qqTmWj7kklo-DpFHakRmjax3JqLy3w/s1600/P1060915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1117" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6i3MvNc1bUQ41YrZYXIZQUS3lxaCmACJHspSkqRsw0h8SHkxO4VBix6TT-7C7mWt0LtLErAXlUHb4Kj9aqhTzz_eO0KpVtGUL3fc-wVHRGH4u9qqTmWj7kklo-DpFHakRmjax3JqLy3w/s320/P1060915.JPG" width="223" /></a>Sitting on a bench outside a Co-Op, waiting for my other half to stagger her way over from Greggs with a bag full of sausage rolls and pizza slices, doing her best not to vomit, because last night she forgot she is in her 40’s and is not a teenager anymore, after going out with some old school friends, was not quite how I envisaged starting today.<br />
<br />
I say starting, because in fact this debacle began about eight or nine hours earlier with a swathe of drunken selfies and the sounds of retching as she crashed around the downstairs of her parents house attempting to make toast, being frankly quite annoying.<br />
<br />
It’s grey, dry and cold, the weather doing a fine job in summing up my mood. What was supposed to be an early birthday present, a trip to one of possibly my favourite places to watch football, has instead turned into babysitting an almost fifty year old Harry Potter lookalike, making sure to shield her from even the slightest of noises, because they might force her to curl up on the floor and I'll have to call her Mum to come and pick her up.<br />
<br />
Plenty of blue passes us by, eating in silence, the warm salty tubes that Greggs call a sausage roll, cover me in crumbs. I consider just sending her home and going it alone, but the greasy contents of our paper bag lunch, has fortified her somewhat, so we plough on and it's not long before towering over the nearby red brick terraced houses, we get a glimpse of Edgeley Parks grand Cheadle End, the all seater behemoth and three of the four spindly floodlights that sit on each corner of the home of Stockport County FC (SC).<br />
<br />
My affinity with this particular club, two hundred miles from where I grew up, that before meeting my other half thirteen years ago I had no knowledge of, and now having seen them a handful of times in the past decade, my fondness for them getting stronger each time, is inexplicable. The first time we saw them play was also the first time I met Rachel's parents, that's the puking mother of my daughter, meeting us at the local train station where they presented us with a SC scarf each. Her, the North, her family and SC all now somewhat intertwined.<br />
<br />
Before the almost being sick and the wandering around the shopping precinct trying to decide on what Rachel wanted to eat, it’s worth mentioning a slight match day anomaly, an offer in the greatest tradition of the Godfather, one I couldn't “refuse”, made by a member of Help The Hatters the SC supporters club.<br />
<br />
Standing by a still shutter covered door, one of the two that interrupt the iconic blue wall with Stockport County A.F.C. written across it on the side of the clubs main stand, is David waiting patiently. Waiting to give us a quick glimpse before all the hustle and bustle of match day kicks in, of a place so ram packed with SC related trinkets, tat and memorabilia of the highest order, long time readers will know what a fan I am of such things, it will be enough to almost make me puke and I hadn't even had a drink last night, The Stockport County Museum.<br />
<br />
Replace the stone columns of the British Museum, the ornate Victorian facade of the Natural History Museum or the chimney of Stockport's very own Hat Museum, with the narrow double doors of a function room, deep in the bowels of the Danny Bergara Stand, like I said before the shutter having to be raised and hurriedly closed behind us, but don't get confused, this place in no less auspicious. The outside might not be as opulent as the aforementioned, but the contents within, are just as precious.<br />
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I could go on about the picture covered walls, the glass cabinets fit to burst, the shirts oh the shirts, for ages. The 1970’s season tickets, which are effectively miniature leather bound books, the programmes and trophies, the cap of the one and only SC player to represent England.<br />
<br />
Far too much to mention, but what a treat. All sourced by the passionate and devoted members of the supporters club, as well as the wider SC family. It’s not massive, it's all a bit rammed in, fitting wherever it can go, but its a sight to behold, something every club should have, however big or small. Because ultimately a club's history is its foundation and keeping in touch with it, is oh so important.<br />
<br />
The well turned out man in a flat cap and cheery disposition, sells me my 50/50 tickets. “If you are lucky” he tells me, the results will be “announced at half time” and shown on “the scoreboard” too. SC’s very own jumbotron a new addition since our last visit, that sits atop the uncovered stand opposite to where we'll be sitting today.<br />
<br />
It’s a kind of a staging post, a base camp if you will the other side of the turnstiles, the lady in her white plastic hut furnishing me with a programme, before we make the ascent to our seats. The yawning great entrance and concrete steps are hardly inviting, but you know in the back of your mind what is at the top is well worth the climb and someone has done their best to make the stark metal and concrete as welcoming as possible. I particularly like the picture of the current team in a collection of old shirts.<br />
<br />
“Wishing you all a very happy New Year” says the booming voice over the PA, who has a little bit of the announcer at a major train station about him. Our journey through the cave, to the rather plain concourse is not the end of our travels, and there are a few more steps to negotiate before we find our seats a few rows short of the very back. Edgeley Park with its Football League pedigree, means when you leave the concourse and head out into open, it gives you that tingle, that many grounds lower down the pyramid just don't give you.<br />
<br />
People are piling in by the second and having gone through all the niceties, the PA then prepares those who take part in such horrors to get their “pens and pencils ready” he “promised them the starting elevens” and he is a man who delivers. As he proceeds to read them out, I can hear every single programme being scribbled on crying, it's like witnessing some kind of war crime.<br />
<br />
As each member of the team's name is read out, their image in turn appears on the big screen. The popularity of said players is made clear by the enthusiasm of each response.<br />
<br />
The extending of the blue vinyl tunnel is accompanied by Florence and the Machine, a few minutes later the referee comes into view along with the SC and Boreham Wood FC (BW) players and then it's the turn of Flo Rida who is briefly interrupted by the man with the microphone one last time, asking the supporters to “welcome” out the teams “for the first time this year” and as much as I have a bit of a secret fancy for the tax dodging Mr Rida’s upbeat Good Feeling, I’d much rather listen to the drum that has just struck up behind us, as the first ripple of “Jim Gannons blue and white army” starts to wash over us.<br />
<br />
A wolf whistle follows the home keeper taking a tumble in his own area, slipping I guess as there wasn't any apparent obstacle. Come the end of the day, he will be looking back on the playful teasing longingly, after the day he has.<br />
<br />
The drum is now reverberating, and the floor below my feet is quivering, however this is all soon quelled, with the announcement that a two minutes silence is to be observed, bringing everyone to their feet, which is followed by a cacophony of banging folding chairs. Just the odd cough and naff <br />
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ringtone breaks the silence and when it's over, that phenomenon like someone has flicked a switch plays out, all the bowed heads lift again, and life returns, “blue army, blue army”.<br />
<br />
Remember what I said about the keeper looking back fondly on the ribbing he got when he fell over, well now you'll understand why, with about one minute on the clock, his less than stellar goalkeeping has resulted in SC going behind and the flood gates open. “You shit cunt” sneers one fan, “that’s fucking scandalous” barks another. The far from fiercely struck shot from outside the area, a bit of a bouncer really, looked to tickle his outstretched hands, before hitting the back of the net. The heaving stand around us going from joyful to seething in the blink of an eye”.<br />
<br />
Having been rather quiet until now, hunkering down in her seat, braced against me, Rachel joins in the sledging, “I thought I was hungover”, suggesting the keepers poor handling was down to a skinful full last night. One man adjacent to me across the stairs, plays a spot of ‘I told you so’, “how long have I been saying about him?”.<br />
<br />
The opening five minutes have hardly been impressive by SC, the allegation that it was not just the keeper, but the whole team who had been on the piss last night, could certainly be levelled at them. Six minutes on the clock and another BW attack pierces the backline, into the eighteen yard box, the player responsible for deflecting the cross wide get his very own song, and out last night or not out last night, the SC supporters aren't showing any sluggishness, unlike their team, “and we come from Edgeley, you’re the only team for me” they sing. The drum pounding away, accompanied by a tiny cymbal, the likes normally associated with a wind up performing bear.<br />
<br />
“Come on County'' pleads one fan, the kind of request which is normally reserved for the last ten minutes, not after the first. Already looking like they are going to get over run, they have been sloppy to say the least.<br />
<br />
BW’s kit is positively foul an all neon green number with a few black accents, quite the juxtaposition in comparison to the classic blue and white of SC. A single child tries to stir the crowd, “ally, ally o”, but the matters on the pitch are more pressing, the visitors dominant, “put a fucking tackle in” fumes one fan. SC are almost out of it, before it’s even got started. Second to everything, Rachel's appraisal is rather damning, “this is shit”.<br />
<br />
It takes a full fifteen minutes before the Cheadle End bristles anywhere as like as much as it had in the moments before kick off, when all the promise of a good day ahead was palpable. A whipped shot is not far off target, over the crossbar and into the vacant stand behind, the drum and symbol flare up for the first time in a while, as does a low rumbling chorus of “County, County”.<br />
<br />
However this doesn't last for long, the crowd are again muted, the match poor, this though does not prevent what I've recently noticed is a mainstay on lots of non league grounds, kids haring about. Down at the foot of the stand, between it and the pitch, at least three or four are charging up and down, quite ambivalent to what is going on feet away from them.<br />
<br />
“Ohhhhh” gasp the crowd, SC are let off once again. What looks like a simple back post tap in for BW, goes begging. The fans try to rouse their team, “Jim Gannon's blue and white army”, but they are well and truly on the ropes. One man describes it as being “like an attack Vs defence match”.<br />
<br />
A home free kick sees the man in front of me on the edge of his seat in anticipation, readying himself to leap up in celebration, but nothing comes of it. “Jim Gannons blue and white army” is stuck on a loud loop, however this is soon replaced with more vitriol towards the keeper. If I’m honest I’m not sure there was really much he could have done about the dipping long range effort, that puts BW further ahead, but the majority of people around me seem to think he is very much at fault.<br />
<br />
“You want sacking you cunt” spits one man, Mr ‘I told you so’ is back at it again, talking about his musings on SC's online fan forum, “people don't believe me on Yellow Board about him”. Small spats, quarrels break out among them, all while BW mob the scorer. There is no sound from the smattering of their fans off to our right, just lots of swearing, lots and lots of swearing.<br />
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A few are a bit more pragmatic, “it was a good goal, you can't blame him for that”, however everyone can agree that the team just aren't putting a shift in. “everyone's walking” says someone exacerbated, “put a tackle” in cries another. When a thunderous BW drive rebounds off the wood work, I turn to Rachel who simply mouths “what the fuck”.<br />
<br />
A hoof out of defence, hands possession back to BW, allowing them to crash against the struggling SC defence once more, it's really horrible from the home side. BW go close, Rachel makes the point “they might as well not be on the pitch”. The bing bong of the PA offers up a scarce moment of light relief, “I hope this announcement is for me so I can go” laughs one man, another putting on his best pretend voice, “can any Stockport County midfielders please get on the ball”.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure if it's the influence of last night's cocktails, but Rachel is in a particularly prickly mood, when SC get the ball into the BW box she gripes, “after thirty two minutes they have decided to play some football”. She is not the only one mind, the fans around us more than forthcoming with their opinions, “play in their half”, “move up”.<br />
<br />
The SC attack results in a corner, which is probably the beginning of their first bit of sustained home pressure all half. A song breaks out among the fans right at the back of the stand, and filters down “I O County” and Rachel can't get her head around the total lack of noise coming from the travelling supporters, “why travel all that way just to be miserable?”.<br />
<br />
On his feet, near enough seaming, one man violently gestures towards the pitch, “forward, forward. MOVE!” the distinct lack of home dynamism is starting to grate. Such is the growing desperation, one person even blames a neighbour for their down turn in fortune, “all very good until you came back”. A lady behind me, calls for them to be a bit more direct, “too much fucking messing about. Get it in”.<br />
<br />
By far one of the most animated supporters, the man in the seat in front of me is constantly up and down. Each misplaced pass or shot on goal, is greeted with a whole host of guttural noises. “That's better from us” says one fan generously, an SC cross into the box is held up well, allowing for a teammate to let fly a shot which is well blocked. SC showing the first genuine bit of link up play, and then not long after a long range effort is beaten out by the BW keeper, but no SC player is able to latch onto the loose ball.<br />
<br />
“A couple of fast passes and we’re in” says one man, the crowd encouraged, breaking into song “County, County”. SC are looking far better, but it's a long way back, and that's about to get even further. Any hint of joy is quickly sucked out of the place, when BW scores their third, “too fucking easy”, “its embarrassing”.<br />
<br />
The BE players celebrate down in front riling up the home fans, inspiring some quiet excellent levels of swearing, and many clenched fists simulating an unsavoury act. “There was three in a line” bemoans one man, more then one BW player on hand in the box to score, if the first man had missed. Boos follow and it's hard to deduce if they are for the mocking BW players or their own under performing ones.<br />
<br />
Perhaps in an attempt to appease the restless locals the PA is quick to divulge the 50/50 results as the <br />
players walk off. The 50/50 I didn't win, no money, larger or club shop voucher for me, the 50/50 from what I can make out is sponsored by a local cash and carry. One woman pulls a crime novel from the bag at her feet and would be forgiven if she just carried on reading it until the end. SC’s mascot ,a large hat wearing bear is doing the rounds, although he leaves one boy hanging who is looking for a high five, but he’s persistent, chasing after the walking cuddly toy until he finally gets what he is after.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFSFMscGmbGBClj5_-X8bzCcs2qEZ71_a3fnlgPHtvZrD2n64qrHvJt0YIa-fYZ9AutviQhiBACWLH5vhPhsJvMt4IYpcql7u2ytvtexlD3qoDNq2LN0kY_TdfVHlMsPh7SWQ6yxpQzg/s1600/P1060674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFSFMscGmbGBClj5_-X8bzCcs2qEZ71_a3fnlgPHtvZrD2n64qrHvJt0YIa-fYZ9AutviQhiBACWLH5vhPhsJvMt4IYpcql7u2ytvtexlD3qoDNq2LN0kY_TdfVHlMsPh7SWQ6yxpQzg/s400/P1060674.JPG" width="400" /></a>Rachel, barely a shell of her former self, joins the throng in search of some refreshment, desperately in need of a hot drink. “We’re gonna win 4 - 3” says an optimistic younger SC fan, clutching a soft drink, clearly high on aspartame. The first half performance is summed up perfectly by two passing friends who just shrug at each other, another asks for “answers on a postcard” as to why they were as abysmal as they were, and I'm somewhat engrossed by the young man who trumps the lady with a book, playing a Lego Star Wars game on a large black tablet.<br />
<br />
The 50/50 has been claimed, but the blaring music does a good job of drowning out my disappointment. When SC returns there is a light smattering of applause, but really they are lucky to get that. They have given their fans absolutely nothing worthy of applause yet.<br />
<br />
“That was excellent timing” says Rachel grasping two cups of tea, however she comes bearing bad news, “they've run out of pies, good thing Tom isn't here”, Rachel “really fancied a Pukka pie” the perfect antidote for a stinking hangover. When BW appear, they are greeted with silence, I can just about make out the handful of their fans, but can't hear if they are making any noise at all.<br />
<br />
The first ten minutes or so of the new half are consumed with me trying not to give myself third degree burns as still a quarter of an hour after purchasing it, my tea is molten lava hot. SC thankfully are looking a bit more with it, “pass it” screams a supporter towards a player who opts for glory and ends up taking the wildest of shots. He had better options and plenty of people are happy to tell him so.<br />
<br />
However with my tea still not even half gone and with 16:15 on the big screen, SC scored.<br />
<br />
My view of the ball actually hitting the back of the net is blocked by the bounding man in front of me, the goal itself a case of BW not clearing their lines after a free kick, and a low cross from wide, is tapped in from close range. It almost felt like a case of the crowd drawing it in, the celebrations a bit more jubilant than you would expect considering there is still such a mountain to climb. “dah, dah, dah, County” sing the fans, one man free styling pumping his fist and letting out some falsetto “woos”, but this SC team so far this season, if my memory serves me right, like to do things the hard way, so the regulars around me probably just think this is all very par for the course.<br />
<br />
The fact SC almost concedes again direct from the restart does little to dampen the mood in the stand, and the most fierce of shots that very nearly gives SC their second, only for it to be pushed wide by the very ends of the BW keeper fingers tips, means the stand is jumping once again. The goal has well and truly breathed some much needed energy into the place.<br />
<br />
Having finally finished my tea, I have to admit it wasn't the best, Rachel puts it down to the fact it's from “Yorkshire”, those ugly cross Pennine rivalries rearing their head. On the pitch SC are in the midst of a purple patch, another attempt on goal is wide of the post, it sees the man in front up again, but this time instead of sitting back down, he leans back, effectively sitting on me, as Rachel puts it sniggering, “you got a lap dance”.<br />
<br />
With his man bun and painfully tight looking shorts, the BW keeper is coming in for some stick, his leisurely approach to goal kicks is starting to annoy those who can see through his far from subtle shenanigans, “hurry up you tart” and from then on all subsequent kicks are accompanied with “ohhhhh….you shit fat bastard”.<br />
<br />
After all the invigoration that followed their goal, SC are starting to slip back into their previous bad habits, “shut your eyes and hope, is not a tactic” sighs Rachel, echoing the sentiment of those who for a short time were so elated, but that's rapidly slipping away. SC tease their supporters again with an off target header from a corner, and when a BW player goes down in the box, stopping play, all the venom from post goal comes flooding back, the boos ring out, “Get up you fucking tart” shrieks one man, another insists that the player has no need for the physio and they are to simply “roll him off” the pitch.<br />
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When all else fails, start blaming the referee. It’s an age old tactic, and one we have all been guilty of when our team is being shit. “You’ve got one fucking job” bemoans one fan, after a call doesn’t go their way, a loud volley of “wanker, wanker, wanker” echos around the stand, one of the voices a high pitched child, Rachels response 80% shock and 20% amusement.<br />
<br />
Hope is draining with every passing moment, SC can’t say they have not had the chances this second half, but whenever they do break BW down there interplay is far from precise. The visitors keeper then overtakes the referee as what they call in wrestling circles The Heel or the “pantomime villain” as one person puts it. He is pushing the very limit of how long it takes a person to gather a ball, set it up and kick it. The shouts of “you fat bastard” getting less good natured.<br />
<br />
“Oh my god what are you doing” screams a lady a couple of rows behind us, it also happens to be what Rachel mouths, on account of still feeling like crap and being unable to summon up the energy to speak. SC have the ball, but instead of pressing on, they simply pass it from side to side, showing absolutely no urgency, carrying little threat, no real penetration.<br />
<br />
Into the final five, and the crowd starts to thin. Every foul awarded now in SC’s favour is greeted with a sardonic jeer, the home fans really don't feel like they have had any justice today.<br />
<br />
Resigned to defeat, one man suggests “it would be cruel to score now” the final whistle so close. A back post header, heading goal wards strikes a BW player in the box, up go the shouts of “handball” but they are waved away and the BW keepers dallying has now transcended just football, “it's a work of art this time wasting, I'm surprised the doesn't have a cloak on”.<br />
<br />
“11 wants his hattrick” says one man, and the SC keeper almost gives it to him after a howler at the back, SC’s “heads have dropped” points out one fan, some just want this ordeal to be over and done with “blow the whistle, this is painful now”. When the name of the man of the match is announced, he gets a round of applause, and those wanting to leave, but who don't want to miss anything, now fill the chequered gangway at the base of the stand, waiting for the misery to end, so they can get home<br />
<br />
It can be said at least, despite looking woeful, SC haven't complete downed tools and press on best they can. A lot of that down to the fact BW have well and truly shut up shop and are more than happy for the home side to have as much of the ball as they want, whenever their keeper isn’t prating around with it, that is, “come on fatty” urges one man.<br />
<br />
Right at the death and SC spurn another fine chance, a ball right across the goal mouth, that no one is on hand to capitalise on.<br />
<br />
“A minimum of four minutes allowed” announces the PA, even his mood has dipped a bit, his articulation tarnished by the poor performance. SC manage to get the ball to the edge of the BW eighteen yard box, but the pass to the player who was supposed to have made the overlapping run, rolls out into touch, because the player never made it. “Put it down to a bad day”, says one man philosophically, edging down the steps.<br />
<br />
The faintest "wood army, wood army" can be heard from the BW fans come the final whistle, the SC<br />
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players applaud the Cheadle End and I think its safe to say SC and it's supporters won't want us anywhere near their club for a while, we don't seem to bring them much luck.<br />
<br />
Writing this I still struggle with why exactly I feel the way I do about SC, why they have made the impression on me that they have. Of all the clubs we've visited over the years, why them? A comment made by one fan on the way out, while others showed their displeasure, "no need for the boos", has something to do with it.<br />
<br />
They are a club that has had plenty of highs and plenty of lows in the time I've been watching them, from promotion, to relegation all the way down to the National League North, and what has impressed me most through all of this and other than the warm welcome the fans have always given us, the ground which has all the character you could want, that you can only hope and pray will never be knocked down and replaced with an IKEA flat pack job, is that the fans have continued to come. Be it watching them in Barnet, Edgeley Park, and at whatever level, the fans have always been there.<br />
<br />
I'm a Spurs fan, I have been since I was thirteen, I would never call myself anything other than a Spurs fan, one load of stress is enough, however each time I see SC, that shifts. I'm just not sure my heart can handle both.<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-19828961655306659702020-01-26T11:53:00.000-08:002020-02-02T06:17:43.452-08:00Three At The Back, Undertaker Up Front - Berkhamsted FC Vs Welwyn Garden City FC, Southern League Central, Broadwater (01/01/20)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_V2DuMc0I89Ss3279XIOAGCEc2XRvfI6GTKUhAkNij44RrMWOrIPZ7f5ckZLpLR-9aUWWJrbls_pEflapal7c8KuE_-ig4WpvCZeG5X1IS7NM6v_9l8SXhmq1xRenQPlAIr3OWFXYw0/s1600/P1060859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1144" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_V2DuMc0I89Ss3279XIOAGCEc2XRvfI6GTKUhAkNij44RrMWOrIPZ7f5ckZLpLR-9aUWWJrbls_pEflapal7c8KuE_-ig4WpvCZeG5X1IS7NM6v_9l8SXhmq1xRenQPlAIr3OWFXYw0/s320/P1060859.JPG" width="228" /></a>Scrambled eggs, a side of jalapeno pretzels, James Bond with my half asleep mother and my son glued to his laptop, all topped off with a can of American Fanta and that's before we have got into the nitty gritty of the Hootenanny and the half cut guests pretending to celebrate the dawning of a new decade in and around the second week of October.<br />
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New Years Eve is a lot different now since having children. It all used to be ecstasy, too much booze and rejection and ultimately not having a nice time. Now there are no drugs or girls to fawn over, just crap music and bar snacks that give me heartburn.<br />
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Fireworks display consumed and having just about successfully ignored the fact I’m turning 36 in less than a week, for a few hours at least, January the 1st sees Grandma on babysitting duty, while I make myself scarce for a few hours.<br />
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I say babysitting, he’s 13 now and is about as big as a house, so in reality, he’s looking out for her. Making sure her cats don't overthrow her and start using her debit card. A few signs of our wild night in are still scattered about the living room when we arrive. The chocolate orange wrappers and Diet Coke cans, all the hard stuff. I don’t stick around for long having passed Tom lurking outside in his car like a pest, so ditch the kid, bidding him a fond farewell.<br />
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It’s a new year, it’s daytime, Tom is driving and we’ve not been to a game in a month. To quote the much misunderstood Charlie Sheen, one could maybe say I was “winning”, however I’ll make sure not to say it in earshot of my son, he would be mortally embarrassed.<br />
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A miniature Boba Fett now adorns Tom's dashboard, a Christmas present from his wife. The bobblehead nature of it means once we’ve set off, its jerking about so violently, I don't see how it's not both horribly distracting for Tom and surely it can't withstand that level of punishment for long, any minute now its little green helmet wearing head is going to pop right off.<br />
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“Love is in the air” plays softly over the radio and not long into our journey and although from the outside Tom looks relatively fresh, last night being his first ever New Years Eve where he has not gone out and got all kinds of fucked up, the apparent new mask of self control is slipping every so often. Struggling with the climate controls, the temperature in the car swings wildly between boiling hot and freezing cold. Showing that four G&T’s and a bottle of champagne be it on the sofa at home or the dancefloor of a Camden night club, are going to have some after effects.<br />
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Christmas chat and just how bad Tom’s in laws are at buying presents, followed by a smattering of football chat and just how badly Arsenal are doing, all to the backdrop of Alanis Morisette, amply fill our time on the short drive North, eventually arriving in the the very busy and charming Berkhamsted, where the people round here are very keen on a New Year's Day wander about.<br />
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Not far from the town centre alongside a canal and under some weeping willows, it's not firstly apparent that there is a football ground nearby, secluded fir trees, nestled between the nearby train line and the Grand Union. It’s one of those ones that if it wasn't for the sign on the side of a building with today's fixture spelt out across it, one could be forgiven for thinking they had taken a wrong turning.<br />
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Having parked up in the adjacent Pooh Corner Day Nursery two things are soon very apparent:<br />
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1. Just how bloody close the train line is, running directly behind one goal, you can see the platforms and the dot matrix information boards. When the first Pendalino rattles by on its way to Manchester it kind of scrambled my brain how loud it was.<br />
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2. That I’m not the only one who found Craig David on BBC One last night a bit repetitive, “they’re all the fucking same” critics one passer by about his back catalogue.<br />
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The presence of a couple of stags and a modicum of amber lets on that Watford’s women's team play at Broadwater too, home of Berkhamsted FC (BFC). That until the latest train passes by, is a very sedate setting. A whole lot of red brick has gone into building the main stand, with its low slung flat roof and red plastic seats. Behind each goal are a couple of suitably sized covered terraces, the canal end one much larger than the train end one, but both are more than adequate. The fourth option, a red gazebo looking thing to one side of the main stand, has a sit on, wooden train underneath, that we are both very much drawn towards.<br />
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“Cosy” is how Tom describes the clubhouse, where the tinsel is still up, but the Christmas tree has been undressed and looks in desperate need of a drink. One end of the room is dominated by a pool table and behind it a screen showing this afternoon's Premier League lunchtime kick off. The mainstay of any decent clubhouse other than a decent sized dancefloor of course, which it has, and a dart board, are two fruit machines twinkling away, having been freed from their sarcophagus.<br />
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The walls are covered in pictures of all sizes from seasons gone by and some shelves groan under the weight of a not inconsiderable amount of silverware. At the bar where there is a special offer on Prosecco and among the new arrivals wishing each other a “happy new year” the barman, who is in shorts by the way, is discussing with a small group the playing career of Bradley Walsh.<br />
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Brighton Vs Chelsea is hardly riveting and two kids pester their Mum to ask at the bar to see if the pool table is free, a game of eightball much more entertaining than watching Frank Lampard's blues labour against the seagulls.<br />
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Sporting a blue and and yellow scarf, one BFC fan greets a friend “hello matey” before joining him at his table, sitting down and letting out a shudder in response to it being just a tad chilly outside and in doing so confirming what all football fans already know, that football scarves, because of what they are made of, don't actually offer any protection from the cold whatsoever, you might as well not have it on.<br />
Rousing from his faint New Years Eve induced malaise, like I said an entire bottle of champagne, and while snacking on a packet of crisps, Tom proves that life as an Arsenal fan has got pretty dire. “Thank you” he says, still smarting from Chelsea's victory over his lot recently, “payback for Boxing Day”. The fact Brighton have just scored a blinder, vicariously helps him get over giving up a one goal lead at home and eventually losing and he gets bizarrely energised, when the notion that Brighton might beat Chelsea crosses his mind, “imagine if they won”.<br />
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“50/50 draw?” asks the white haired man in specs, something I’ve not been asked for a while, mainly on account of where we’ve been lately did not offer one and I of course dutifully oblige. I have many New Year's resolutions, but stopping gambling at football isn't one of them. The man on the table next to us is confident, “must be a winner” he breathes while handing over his cash, and in the short time being here, the crowd in the bar has really swelled and although it’s still rather bit drab outside, the man nearby defacing his programme, is enough to drive us out.<br />
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“Maybe it does work” wonders Tom, miraculously the broken drum fastened to the railing behind one goal has come to life, the almighty hole in it, Tom reckoned made by a frustrated fan, more than over use, is being played. However such a marvel is not the case, we have not witnessed a non league miracle. On closer inspection a shiny new one has replaced the rather sad old one, a Christmas present perhaps and up behind it a yellow and blue Union Jack has been hung on the chain link fence, <br />
that is all that separates the ground and the train station.<br />
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The PA’s speakers let out a gentle hum and warming up in front of the small mob of teen BFC fans huddled around the drum and flag, the players of Welwyn Garden City FC (WG) are sharing their thoughts on the home team, “they are so busy and compact, hard to break down” he says it with a slight air of defeatism, which the coach taking the warm up is quick to shoot down, “we can do that”.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vi0_GoncUmnoWcUOkvqugy7W4D0OdaZEpxE9Vp5kDqobWVNI9S3o_7ZyMKiPCeLqQFR2MrHT0TxnfhqHoAv_lbKKosnZ-qoj0toKzjxq01yNYCnTvtIvMGU6yu_xZ1LWtlIsd1oZCSM/s1600/IMG_20200101_125625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vi0_GoncUmnoWcUOkvqugy7W4D0OdaZEpxE9Vp5kDqobWVNI9S3o_7ZyMKiPCeLqQFR2MrHT0TxnfhqHoAv_lbKKosnZ-qoj0toKzjxq01yNYCnTvtIvMGU6yu_xZ1LWtlIsd1oZCSM/s400/IMG_20200101_125625.jpg" width="400" /></a>With the effect of the crisps starting to wean, Tom’s inspection of the small hatch at one end of the main stand, has kicked up a few concerns. “I don't know if they do burgers” he tells me. It is apparent there are a few cold options, but they go down like a lead balloon, “who wants a cheese roll?”.<br />
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“Happy New Year everyone, welcome to Broadwater” says the jolly voice over the PA, before he lets us in on BFC’s socialist leanings when “on behalf of the Comrades” he extends the “welcome” to all the players and staff of WG. His little bit of chatter on the reverse fixture a “1 -1 draw” on a “hot August Bank holiday” has a few in the stand reminiscing, “feels like ages ago now” and whereas the family of the drummer splashed out on him for the 25th, the same can't be said for the loved ones of whoever does the announcements. “No one got him a new microphone for Christmas” laughs a man nearby, the PA’s transmission cutting in and out about every other word.<br />
Proving that the promise of a cheese butty is more than appetising than Tom thinks, the crowd around the food hatch is at a decent size, although it's hard to make out who is queueing and who are WG fans waiting for the toss, to see where they will be spending the first half and when a train pulls up at the station, the ding ding ding to signal the opening doors is so loud it’s like I’m about to board, before it pulls off again, completely drowning out the sporadic whacks of the drum.<br />
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The tiny caged tunnel at the centre of the the main stand is hardly big enough to contain a small child, let alone multiple men, so the referee does not wait around long, before leading out the teams. The chants of “yellows, yellows” and the beat of the drum that until now had been muted, ramping up dramatically as the teams make the short walk on to the pitch, before lining up to shake hands.<br />
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Getting only louder the drum and the group of about twenty encircling it are soon fully up to speed, “yellow army”, by the time the PA is running through the starting elevens, the home side getting the New Year underway with a new man between the sticks, who is “making his home debut”.<br />
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Although he’s unable to finish his sentence, technical difficulties again, “enjoy the game and make some……..” most people get what the PA was getting at, and indulge him. “Since I was young” sing the BFC supporters, the WG ones now at the canal end, in the larger stand pipe up too, “come on Welwyn, come on Welwyn”.<br />
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The home fans behind the goal having set out their stall early, now have a lot to live up to and carry on in pretty much the same vein for the rest of the match. “No noise from the Welwyn boys” they sing, however if the away fans had responded it would have been impossible to hear, because another train just passed by. “You're shit ahhh” they shout after the first WG goal kick, committing themselves to swearing as much as is humanly possible. My favourite of their fairly x rated reparte is probably the call and response chant of “get in to them, fuck them up”.<br />
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All this bravado however soon dissipates, because within four minutes of the start the hosts are behind. The debutante in goal falling the wrong way, the WG penalty is hardly a sterling one, but it's in all the same. The scorer wheeling away with his index finger pressed up against his lips, shushing the crowd.<br />
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The “yeahhhh” from the WG fans is robust, the noise from the BFC supporters is the classic, lets totally overcompensate for the fact we just went behind at home, “your support is fucking shit” they shout, which is accompanied with a few hits of the drum.<br />
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Within a minute of the restart and having seen the spot kick awarded against them, the home team saw their own fair shout for one waved away, sending the BFC supporters under the shelter of the train end into meltdown. Going from about twenty five to a thousand in the blink of an eye. Many if not all of them in their early teens, all over using the word cunt.<br />
Having got off to a rampant start with the early goal the game doesn't look like slowing any time soon, the physicality levels continue to creep upwards and the chances are starting to come. A half volley through a crowd straight at the WG keeper is spilled, but gathered in at the second time of asking, and having now heard the word cunt so many times in the last six minutes, I’m already completely desensitised to it.<br />
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“Look at my new purchase” says Tom, showing off his brand spanking new jumper, I half expect him to call me a cunt but he doesn't. I fail on first look to get why he is telling me about his new purchase, until his longing gaze at his own hands, draws my attention to the fact that the sleeves allow his thumbs to protrude through small holes. What I would have called at school ‘goth sleeves’, but he for some reason thinks they are better than his Fagin's. “So you can stop taking the piss out of my fingerless gloves” he bleats. He must still be drunk.<br />
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Tom then tries to distract me with a bit of kit chat, “It’s a nice burgundy” he points out about WG’s strip, but unlike him I’m not a fan of the fact from head to toe head it’s all the same colour. I like a slight bit of variation. The home sides blue and yellow get up is fetching, but ultimately I just find myself looking at his dodgy sartorial choice.<br />
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Although the BFC player hits the target from a tight angle, his teammates in the box are in a far better position and I feel it's safe to say think he should have passed it, giving him a right old bollocking. The home fans and the drum strike up another song, “ally, ally o, Berkhamsted FC” and Tom who is still doing his best to draw my stare away from his sleeves, points out the haggard cut of socks of one WG player, that wouldn’t look out of place in a bin, “seen better days”.<br />
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“Ohhhh '' gasps the BFC fans at the sight of one player bursting into the box, his pass across the six yard box is dangerous, before it's cleared, not reaching the player ready to tap it in. They are getting closer to drawing level, and the promise of such draws another song from the home crowd, “yellow, yellow, yellow”.<br />
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A head injury to a BFC player, prone on his back clutching his face, means a respectful hush descend as he is attended to. There is the odd rattle of the drum and the sound of one of the keepers clearing his studs on the post but little else.<br />
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After such an encouraging start, and all the signs of a goal fest, anything really clear cut has hardly been forthcoming. An “optimistic” back pass as Tom calls it nearly catches BFC out, “he hoofed it at<br />
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him” he laughs, the BFC keeper not impressed at all, giving the player responsible an earful.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s0eiSo5pAy-nN5QFJXLAFWbi5rS5lF8SJegTEm5S2UJ61jpwhmrsvZbghOiikj5dG4hDNZaxf6OEaC5xpUOjsO9IKPCTtBS4SdaULSXySkZ0_uveBAk1mSbvzmnV0Z53vXaa8DjCGo0/s1600/IMG_20200101_145709_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s0eiSo5pAy-nN5QFJXLAFWbi5rS5lF8SJegTEm5S2UJ61jpwhmrsvZbghOiikj5dG4hDNZaxf6OEaC5xpUOjsO9IKPCTtBS4SdaULSXySkZ0_uveBAk1mSbvzmnV0Z53vXaa8DjCGo0/s400/IMG_20200101_145709_1.jpg" width="400" /></a>Ohhhs from the BFC fans follow a curling edge of the box shot that clears the post by inches, however it's the Dominoes sign and offer of “buy one, get one free” that has Toms attention. The pitch side advertising makes him remember a time when I used to bomb about on a scooter in a helmet slinging Meat Feasts at stoned people, and the last time he once dined on such delicacies, “not had it for 10 years, since you left”.<br />
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I’m not sure what's more outrageous as I put it, repeating the same word over and over again as one BFC player on around twenty four minutes completes the maziest of mazy runs, it's akin to Ginola Vs Barnsley, he is unstoppable, evading almost the entire WG team before dinking it past the keeper or his strutting Cantona esq celebration. Turning, simply being, waiting to be mobbed by his teammates and I thought the group behind the goal had peaked when they didn't get that penalty, but that was nothing.<br />
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They reach all new highs in response to what was a quite spectacular goal. Scarves are being whirled above heads as they serenade the still bouncing players, “whooooo, oooooooo, and that is why we follow, we follow''.<br />
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Close to being undone in the same fashion for a second time, we very nearly have a carbon copy of the BFC goal, moments after the restart. The BFC player slaloms his way into the WG box, only for this time the keeper is on hand to block the shot. An “ohhhhh” emanates from the crowd and the goal has well and truly stirred the home side, who are now peppering the visitors box. It's all action, at one point the WG keeper is well and truly clattered, and the referee doesn't even bat an eyelid.<br />
<br />
Back on level pegging and now in the ascendancy, if BF has one notable weakness, it's the new keeper, who Tom has said on more than one occasion, “looks a bit shaky”. Not that this is of any concern to the home fans who once again are in full voice, “ally, ally o” and “since I was young…….Berko FC the team for me” they sing.<br />
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Almost turning into a screech, the high pitched appeal of someone on the home bench for another penalty, “reffffff” goes unanswered. The player on his arse in the box is bemused at why it's not been given and as play is waved on, the chant of “VAR, VAR” bubbles out from the stand, rearing its head again soon after, when BFC have a goal chalked off, for offside.<br />
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Out of almost nowhere, WG hit the post with a leathered shot from a ridiculous angle, their first meaningful attack since conceding and BFC complete an unwanted hattrick of poor unawarded penalties, when their third of the half is declined and the sweary boys are back again, “you’re fucking blind” sneers one, “you’re just a bloke with a whistle” says another curiously, because that's exactly what he is.<br />
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One would have to say that it’s probably somewhat against the run of play when four minutes before the break, WG takes the lead. “Lets think now” says a philosophical member of the way bench, the towering, and I mean massive BFC number 5, is not quite so composed, “come on don’t go in your fucking shells”.<br />
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The final minutes of the half are scrappy, and as the teams leave for the break, peeking out from under his woolly hat, with his burgundy WG scarf almost covering his face, the very person who suggested we should come here today, ever so slightly smugly tells me “told you it would be a good one” and just like Tom said before leaving in search of food, the visiting supporter echos what he has to say too, that even though his team are ahead, he “can't call it”.<br />
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“Sandwiches” says Tom disappointingly, his worst fears having been confirmed, BFC is a burger free zone. Such are the sandwiches' popularity mind, they are “out of cheese”, the thought of “sausage and pickle” did not appeal, so he plumbed for ham and tomato and feeling a bit peckish myself, I asked him to get me one too. Fresh and well filled, and white roll the right side of chewy and crusty, Tom quickly comes round to the idea that a sandwich is not all that bad, going as far to say 2020 could be “the year of the sandwich”.<br />
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The appearance of the BFC players awakens the home fans, who have not moved ends for the new half. Breaking into a chant, “yellow, yellow”, they have to compete with the man on the PA running through the scores from around the division. My hopes that 2020 might be about more than just nobility named lunch snacks, but about winning too, are soon dashed, reading out the the results of the 50/50, there is a tantalising five second pause, before he announces that the prize has already been “claimed”.<br />
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It's a bright start by WG, off into the box, it's only a last ditch tackle that stops the early attack turning into anything more. The scream of one BFC player is slightly curdling, after a raking challenge that required the referee to call the physio on and another stoppage a few minutes later, means it's all rather stop start. The player felled this time can't carry on, and the age old signal is made to the bench that a replacement needs to be readied.<br />
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“Welwyn give us a song?” ask the BFC fans, who on receipt of no tune from the away fans, many of whom who did chance ends, and are now standing just along from them, reply as I would expect, “no noise from the Welwyn boys” and Tom casually drops our first WWE reference of the year, when the BFC number five cushion the ball out of the air effortlessly and plays it out from the back like a Guardiola wet dream, “nice touch from the Undertaker”.<br />
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It’s great for us, but I’m sure for the respective fans and managers, the game continuing to swing from one end to another, can sometimes be too much to bare. A tame WG shot is fallen on top of in seemingly slow motion and then the home fans curse their defence, “oh fuck off” after one visiting player tries to emulate the outrageous goal, but cant find a teammate in the box. The cheer from the away fans as they go close to extending their lead, triggers what is now the customary response anytime they make even a peep, “we forgot that you were here”, before telling them they’re “only here for the Berko” anyway.<br />
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With still over thirty minutes to play, it's clear already that the GW keeper is doing everything in his power to waste as much time as he can. “Watch him” shouts one home fan angrily, as he prepares to take what are now rather long winded goal kicks.<br />
<br />
WG have well and truly got the bit between their teeth, an up and under almost outwits the home defence, plucked from the air, it looks like the only outcome is going to be a third WG goal, only for the “Undertaker” as Tom now increasingly calls him, to stop the cross into the box with a back heel no less, nullifying the attack. WG looks dangerous, BFC looks disjointed.<br />
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The home fans continue to jab away at the away ones, “shall we sing a song for you?”. The linesman <br />
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running the line in front of us is very partial to a snot rocket and in what maybe a first, the BFC supporters are now singing a song to the tune of the Addams Family theme, but are all soon screaming bloody murder after a WG foul. “Give him red” they demand, only for it to be yellow.<br />
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It looks like the resulting free kick will end with a tap in for the home side, only for it to be blocked and the “Undertaker” is booked for dissent after they are not awarded a free kick. How vital all these chances may have proved to be, because after twenty minutes WG go further ahead, sending the BFC keeper into despair.<br />
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“He was offside” he bellows, chasing the referee, he’s joined by a teammate to bolster his protests, but it all comes to nothing, eventually talking himself into the book, and getting very, very red in the face. The supporters behind him, who as this has all played out in front of, are now shouting “cunt” on loop”. The away bench continues it’s zen like approach to management, “heads on” shouts the club's guru.<br />
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One home player, there is always one, maybe it's just a way to fill the awkward silence suggests there “is still time”.<br />
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Not only are BFC looking a tad toothless, their keeper looks rattled, nervous even and his failed attempt to claim a cross, is hardly reassuring anyone. As Tom puts it GW are “cut throat” they've hardly had an abundance of chances, but they have taken them. BFC I would say probably shade it, as far as time in front of goal, a flying counter attack down the wing, ends with a ball into the box, but no one is on hand to finish, summing up their potency up front or lack of it perfectly.<br />
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Whenever WG venture up towards the railway line, there always looks like there might be a goal at the end of it. “Manage the game” insists someone on their bench.<br />
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Feeling the the side effect of barrelling into a whole hoard of people, the BFC keeper has to take a knee in his own area to recover, and he is soon called into action. Hold up play of the highest calibre, presents WG with a golden opportunity to kill the match off with a quarter of an hour left to play. With a whole host of options, the man with the ball finds a team mate, whose shot is right at the keeper, a fourth goal now feels like only a matter of time.<br />
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BFC just can't find each other when it counts, the game is starting to descend into a bit of a niggly affair, home heads are dropping and the WG bench reminds the team to not neglect their “shape” and to “manage the game”. Tom though is not so convinced his rhetoric has much meaning, “he’s just shouting words”.<br />
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Poleaxed by an elbow, the “Undertaker” is soon back up, and Tom is sure the home bench has had a jostle with the formation, “I think they've put the Undertaker up front, he's not running back”. The gin haze has started to clear and Tom’s Pep side is able to come to the fore, “three at the back, Undertaker up front” he confirms.<br />
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All home hopes seem to have been put in their newly substituted number 15, who has a neat touch, but is being bullied off the ball with ease. He’s seeing plenty of it, and looks to be their main channel, their sole outlet to get back into the game, but he is struggling against the WG defence. The match now one of attrition, WG happy to grind out the last fifteen, it's turning into a bit of an ugly encounter.<br />
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The drum is now less and less frequent, as are the songs. Tom thinks BFC have in their number 10, someone who has a bit of the “de Bruyne about him”, he has the odd flash of brilliance, spraying the ball about, at one point a drop of the shoulder, sells his two markers and he’s away. However all this potential is soon irrelevant, because you can have all the will in the world, a penchant for a diagonal pass, a tricky winger, or a commanding centre back, however if you take your eye of the ball for just a second, it will bite you in the bum.<br />
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It's a kind of debut that ranks along side Johnathan Woodgates for Real Madrid, that the BFC keeper has had today. Having just conceded a fourth, this one a long rage lob, after a quickly taken WG throw finds him off his line and no end of furious back peddling can help, he ends up in a heap in the back of the goal, while the GW players and staff join in congratulating the scorer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybSk_mvtRP_ezGSthv2gBZB4TVaeVetrNl3V0C6MZ4qp4DKY4qPn9hHvANRW-MR6YC-ir7_ER8RCB4eME2FswIb94ddAycI30qVshbQRLu8_tz75sIidcMTiG4gSaFQFDR4fqQHzQ-dE/s1600/IMG_20200101_164457_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="1600" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybSk_mvtRP_ezGSthv2gBZB4TVaeVetrNl3V0C6MZ4qp4DKY4qPn9hHvANRW-MR6YC-ir7_ER8RCB4eME2FswIb94ddAycI30qVshbQRLu8_tz75sIidcMTiG4gSaFQFDR4fqQHzQ-dE/s400/IMG_20200101_164457_1.jpg" width="400" /></a>"We want five" shouts a WG supporter and his team look to have every desire to go and get it, not a case of taking their foot of the gas whatsoever. Rolling a shot just wide of the post, the home fans are silent. Two fans able to muster a few words, through gritted teeth discuss their sides performance, "second best", submitting to the fact that WG are "worthy winners".<br />
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WG almost crown the perfect start to 2020 with a fifth, but the linesman raises his flag, much to the displeasure of one member of the away bench, "never, never".<br />
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How to adequately describe the minutes after the final whistle. Home players dejected, away players happy. Home players trudging off, away ones all with a spring in their step, all fairly routine stuff.<br />
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People start to leave, the WG supporters hang back to clap their team off, like I said all very run of the mill. That's until I notice out the corner of my eye a blinding blue light and then I'm hit by the faint smell of cordite. The BFC fans have only gone and broken out the blue smoke and flares, our very own New Years Day pyro show and I'm frankly lost for words.<br />
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For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2709701875804456&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARCLcd-4C6HBw5FIboY9EdmE8mjUS93I_yL01rYNOPpD4-yXmynttAQhSzFmtzoZeJENocOX7bQ68264oCoC6mcVFnG14SCJclno-TbkURVpEo7DZ3WCX7LtLxt_89YEUrBLGNWG6SIczQKPCneoWlfKS1fKOzc-UPTjKAZVf7blABiyGOOGVWHFb3VLgVh0MlDtE8tEWFG4RzVxrAutn4b7X-QbyQyHoQVSdwg0fX-0X0u7YTrGxX9PG2K5hHz17MrmHX3jJbhG76-9Pqn_U0BCGiXCGI5SxPxD-CEGoEG7TrddGJefsxhZmM6rKywsiQKBMmUW0g6FiHEE1iHCtQBdoj_dsnAonqKSitSsCNvTdXNcvAyS2AzGyLO_4ghldtwLc1Ns1i0ADzgLNy9q3h9PeftHPsU79UB7ejRu-NHiMVCm3a8-B7RHdOq0LH3dsey88TqNRMlR40IRwBSz&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-22258075384345218912020-01-19T11:19:00.002-08:002020-01-19T11:19:56.240-08:00Well Saved Legolas - Huntingdon Town FC Vs Burton Park Wanderers FC, United Counties Football League Division One, Jubilee Park (27/11/19) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcv93rNiFkMjEZofvjFL5N9K0sS8nMWg9mUou0xMoSg2bKnnMdkjdoPEnveUo4Vk3Ud7gD3Qd_OUJ5Rd0MokJKF3f-TZ3hvKW3rH3inJw4WEYCH5CLfg3TLf0KdwS5vwzIG-JiNHvjNaw/s1600/P1060767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcv93rNiFkMjEZofvjFL5N9K0sS8nMWg9mUou0xMoSg2bKnnMdkjdoPEnveUo4Vk3Ud7gD3Qd_OUJ5Rd0MokJKF3f-TZ3hvKW3rH3inJw4WEYCH5CLfg3TLf0KdwS5vwzIG-JiNHvjNaw/s320/P1060767.JPG" width="227" /></a>The A1 is odd, very odd indeed. For such a major highway stretching all the way from London to Edinburgh its only two lanes in places, very poorly lit and littered with sex shops. Lone gaily lit petrol stations occasionally appear on the horizon like a mirage, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. The people who decided that slap bang in the middle of nowhere was the ideal spot for a caravan dealership and Christmas tree outlet was a good idea, might struggle if they ever decided to have a pop at the Dragons. They don't sound like the kind of people dripping with business acumen.<br />
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As you can maybe tell by the fact I'm not recounting chats about FIFA, that once again I’m alone, so even if I did want to stop off for a whip or the latest copy of Playboy, I don’t have anyone to hold my hand as I did. For the fifth time this season, Tom & I have travelled separately, and he’s arrived well before me, although his journey was far from seamless.<br />
<br />
“A farm” he screeches over the speaker on my phone, his Sat Nav has forced him to do a “dodgy u turn” in the dark, where he was “sure there was a ditch” that he and his motor nearly disappeared into.<br />
<br />
I’m glad to see as I manoeuvre across the vast gravel covered car park of Jubilee Park, that Tom’s car is all in one piece, with no signs of having ended up on his roof. Some may wonder why I bother commenting on the state of the car park in a football blog, well it’s because over the years we’ve spent so much time in them, some of which have been so horrifying, so outright dangerous, it's a pleasant surprise when I enter one, without the fear of maybe not getting out again in one piece.<br />
<br />
Outside the clubhouse a dark haired man in a tracksuit frantically taps away on his phone, eventually bumping into Tom, he informs me the aforementioned man is the home side Huntingdon Town FC’s (HT) manager. The look on my face when he tells me, makes him think it necessary to reiterate the point he’s just made, “yes, he’s the manager”. My expression down to the fact of just how fresh faced he is, Tom informing me he is all of “twenty four years old”, and his frantic phone calls are by the sound of it to wrangle up the late comers.<br />
<br />
The woman on a bar stool, with the equally high table beside her hands me my programme as I enter the parquet floored main room of the clubhouse, the bright strip lighting illuminating the almost Viking longhouse length tables, each surrounded by a host of blue padded chairs, but there is not a mead filled horn tanker to be seen.<br />
<br />
There is though the most immaculate looking condiments table, the graphic covered PVC tablecloth tells you exactly what is on offer, teas and coffee, with plenty of pictures to match, however they are doing themselves a disservice, as well as their sponsor a local butchers, because there is also about the largest array of Cuppa soups available I’ve ever seen and the loud rattle of the the shutter over the bar, means the chance of some mead might still be on the cards.<br />
<br />
“Shit shirts”, says Tom sneering, his appreciation of the decor is not exactly glowing. The framed Spurs shirt, plus a couple of England ones too, that line the walls are not quite his cup of tea. On closer inspection I notice there is a running theme among them, they are all signed by Harry Redknapp's favourite centre forward “my missus could have scored that one” Darren Bent, who it turns out is a local resident, who sponsors the home changing room too.<br />
<br />
With some time to kill, Tom in some detail gives me the low down on his recent “Michelin star” meal, where he uses the word “foam” and “deconstructed” a lot. Our staggeringly bourgeoisie conversation though is soon somewhat overshadowed by the home keeper, who is half hanging through the glass door of the clubhouse leading outside where it’s looking rather ghastly, who is doing his best to get the attention of the HT Chairman.<br />
<br />
“Doug” calls out the keeper, “turn the floodlights on please” he asks. Doug, who has no time for chatting, gives the request short shrift and points him in the direction of the “training pitches”. By the looks of it this was not the response the goalie wanted, whose attempt to negotiate doesn’t last long, “Half past” Doug snaps, confirming the agreed time the big lights go on, and if he’s not happy he should “talk to” his “manager or find another fucking club”.<br />
<br />
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Slowly but surely a few people start to trickle through the door, but it's little more than that, the biggest group are Burton Park Wanderers FC (BP) fans. One sports a BP scarf another has the initials of the club on the back of his coat, the small contingent of away supporters heading straight for the bar, more than one of them asking why are the floodlights still not on?<br />
<br />
The lack of a clear landmark that floodlights so often can be for many, was an issue for one man, with the ground being “out in the middle of nowhere” the “no lights” meant he was “a bit worried”.<br />
<br />
It’s almost biblical when eventually the lights do come on. Showing us what until now was shrouded in complete darkness, giving us our first view of the pitch, letting us quickly assess our surroundings and what kind of cover is on offer. The introduction of the lights for most also means the covered smoking area in now a goer and the tea bar is soon churning out a bit of grub. “Cheese burger?” asks the cook, offering a bit of table service to the crowd outside, but there are no takers.<br />
<br />
A single white railing surrounds the pitch, the club's name is written across a white wall behind the far goal and thankfully there is some shelter but not much. Two small IKEA’ esq flatpack stands with red seats are on one corner of the pitch and an almost shed-like looking structure on the half way line. Low roofed and gloomy, and in a slightly odd stroke of architectural<b> </b>design, also contains the two dugouts, which are both basically much smaller versions of the structure behind.<br />
<br />
Clearly content that his blue and white golf umbrella will suffice one BP fan, one rouge BP fan breaks away from the pack and heads the opposite way in search of somewhere dry to sit. The click clacking of the players at the start of the long paving stoned lined path from the club badge flanked double doors leading from the changing rooms to the pitch, initiate a minor migration, although a fair bunch stay in the smoking area, and as the players walk out, they can only stir a smattering of claps from the people here.<br />
<br />
“It's horrible” says one of the linesman to the HT keeper, as he inspects the nets pre kick off. The rain has not stopped coming down and it isn't even really all that heavy, but stand around in it for the next hour and you'll end up with wet underwear.<br />
<br />
The blast of the referee's whistle is sharp and cuts right through the clammer of the players and whatever mild noise the crowd are making. “Skippers please” he shouts as he calls over the captains. The home keeper has already earmarked himself as a talker, he’s incessant and the group under the cover of the smoking area haven't bothered moving yet. Kick off feels overdue, and the man in the middle double checks with each goalie, “keeper” before finally getting us underway.<br />
<br />
Having opted for a spot in the shed, which is busy’ish, most people are huddled together at the same end as the home dugout, we are at the opposite end, leaning on the roof of the integrated away bench, the players totally oblivious that we can hear everything through the thin marine ply roof. Not very far away in his technical area, the HT manager sees his team, in his first game at the helm, get off to the worst possible start. Eight minutes gone and they are already behind.<br />
<br />
It’s an absolute hammer of a shot, that although it's not far from the HT keeper, is hit with such ferocity that it flies past his outstretched arm, right over the top of him and into the goal. The laughing BP players below us are quickly scalded by their manager, “it’s too early for that shit”. He knows there is still plenty left to play, and they haven't won it yet and the excited players soon fall quiet again.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllC0t16j1h4d9VBYhdpE0eRasC1mK7NWteU0zlkKYTIJ0ULwErzUSOxzepSR3myiPLoB4KbugSIusWGp4jkx7-5n2z1vD6JMcYbuqP2rBLz4te2kN_M62hTRQydGw6WI4kKh1lUnEOpA/s1600/DSC_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllC0t16j1h4d9VBYhdpE0eRasC1mK7NWteU0zlkKYTIJ0ULwErzUSOxzepSR3myiPLoB4KbugSIusWGp4jkx7-5n2z1vD6JMcYbuqP2rBLz4te2kN_M62hTRQydGw6WI4kKh1lUnEOpA/s400/DSC_0010.JPG" width="400" /></a>By the end of the night we will fat with one liners from the group around the home dugout and the away bench, the major culprits in the ‘banter’ deluge flooding towards the pitch. “That's assault ref” shouts one along from us, a BP lunge at a home player is a bit of a shocker, but there is no booking and the player responsible for the foul, judging by his gesticulating, is suggesting it wasn't his fault, <br />
but down to the soggy conditions.<br />
<br />
Never one to be outdone, Tom partial to a bit of the old follicular related chit chat then asks me with a totally straight face if I like the “goalies luscious hair?” the far from lofty BP stopper is indeed blessed with a very fetching mane of golden locks. Tom suggests it must “remind” me “of being sixteen” when yes I was too blessed with hair, all bit it dark brown, right down to my arse.<br />
<br />
When he’s not talking about hair, and considering his job you think it would be the last thing he would want to do, Tom shares his thoughts on the home team's prospects tonight. “They are going to get fucked” and so engrossing is the match before us, the majority of the home fans are talking about, if not watching on their phones, tonight's Champions League matches, which is never a good sign.<br />
<br />
“Dennis Irwin init” sniggers one BP substitute, as their left back goes on the kind of run I wouldn't normally associate with the dependable Irishman and most of the smoking area posse have finally moved, however it's the action of one person on the far side of the ground who has us totally captivated. Dressed in a black coat, milling about in the now driving rain, a man is plodding around with a bucket and Tom asks me if I think he is “fishing”.<br />
<br />
Neither team has had a chance since the goal, it's just been a lot of toing and froing in midfield and very little else. A couple of brave souls are adding to the match inflicted torture by standing out in the elements and so fine is the rain, that it’s not until you look at the floodlights, can you see it's still coming down.<br />
<br />
“He loves a tackle number 8” surmises Tom, the BP midfielder flying into another of what is turning out to be his signature move and despite insisting with the referee that he “got the ball” he thinks otherwise, and a foul is given against him.<br />
<br />
Except for the respective managers blocking our view on occasion, it's a relatively good one we have from the safety of the stand. That's until someone below us starts to drag on their vape, sending a thick cloud of white smoke up and out over the pitch, like a locomotive and it's not until the culprit stands up and emerges, telling us he’s “got to stretch” his “legs” because there isn't “enough room” in there, we realise its the kit man and not a player.<br />
<br />
Half an hour gone and the match is dead, deader than a dead thing, that has just been confirmed dead, by Professor Dead, Head of Deadology at the University of Dead. The BP manager turns towards the dugout to take a sip from his resting Lucozade before putting it back and returning to the match. Pretending I’m sure that he is actually thirsty, his team couldn't be more on top if they tried, he just wanted something to do. I think they could have subbed us on and they would still be cruising.<br />
<br />
There is still plenty of chatter from the crowd, but none of it is about the match and one BP substitute is not backwards in coming forwards, a mistake from one of his teammates sees him ask “why we sinking to their level?”. Admittedly they have gone off the boil a bit after their quick start, but that's a pretty damning statement or the hosts who find themselves very much at the wrong end of the table at the moment and look every inch relegation fodder.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPeFpbsaQ2jgitbjwzgrz5bSzHUMqMmxuKO6YcqM77xOgEcJqT4LgHGq4XouUJxWuOGNcRKZj16ebH1lM6lGn2ksjYj7pQ0XYW_n2rq4xPweDkZNVZfFMdiZIod5t0j4ZIVfgNTOclak/s1600/IMG_20191127_193102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPeFpbsaQ2jgitbjwzgrz5bSzHUMqMmxuKO6YcqM77xOgEcJqT4LgHGq4XouUJxWuOGNcRKZj16ebH1lM6lGn2ksjYj7pQ0XYW_n2rq4xPweDkZNVZfFMdiZIod5t0j4ZIVfgNTOclak/s400/IMG_20191127_193102.jpg" width="400" /></a>With zero goalmouth action to captivate us, we do though have a sopping wet pitch and each teams propensity for a full blooded tackle which combined is making for a “very physical” encounter as Tom puts it and when a chance on goal does finally come, by the home side no less, it's such a straightforward save for the BP keeper, he could have thrown his cap on it, as they say.<br />
The response from one person in the crowd to the slightly overly dramatic stop, well in his defense he must be super bored, might go down as one of the best things I’ve ever heard at a football match, “well saved Legolas”.<br />
<br />
Despite all the 50/50’s and sliding collision, the referees hardly had much to do either, and his latest awarding of a free kick, has the air of I just fancied something to do about it. The BP manager is perplexed at why he has just awarded it against his team, “what the fuck was that for?” he asks, arms out by his side. Turning back to get a drink, he mumbles to himself, “shit decision”.<br />
<br />
You do hear, almost always when watching football on the TV, extra praise being heaped on keepers, when they pull off a stunning save having until then having almost absolutely nothing to do all match. Some such praise then must be heaped on “Legolas”, who has just pulled off the the most sublime fingertip save, tipping a HT free kick over and out for a corner. How he was able to get up and out of his deckchair that quickly is a feat of stunning athleticism.<br />
<br />
The banter bus keeps rolling on courtesy of the group to our right, “9 is Adriano” says one as the home forward heads towards goal and sadly I don't think their association is because of his keen eye for goal, but more because he is a touch, and only a touch mind on the portly side.<br />
<br />
HT have flirted with possession in the last few minutes, but if I’m honest I’m not sure they really know what to do with. “Come on Town, let's get started” shouts one of their players, his encouragement a tad late, considering it’s almost half time.<br />
<br />
“Hit it, hit it, hit it” urges someone on the BP bench to the player with the ball, who backs up my theory of them simply not giving a toss, the one goal they seem to think is more than enough for the win, so why waste the effort. He does what the bench instructs and the wobbling shot moves so much the home keeper can't hold it. “More of that” encourages the bench, and for the second time one of them is scathing about HT, “proper shaky team mate”.<br />
<br />
The fact that the blue and white golf brolly is now down, might mean it's safe to venture outside, however I’m very comfy and I’m enjoying earwigging on the BP players and as if like all twenty two on the pitch had just been hit by lighting, the final five minutes of the game, are actually enthralling. Relatively speaking, we have been starved of any real entertainment, after all.<br />
<br />
“Came off his shin pad, would have been fucking incredible” says the shocked BP manager turning towards his bench, after a speculative shot at best by one of his players nearly found the top corner of the goal, from all of about thirty five yards. The chances though are not just reserved for the visitors and bearing down on goal one on one, HT look like they might just draw the match level, only for “Legolas” to go and break home hearts again and keep them out. Ricocheting off him, HT are soon back in possession again, but can't make anything of it, which draws a disappointed groan from Tom.<br />
HT are tackling each other and BP are spurning the kind of chances to make any manager pull his hair out, “fucking hell man” says BP’s, when a simple pass for a tap in was all that was required, but they fluff it and when they do finally double their lead, it’s the least they deserve, actually if they had applied themselves just 10% more they would probably be into double figures now. The BP manager doesn't want anyone to be fooled by the one-sided scoreline, “that's masked how shit we've been”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9rOqriIV01xVXTUzPVp6e7i1Vj06T6jzmIrpgJ_z9a64XRtsVyZi_y1mCZW7O8a2MgEXGBwaRcoAtyqbpx0hNAv9D4YIkbEUAb5YX4lLcZuusPN1zPFcM3V90Kebtgsd6t_JZbEsx8p4/s1600/IMG_20191127_174223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9rOqriIV01xVXTUzPVp6e7i1Vj06T6jzmIrpgJ_z9a64XRtsVyZi_y1mCZW7O8a2MgEXGBwaRcoAtyqbpx0hNAv9D4YIkbEUAb5YX4lLcZuusPN1zPFcM3V90Kebtgsd6t_JZbEsx8p4/s400/IMG_20191127_174223.JPG" width="400" /></a>If this game has not been totally schizophrenic already, the puffed out cheeks of the BP assistant summing up how everyone was feeling after a HT long range shot almost crept under the bar, would have been the cherry on the top.<br />
<br />
Other than the odd drive from way out, HT really have had very little going for them. BP are cutting<br />
them apart at will, “their defence is awful” sighs Tom and when they do have the ball, and when one player beats one man, beats another, getting hearts racing, and then opts for a pirouette to beat a third, but is put on his arse, the BP bench let him know what they think of his showboating, “that's what you get for being a cunt”, it just about sums HT fortunes to a tee.<br />
<br />
With the end of the half only seconds away, “Adriano” is in on goal, his finish though is far from decisive and another HT sighter that must have been from nearly forty yards, is beaten out by the blond haired one, and walloped clear by a defender.<br />
<br />
Every player to man has to quite literally drag themselves off, as what has been far from the best half we've seen so far this season comes to an end and an eerie hush to say the least descends, made even worse by watching Tom bolt for his food. Leaving me all alone.<br />
<br />
The only thing I can hear other than my own thoughts is the sound of the home substitutes kicking the ball about, one of them reckons “they should just call the game now” no point carrying on, if they did just sack it off at least he “can have some chips and go to bed”. Disgruntled to say the least, just what you need around a club going through a bit of a crisis.<br />
<br />
Talk among the away substitutes is a little bit more up beat, “pitch is lovely actually” says one with a grin, another pointing out rightly that its “not cutting up as bad as I thought”.<br />
<br />
BP come out positively marching, no sense that they are happy for proceedings to be cut short. Finishing up his food from the tea bar, Tom thinks, and I’m not sure quite why, but it might be the one that “finally kills” him. His first impression when handed it was hardly positive, “most miserable looking burger” and it's kind of been downhill since then, “tastes like it was cooked two weeks ago”.<br />
<br />
Tom tells me he’s “surprised” that anyone came out for the second half, instead opting to stay warm inside. “Come on big forty five” says one HT player, “big” might be understating the issues, it's going to have to be massive and with less than a minute gone of the half, the BP bench are screaming for a player to “hit it”, is of concern. The shot clears the bar and the hedge behind it, an early let off, but HT looking are as porous as ever.<br />
The introduction of a fresh face for the home side might be what they need to shore them up a a bit, but who on first appearance looks a bit “baby faced” as Tom puts it, might just be a youngster getting some much needed minutes, and only seconds after coming on he is clattered to the floor, Tom suggests that “this game is going to break him”.<br />
<br />
We started the new half just to the left of where we finished the old one, but it's soon apparent it's nowhere near as comfortable and as Tom points out its “cold out here” so we soon move back. We are settled in our old position just in time to see a reducer challenge of Juan Zuniga proportions. A horrible crunching tackle, that stops the home attack dead and somehow results in no booking. The free kick that follows shows the first real bit of home ingenuity, a pass down the side of the wall and into the box catches BP out. The HT keeper cries for his teammates to “follow it up”, but the final effort is tame.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bwFqvlCSiQeroRQpbq99jpnsrtcvTkIWX72MWlYk1RU-g1f0kbIfHeTVhBOu02swf7M_ST93VSTgEwK7K1lIE4l3sER2kiZ108QKE-ZC64faqnCcP92V_DLyXHWK3qAtCL2TJGgXQ9k/s1600/IMG_20191127_194525_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bwFqvlCSiQeroRQpbq99jpnsrtcvTkIWX72MWlYk1RU-g1f0kbIfHeTVhBOu02swf7M_ST93VSTgEwK7K1lIE4l3sER2kiZ108QKE-ZC64faqnCcP92V_DLyXHWK3qAtCL2TJGgXQ9k/s400/IMG_20191127_194525_1.jpg" width="400" /></a>The unpunished reducer is the first of many robust tackles. The animosity is rising, it’s all getting very blood and thunder. The referee waves BP on after another hatchet job, allowing them to play the advantage after another hatchet job. In on goal, the BP bench grumbles in unison when the promising attack is undone, thanks to a woeful final ball.<br />
<br />
Although HT have had more possession in the first quarter of the new half, than they did in the entirety of the first, plus a shot on goal, it seems to have done nothing to improve morale on or off the pitch. BP line up for a long range free kick, but it's a woeful, and in again, outnumbering the home defence at the back, a third surely a certainty, it again comes to nothing due to a complete inability to pass. The final ball is so bad, even the home fans sigh.<br />
<br />
The banter boys are back, having done what Tom thought they might and stayed inside, but slinking out for the final thirty minutes. “Ref we heard that” one shouts, after a BP player is called over because of dissent, “thats disgusting” adds another, the group around him chuckle, before another pipes up, “you look scared ref”.<br />
<br />
A free header by BP goes the wrong side of the post, after the winger followed the direction to “hit it” from the bench. There are a few quiet ahhh’s, as the ball goes wide and then it's all oohh's and a few more pithy one liners from the home crowd, “that's so shit” after the HT forward concludes his final run with a limp shot. A team mate watching on, runs both hands through his hair in frustration.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to be enjoying the sight of the mass brawl as much as I am, but the game is giving us nothing, so I have to seek amusement from somewhere. “Walk away, walk away” barks the home keeper, but no one on either side is having any of it. The referee backs away from the melee to chat with his assistants who have joined him on the pitch, I wonder if either of them spotted the head being thrown in the throng? The fracas ignited by a late BP challenge, one HT supporter asking the downed away player, “how's it feel?”.<br />
<br />
“He's not the sharpest” mutters the BP manager about his terrier like number 8, who is the last to break away from the confrontation. The referee and his officials have seemingly missed the head but. “Give them both a yellow and let's get on with it” shouts someone in the crowd and that's exactly what the man in charge does.<br />
<br />
With order restored, the game offers up a rare bit of excitement, bearing down on goal the order from the BP bench to “finish it”, which is almost followed to the letter, except they didn't take into account the player changing towards the line, who makes an excellent clearance just in the nick of time.<br />
<br />
The main BP protagonist in the ruckus is off, due to the injury from the tackle that sparked the melee, and not picked up in the following punch up, “did he get you properly?” asks his manager “right down the achilles?”. We are also reminded that appearances can be deceiving when we hear for <br />
the first time who we thought was the HT youngster, who I can tell you is actually far from it and having snapped him a couple of times, Tom tells me “he looks much older on the camera” then we first thought.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrUeAxD3AGqy3YPu5QRtKRJqL0pT9Ex0R5pREht1ci0T3upB7llLDfgJXFwq1OL76A-omiIOEDM5ZgBMmQlzMMpyIqAtUu7e_vVRP5glvosM_dIhhFc0HZhnIDQH1aRagqwyz3DMtsUU/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrUeAxD3AGqy3YPu5QRtKRJqL0pT9Ex0R5pREht1ci0T3upB7llLDfgJXFwq1OL76A-omiIOEDM5ZgBMmQlzMMpyIqAtUu7e_vVRP5glvosM_dIhhFc0HZhnIDQH1aRagqwyz3DMtsUU/s400/DSC_0040.JPG" width="400" /></a>A compliment, rather than tedious attempts at banter are the latest things to emit from the small crowd. “That was good from you bruv” says one, I know it's hardly glowing, but it's something, after a curling HT effort is saved by the keeper, but he can't hold on to the first attempt. Spilling it back into the box, he’s just about able to gather it up before he’s swamped.<br />
<br />
“Even the ball wants to go home” scoffs Tom, a decent exchange on the edge of the BP box, sets up a player, but his side footed attempt is off target, sending the ball wide of the goal and right down the tunnel a good thirty yards behind.<br />
<br />
If they really, really put their mind to it, I think HT could score, even draw level, but having had none of the ball, to now having loads of it, their need for about three extra touches too many is driving their manger mad. “Shoot” he exclaims, but with the ball on the edge of the BP box, they instead pass again, and the move breaks down.<br />
<br />
“Keep calm Harry” urges a HT fan with the forward baring down on goal, but “Legolas” is out in a flash, closing down the space and saving with his feet and one HT supporter has finally lost his composure, having been almost restrained all match, his team have pushed him over the edge, “just fucking shoot”. Six yards out from goal, the player with the ball at his feet and the goal at his mercy dawdles, allowing a BP player to get back and block. Both the bench and those HT fans here are flabbergasted.<br />
<br />
The HT manager has had the crowd in his ear for the whole game and has done well not to react. Again his team advances into the box, again they hesitate, again the chance is missed. It maybe goes some way to explaining why a portion of the crowd back in the smoking area are watching the football on the screen inside “VAR, VAR” repeats one, not even pretending to watch the game playing out behind them.<br />
<br />
In an attempt to cajole his team for the final five minutes, the HT bench spell it out for them, “come on boys, you've got nothing to lose”. The shouts of “shoot, shoot” are only getting louder from the home crowd, but just like every time before, all the meandering on the edge of the box, sees them lose the ball at the vital moment. Falling to the feet of the not so juvenile looking player, his attempt is from way out, and wide. One man in the crowd continues to have faith, “it’s still on” he claims, but with the BP keeper now completely unnecessarily falling on the ball at every opportunity to waste time, the referee motioning at him and telling him to “get up”, how long they have to perform this miracle is limited.<br />
<br />
To say BP have been forced back to their own goal line would be wrong, to say they're happy not leaving their own half might be more accurate. Yes it’s all HT, but when they are as blunt as they are up front, why would their opponent be worried how much time you spend in and around their box?<br />
<br />
The vape smoke is coming from all corners now, covering some sections of the pitch in a cherry flavoured fog. Once more the crowd tells a player to “hit it” but you guessed its off target. Once more a player suggests “we're still in this”, but he can't actually mean it. Time and time again the ball is in the BP box, but nothing will stick for the home side, the supporters scream “shoot” the player oblige, but it's always wayward.<br />
<br />
“Fucking hell lino I'm paying you not them” says one man among the smokers, after the assistant waves away a HT penalty claim, the crowd munitioning their imaginary cards, but the man with the red and yellow gives nothing.<br />
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The half ends with a fine flowing home move, until they shoot, and it's right at “Legolas”, a torrent of hair based gags aimed at him too, “will you take the hair out of the shower?” asks one man, “he brings a drain unblocker with him” replies another and a sweary outburst from the HT forward in a prime position on the edge of the six yard box isn't found, “shit”.<br />
<br />
I'll keep it short and sweet for once, I won't go on for too long. I've three points to make:<br />
<br />
1. You have to genuinely question why some people go to football, if you want to slag people off for an hour and a half, get a headset and stay at home and play Fortnite.<br />
<br />
2. More clubs should have dugouts you can lean on and therefore listen in to what is being said inside, it's like an Amazon series with a non league budget and I loved it.<br />
<br />
3. If Darren Bent is still up to it, and is willing to play for a Cuppa soup, HT should ring him and ring him fast.<br />
<br />
<h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-59351852205450772702020-01-12T11:25:00.002-08:002020-01-12T11:25:49.397-08:00Three Stewards For A Flying Teddy Bear - Kingstonian FC Vs Enfield Town FC, Isthmian League Premier, King George’s Field (20/11/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEiRcalLryz-eEQYU2dcM11nQj_lzcK5SgTVFKwp2z1PuAhVHS6Dh4cCbNUekHmF7KygG3SE44Pl7tTy8lgFPA1-jV6hRAnncBsATdkBWmJ4C4tJq4m89RtAGKhsTzcdV7r7r7LqIRmAk/s1600/P1060647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1131" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEiRcalLryz-eEQYU2dcM11nQj_lzcK5SgTVFKwp2z1PuAhVHS6Dh4cCbNUekHmF7KygG3SE44Pl7tTy8lgFPA1-jV6hRAnncBsATdkBWmJ4C4tJq4m89RtAGKhsTzcdV7r7r7LqIRmAk/s320/P1060647.JPG" width="226" /></a>It’s another slightly lonely and quiet solo drive for me today, as I retrace my steps South, as our Wednesday match day handicap means we are heading back to a ground we visited only a couple of weeks ago. Tonight I do have the dulcet tones of former England and Arsenal physio Gary Lewin, no I’m not giving him a lift to Tolworth high street, but he happens to be the guest on the podcast I’m listening to and as interesting, uplifting and slightly horrifying the story is about being credited with saving Eduardo's leg, but it’s not a patch on the witty back and forths I usually enjoy with Tom.<br />
<br />
The railway arch that precedes the final few steps to King George's Field, is even more foreboding in the misty darkness, than it was in the light of day. The two men manning the impromptu road block, instruct me to park under the aforementioned arch, right in the middle of it’s deepening shadows and I’m hoping its a case of them offering me the best place to leave my car and not because they think I resemble its usual goat eating resident.<br />
<br />
A train races by not far above my head, along the track that runs all the way along one side of the ground, instantly lighting up the place, before quickly disappearing again and plunging my surroundings into darkness once more.<br />
<br />
With Tom yet to arrive, I head straight towards the clubhouse, the walls covered in usual trinkets you would expect to find in such a place, framed shirts and a selection of scarves donated by visiting fans from all over the world, as well as one thing not so common, the dark wooden Memorial with the names of those lost during World War One scrawled in gold. They are not though the former players of the team we are here to see tonight, but those of their landlords Corinthian Casuals.<br />
<br />
I try my luck asking the person behind the table that by the size of it looks like it's been pinched right out of a primary school if he happens to be selling 50/50 tickets, however the gent in the club tie informs me, he’s a one man StubHub, selling “tickets for the FA Cup” instead.<br />
<br />
Kingstonian FC (KFC), this evenings home side, might have been sofa surfing around the local areas non league grounds for a season here or a season there for the last couple of years, but their nomadic lifestyle has done nothing to hamper them cruising all the way to the second round proper of this years FA Cup. Their impending home match is the talk of the town, as is the upcoming visit of the Football Focus crew. Tonight's paltry league game, almost feels like a tedious formality, before Dan Walker and the gang arrive.<br />
<br />
Waiting by the single open turnstile, a man in a woolly hat, who has adopted a rather toned down barrow boy persona is flogging programmes, attracting the attention of those coming through with his gentle call, depositing the people's money in the old leather satchel hanging around his neck, with KFC painted on it. I use the word satchel very specifically, on no account is it a man bag or could it pass off as the one Joe wore in Friends, its every inch an Indiana Jones. Just ever so slightly squatter and with the initials of a well known fast food outlet daubed on it’s side.<br />
<br />
Never have I seen a more non league sight, then the one currently before me. With my programme secured, and still hovering around waiting for Tom, overhearing the man on the gate being informed in hushed tones that they are expecting the “league president” tonight, repaint the toilet and make sure the helipad is clear, a man, a man is using the top of a wheelie bin to sell his vast array of pins and badges. More than one of them real pearlers, a few with some real age and quality to them. Absent among the many fastened to what look like thin sheets of leather, is an Arsenal tie pin I got for Tom for his wedding day.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSMNd7dI9WoBRZtJr2oyRA75yeXMCsxx2IOAhfN-aVuLNtudShOgeY0d-wxTbGxfAPg6oN7f_n9Qm2Eqj7FplcbFI3kO_JeVnMFN3JptC0vvItHppLaft7pu0vKNRNhnx1tS0bMbenOM/s1600/IMG_20191120_192353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSMNd7dI9WoBRZtJr2oyRA75yeXMCsxx2IOAhfN-aVuLNtudShOgeY0d-wxTbGxfAPg6oN7f_n9Qm2Eqj7FplcbFI3kO_JeVnMFN3JptC0vvItHppLaft7pu0vKNRNhnx1tS0bMbenOM/s400/IMG_20191120_192353.jpg" width="300" /></a>The newly arrived players of Enfield Town FC (ET) are far from impressed with quite how cold it is. “Bit nippy isn't it” says a punter freshly arrived towards the well wrapped up programme seller, whose response is ladened with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “really? Cor blimey”. The players are not quiet as eloquent, “its fucking cold” says one marching towards the changing room. Another is not at all bothered by the temperate, his quick tempo is motivated by something altogether more pressing, “need a wee, need a wee”.<br />
<br />
I thought the man using a bin as a counter top would be hard to beat for lower league spectacles tonight, however the man clutching the almost toddler sized teddy bear wearing a red and white KFC scarf might just have trumped it.<br />
<br />
Tom’s just arrived, and is drawn first to the badges on sale, the proprietor offering up a small torch to assist in his perusal, in the end he opts for a very classy “vintage” one, splashing out an entire £10 on it, he must have won a scratchcard or something. I’m sure his first stop would have been the burger van, but the shutter is still closed, however there has been the odd rumble from inside, and the recent opening of the door to its side has given up a suggestion of what is in store later on.<br />
<br />
With both sets of players now out on the pitch doing their best to keep warm on what is turning into a rather frigid evening, Tom has no such concerns, he has no need to jockey around some cones, he is fully kitted out. “Full Scandinavian shit” he explained about the outfit he is wearing underneath his long coat, “a full onesie”. I only have the warming properties of a cup of coffee served in a china mug, and I’m somewhat mystified that a couple of KFC fans we get talking to about how they think the match will go for them, “probably be a draw, hard to call, their playing well, we're playing well” are only wearing shirts.<br />
<br />
The man in the ageing Ryman League coat is in the well prepared camp, unlike the under dressed KFC supporters. The choice of music, a spot of Fleetwood Mac and the stylized image of the clubs shirt on the front cover of the programme tick all the right boxes, and with kick off still a short while off, the atmosphere is already building nicely. The bar is busy, the burger van has thrown open its hatch and has quite the crowd around it, which all bodes well for the evening ahead.<br />
<br />
Having sampled the food here before, Tom has fond memories of what he will be able to sink his teeth into later, “If I remember correctly the burger is quite good”. My continued search for a 50/50 has drawn a blank, however with the very calming voice piping up over the PA, “good evening everyone and welcome to the King George's Field” I’ve no time left to fret about that.<br />
<br />
“For the Towners” he announces, reading out the visitors starting eleven, before moving on to those lining up “for the K’s”. With those formalities out of the way, he gives the FA Cup tickets one last plug, before a succession of good songs, cementing KFC as one of the better clubs when it comes to Spotify playlists.<br />
<br />
I’m pretty sure its the song from the old Milky Way advert, the one with the two battling cars that proceeds what might be the best walk out music, not just in non league football or simply football, but the entirety of sport. Catching glimpses on the far side of the pitch for the first time the players and officials emerge, Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears For Fears then starts to play, causing an overpowering feeling of 80’s nostalgia to wash over me. For a second I'm not sure if I'm in a John Hughes film or at a football match, and like a few around us, are compelled to join in and sing along as the players walk out.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizur9vXTrNNF8r4gPAHPFz-sOoDH0w6Etfw6CHWqxJjLhuOtisBUnM5FyQ3CB3URK1IKiS_tB6LQwHRIMZierv1o7l2CFmsn4IpmQE-haRTlv3KTELHcRZaRPFzWIfuWqyVFV8P6ADkhE/s1600/IMG_20191120_185850_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizur9vXTrNNF8r4gPAHPFz-sOoDH0w6Etfw6CHWqxJjLhuOtisBUnM5FyQ3CB3URK1IKiS_tB6LQwHRIMZierv1o7l2CFmsn4IpmQE-haRTlv3KTELHcRZaRPFzWIfuWqyVFV8P6ADkhE/s400/IMG_20191120_185850_1.jpg" width="300" /></a>Each team are well represented behind the respective goal they are attacking as the half gets underway. This is no great surprise, both KFC and ET are two of the more well followed clubs we have encountered over the years. “Come on you K’s” shouts one of the group to our right, the group to our left are quick to reply with a song only viable on away days, on account of them normally playing in blue and white, “green army, green army”. The away fans just about edging it in the nose stakes, because of the presence of an air horn. “We are the Towner boys” they sing, which is followed by indiscriminate blasts of every half marathon starters go to.<br />
<br />
Only three minutes in and someone has already taken the lord's name in vain. “Jesus” he cries in response to the KFC half volley grazing the outside of the post as it flies off the forwards boot.<br />
<br />
It’s a breakneck start by the home side, probing into the ET box again they cause a mild state of panic, and the ball is eventually whacked clear after a scramble and the air horn soon follows the first goal kick of the night, the KFC keeper not disturbed a jot by the nearby ruckus.<br />
<br />
To say that the KFC manger is vocal, would be a gross understatement. “Well done” he shouts, which he accompanies with some vigorous clapping, his side having just dragged a shot wide of the post, the fans behind letting out a simultaneous “ohhhhhhh”.<br />
<br />
Chatty, opinionated or even verbose don't quite fit the bill either, he nigh on dictates every pass, every kick off the ball. His go to catchphrase unwittingly opens a small window into his own personal pursuits outside football. “Lock on, lock on” he commands of one player, sounding like a certain Starship captain. Be it a wild shot wide, that misses the single red and white KFC flag and clatters into the metal stand beyond or a simple side pass completed, he is more than happy to heap praise on whenever it is required.<br />
<br />
“He's very animated” says a bewildered Tom, the man has not stopped since the first whistle.<br />
<br />
What looks like a rush hour ferry me home to Surrey special, ie, a really, really long train rumbles by and despite the high octane first fifteen, the away side are still very much in the game and slowly start to apply some pressure of their own. “Get it in” demands one of their supporters, the player in possession does just that, firing the ball right across the six yard box, this time prompting the ET fans into an on mass “ohhhhh”, and it’s around this time I noticed the KFC supporting teddy bear from earlier has been been lashed to the front of the stand, slumped, he looks like a hostage whose been tied to a radiator, it's a bit gruesome if I’m honest.<br />
<br />
Keeping his instructions a lot less Star Trek, the ET manager is using language a bit more understandable, “don't let him inside” he tells his full back. However by the way the player responds, he might as well be speaking Klingon, because he does just that, allowing the KFC winger to disappear up the side of him, where he cuts the ball into the ET box, only a fraction behind his teammate who was all ready for a tap in.<br />
<br />
Squirming at the sight of the ball flirting with the ET goal line, the home fans ohh and ahh as it ricochets around in the visitors box, “come on Kingstonian” shouts one fan, hoping his intervention will draw the ball over the line, but nothing comes of it and their latest attack confirms to both Tom and I that the home side are capable of playing some quite fantastic football at times, more than justifying their lofty league position.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes on the clock and KFC go close once more, testing the ET keepers resolve with a low <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvp6FrsD52J3Nda7wAtk8p9qOPiIyTjvy_9hA6fBeDp0-gMqMKY8c320pUNQVTlOk9e1gwYENQcCNxdHIHLKk3wRp9iJHtGvrOD5j6S7MCz06o2kwOBucmfiQihjt2FLoc_RslK3l0AU/s1600/IMG_20191120_185759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvp6FrsD52J3Nda7wAtk8p9qOPiIyTjvy_9hA6fBeDp0-gMqMKY8c320pUNQVTlOk9e1gwYENQcCNxdHIHLKk3wRp9iJHtGvrOD5j6S7MCz06o2kwOBucmfiQihjt2FLoc_RslK3l0AU/s400/IMG_20191120_185759.jpg" width="300" /></a>driven shot. “Frantic” comments Tom, KFC’s ability to close down the opposition and win the ball back is a joy to see, heavy metal football at it’s finest. The enjoyment of which is only marred ever so slightly in Tom’s eyes because their red and white striped shirt makes them “look like Where's Wally”.<br />
<br />
A big shout for a ET penalty is energetically waved away by the referee, it looked close, the KFC supporters let out their loudest chant on the night so far tinged with relief it wasn't given, “come on you kkkkkkkkkk’s”.<br />
<br />
Despite all his preparations, Tom is still suffering with the cold, “I think my fingertips may fall off”. The KFC manager is still repeating his now well used phrase “lock on, lock on” and when not checking if he still has all ten digits, Tom thinks he might have got to the bottom of why ET are looking at times a little disjointed in defense. “Bit of a weak link 3” he explains, “all out of position” and he’s noticed this hasn't gone unnoticed among the ET ranks, “6 isn't happy” he points out, the centre back is constantly scowling and Tom is starting to feel a bit sorry for the struggling left back, “he keeps getting shouted at.''<br />
<br />
Tom recoils after a foul on a home player right in front of us and the home supporters celebrate that the referee has finally given something their way. A much stockier train passes by and then ET give the ball away at the back, and very nearly getting caught out.<br />
<br />
“Fucking forward” screams a KFC player, it’s all they know, attack, attack, attack. The player in question I don’t think it’s one called “Cookie” Tom and I are still trying to work out who that is and the KFC manager makes it clear to his players he doesn't want them to “force” it, but to let things happen naturally, a very Manchester City holistic approach to things.<br />
<br />
The main stand opposite us, with the name of KFC’s landlords emblazoned across the front is positively bustling, but one home fan behind the goal seems to have fallen over the railing, getting himself hung up on it, and looks in all sorts of bother. So much so, a fellow fan has to leap over to help him out.<br />
<br />
A rare ET effort trickles wide and a brief sing off between the two sets of fans strikes up, but soon peters outs.<br />
<br />
The referee at times is finding himself very much the centre of attention, from all corners. When the initial protests from the ET players after a foul on one of their numbers is ignored and with the player still down, the referee signals for play to continue, then pulling it back and instructing the physio to come on. It’s interpreted by the home fans as him doing what the ET player's tell him,and he is losing friends by the second. When a crunching tackle on the edge of the ET box sees them win back the ball and fly off the pitch in a blistering counterattack, is not penalized. Everyone is feeling like the victim.<br />
<br />
Not far from the half time whistle, KFC’s managers voice is starting to fail him, “shoot, shoot” he tells his forward, his voice crackling and squeaking like my thirteen year old sons. The tackles are now flying in as we get closer and closer to the break, this inspires a few rousing songs from each set of fans, “we all follow the Towners” and it's their manager who is being forced into an early change, after a long touchline deliberation, they are required to make a substitution.<br />
<br />
The home fans are far from sympathetic with the stricken ET player, and how long it’s taking him to leave the pitch, “try running”.<br />
<br />
A succession of steps overs from one KFC players goes a long way in getting everyone's hopes up as he edges closer and closer towards the the ET box, his fancy footwork at the end of another blistering home attack, only for as soon as he is the box, does he slip over and all the promise is gone.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnTO_IGGBLiSx2DMpC1alq96OKaLRsYd5eNuHJdFgk_CJL0_PUGXoWvcPqgjwiEhnNPDTE0UXeQx78v4F81sWL-ix3FVfXGL0wWcv_VWVahMGTzpViYmjS5kikZghWKAommg-8KBrCIA/s1600/IMG_20191120_192414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnTO_IGGBLiSx2DMpC1alq96OKaLRsYd5eNuHJdFgk_CJL0_PUGXoWvcPqgjwiEhnNPDTE0UXeQx78v4F81sWL-ix3FVfXGL0wWcv_VWVahMGTzpViYmjS5kikZghWKAommg-8KBrCIA/s400/IMG_20191120_192414.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
It's all KFC, but not before ET have another limp long range shot. If anything KFC might be accused of over playing at times, again they get to the edge of the ET box, but the exchanges and flicks all gets a bit fussy, and they lose the ball. Clattered to the ground on the edge of the home box, ET are awarded a late free kick, the air horn rearing its head as the KFC players arrange their wall. “Come on Towners” shouts an ET fan, the horn accompanying him, only to break mid blast like a teens voice, which gets a sizable laugh.<br />
<br />
“Could have taken someones head off” laughs Tom, the walloped set piece missing the goal completely, instead thundering against the top of the stand.<br />
<br />
More unnecessary step overs are followed by groans as KFC seem stuck in a loop of doing the same thing and being surprised when they get the same result.<br />
<br />
“Four to add” I just about hear the referee tell a player over the latest ET song, “we love you Town we do” and what a four minutes it turns out to be an exhausting end to end blur. ET have another shout for a penalty turned down and despite their best efforts KFC cannot grant one fans wish of getting a “goal before half time”.<br />
<br />
Tom’s visit to get food was almost as quick as a KFC attack and I’ve just about finished ear wigging on a couple of KFC fans dissection of their teams first half performance, “not many shots” was the resounding conclusion, and he’s returned, seemingly having only purchased chips. Tom can see the shock written across my face, telling me it's down to his “honeymoon diet”, but I can smell a rat and tell him just that, bullshit, seconds later he's retrieving a burger from his coat pocket. “Double patty” he informs me, “didn't ask for it”<br />
<br />
The extra beef, didn't come without a downside though, with a look of chagrin, he tells me he “lost half” of his “onions”, when he “took the lid off” his behemoth to “put some sauce on and they fell out”.<br />
<br />
As the players reappear the single home flag is rehung, a passing train momentarily drowns out the music and a single ET fan gives up a confident shout of support “come on green army”. Someone on the ET bench asks the players adjusting to the cold that he wants them to get going right from the start, and Tom tells me his “toes are numb” and it's time to “get the big socks out”.<br />
<br />
Lucky for us the new half shows no sign of slowing down, two minutes in and an ET free kick skims off the head of the intended player on the edge of the six yard box and then a few minutes later they have another pop at goal from distance, this time the effort has a lot more venom.<br />
<br />
The sluggish start by the home side, means their manager is required to give his captain a bit of a rocket, “get them out the dressing room” he screeches and continuing with his less than orthodox one liners, he tells his team they need to “get information to the ball”. It’s almost like eleven different blokes have come out and the ET supporters can sense the difference, “come on you Town, come on you Town”.<br />
<br />
As far as the strung up teddy is concerned, his day just goes from bad to worse, and having not been securely fastened to the stand for the new half, having swapped ends in the break, he has just fallen. ET carry on looking the far better of the two sides, a back heel finds the forward skipping into the box, only for this final touch to let him down and the keeper gathers.<br />
<br />
The angry shouts of “off, off, off” go unheard by the referee, not one but two fouls eventually fell the advancing home player. The referee allowing them to play the advantage before he is cut down and the free kick is awarded. “It's all your doing” gripes one of the many KFC supporters barracking the man in change, who they don’t feel he has a good grip on things and it’s their players are feeling the consequences.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12-Vry8U6Yx3-5dDF7xcC_RRd4juCKVR_gJet4ib15HGOIdLTRy5lkGScayVvv7s5_dgGs3k6sDg891FJMqKa7CQKC_B003rW4nf5qS5v0LQOy_ixCItb76gtGDyrTsD3VQI2U9A4mLM/s1600/DSC_0084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12-Vry8U6Yx3-5dDF7xcC_RRd4juCKVR_gJet4ib15HGOIdLTRy5lkGScayVvv7s5_dgGs3k6sDg891FJMqKa7CQKC_B003rW4nf5qS5v0LQOy_ixCItb76gtGDyrTsD3VQI2U9A4mLM/s400/DSC_0084.JPG" width="400" /></a>More choruses of “off, off, off” flood from the stand and the ET supporters take it as a chance to have a dig at their counterparts, “we forgot that you were here” and not content with giving the referee grief, the teddy bear has just been flung onto the top of the stand.<br />
<br />
The long delay before the free kick is taken can mean only one thing, its awful. The teddy is now on the pitch, forcing the referee to intervene for a moment and much to Tom's amusement the presence of “three stewards for a flying teddy bear” who was saved from the pitch, then hurled up into the air again, is like something from a farce.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's the treatment of the teddy or the fact the home side haven't exactly been dynamic since the restart, but there has been a definite shift in mood. Where the fans were content with singing among themselves, they are now serenading each other, “shit club no fans” sing the KFC supporters, “shit fans no ground” reply the ET ones.<br />
<br />
Sipping from a red mug, the KFC manager has been notably quieter as of late, the air horn officially <br />
replacing him as the loudest thing here and it's taken his side almost twenty five minutes to “get out of the dressing room” as he put it, showing their first flash of class when their forward ventures forward, only to lose the ball at the vital moment.<br />
<br />
Why it's taken them quite so long as it has to stir only they will ever know, but KFC are soon in again, this time one on one with the ET keeper, but the low shot is saved, sending one substitute leaping from the bench in frustration. “Come on kkkkkkk’s” chant the home fans, who stay on the edge of their metaphorical seats when the resulting corner is whipped in, showing plenty of promise, but it's cleared.<br />
<br />
A low buzzing helicopter hovers close by and the game is building towards a thrilling crescendo. “Come on you Town” ripples from one end of the ground, “come on Kingston, come on Kingston” from the other. KFC have truly found their stride, turning well in the box, the player slams his shot goalwards, but it’s blocked. Now well and truly up to speed they go close again, one player shimmy's past the ET defense with ease, but his shot is high and wide.<br />
<br />
“Keep your heads up boys” insists one home fan, with all these missed chance, he is concerned perhaps they might be talking a bit of a toll on morale. Flitting about the police helicopter, looking I suspect for the teddy chuckers, is a mild distraction and the ET fans are growing restless with their teams performance, they've had plenty of the ball, but their final pass is severely lacking, “come on Enfield”.<br />
<br />
Trains, choppers, horns and the constant loop of “ETFC, ETFC” means one could be forgiven for thinking ear defenders could be in order. Tom is enamored with one KFC players facial hair, “proper maverick” and again the home bench are on their feet in anticipation of taking the lead when a shot from the edge of the box hurtles through a sea of legs, and surely unsighted, is saved by the ET keeper.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEThxB-1j5-01IiIyE4jVHIQ05bzbWDsWv9d7ZgeirEMjRn4MpLfbu3MS480AL0Rssu-u13gNg5Qi08sVy0RI7W8ZZ_Qj_FbdghonB2pBcx7FmxSX32KIaNq4d0wLYT8cfCouPTjqNW1I/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="1024" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEThxB-1j5-01IiIyE4jVHIQ05bzbWDsWv9d7ZgeirEMjRn4MpLfbu3MS480AL0Rssu-u13gNg5Qi08sVy0RI7W8ZZ_Qj_FbdghonB2pBcx7FmxSX32KIaNq4d0wLYT8cfCouPTjqNW1I/s400/DSC_0102.JPG" width="400" /></a>“You fucking bald cheat” screams one KFC fan, after the ball having bobbled along the ET goal line is hooked clear, but they are sure it was over.<br />
<br />
Such is the current home onslaught, the nearby ET supporters are taking comfort in small mercies, “we'll have that” says one, after the home pressure is relieved when a foul is awarded. “Come on Towners” pleads a single voice, however the relief the foul gave is only momentary, and their goal is being peppered, it's all one way traffic.<br />
<br />
The pressure their team is currently under, does not stop the ET fans behind the goal cracking into a country classic, with a North London twist, “take me home, country road”, although they do hesitate for a second when one of their players takes a ball straight in the face, leaving him prone and looking dazed to say the least. The home fans think he is just wasting time, so one ET supporter fills them in on the finer details, “he was hit in the head you fucking moron”.<br />
<br />
“Play, play, play” says the KFC manager, his voice all but gone, he’s been reduced to a whisper. Far from losing their voice, the KFC supporters are still in rousing form “we got a foul, we got a foul” they sing, the free kick in a promising position might just break the deadlock, but the shot is high and Tom’s now sure any chance of seeing a goal has gone, “yep 0 - 0”.<br />
<br />
I’m not so sure, hunting in pairs, the KFC players are voracious in their hunt for possession. Only an away foul stops them in their tracks, and the sight of a yellow card has one away fan confused, “it's not a bookable offence”.<br />
<br />
“Fucking hell, drinks frozen” says Tom sipping from his subzero Coke, the match now in a constant state of flux, one team piling forward in search of the winner, only to loose possession and then beat a hasty retreat to try and make sure they don't get overrun themselves.<br />
<br />
Now only able to squeak, the KFC’s managers voice has “gone” chuckles Tom, lucky for his team because they just gave the ball away on the edge of their own box, allowing ET to turn and shoot. The match is so there to be won and its either going to be a mistake or a stroke of genius that will do it.<br />
<br />
“Go on Billy” urges an ET fan as their prolific front man shapes up to shoot, letting fly, it’s blocked and then the home keeper goes all sweeper keeper, charging out of his box to coolly and with good feet control a wayward through ball, only once the ball is cleared are home hearts able to return to where they belong.<br />
<br />
ET continue to be unable to make that all important forward pass, “nooooooo” moans one of their fans when just a straightforward ball to the front man would have made all the difference, and it’s not a chance of their creation, but because of a KFC foul on the very edge of their box, that hands ET the chance to pinch the win. “That's cynical ref” says an ET fan, it's then their turn to suggest a player should get his marching orders, “off, off, off”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkyuJ6Padoagg88c-y4tB1eQizqEl_DJF7YcxYsfkEEkYfMX3P_9dI7d7jZ9l34lccgLboQhyphenhyphenXr2CrCo9XBdJfJ-iedSVoGKxiRJyySW5Flx5GGt1QUE2aeveWB2_uxMswkZVaf1Q2Zk/s1600/IMG_20191120_214258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkyuJ6Padoagg88c-y4tB1eQizqEl_DJF7YcxYsfkEEkYfMX3P_9dI7d7jZ9l34lccgLboQhyphenhyphenXr2CrCo9XBdJfJ-iedSVoGKxiRJyySW5Flx5GGt1QUE2aeveWB2_uxMswkZVaf1Q2Zk/s400/IMG_20191120_214258.jpg" width="300" /></a>The free kick joins the rest taken tonight as not being a very good one, this one whacking against the wall, making every spectator wince.<br />
<br />
If we hadn't been entertained enough tonight, we get one last treat when the KFC manager storms up the touchline to remonstrate with the linesman, “what the fuck are you doing?” he asks right in front of us. Less than a few feet away, the referee of course can't stand for this behaviour, blowing his whistle he stops the game. “If you want a conversation, wait until the end” he tells the seething manager, who slowly starts to back away towards his technical area, “come out that far again, I’ve only one choice”.<br />
<br />
The ET players and staff applaud the travelling fans stuck on repeat come the final whistle, “ETFC, ETFC” and quite the crowd made up of both home and away fans surround the tunnel to cheer off the departing players.<br />
<br />
We all like to see goals, not as much as we like to see giant teddy bears flung about or men using bins as a pop up pin shop, but goals are where for most people the entertainment lies, the excitement derives from, and I’m no different. I want to see thirty yard screamers and bicycle kicks as much as the next bloke, but tonight it just wasn't meant to be and if I’m totally honest with you, I didn't mind one bit.<br />
<br />
Rubbish I hear you cry, but hand on heart the lack of goals really made no difference. The match had more than enough going on, on and off the pitch to keep me happy. It's not just the 4 - 4 or wins after being behind that stick in the mind, but the 1 - 1 and 0 - 0 have their place too.<br />
<br />
I can confidently say that was probably the best 0 - 0 I’ve seen……………I think.<br />
<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-36364331551518296602019-12-22T12:51:00.000-08:002019-12-22T12:51:25.148-08:00Felt Like I Was Sucking On A Cow - Hampton & Richmond Borough FC Vs Wealdstone FC, National League South, Beveree Stadium (16/11/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLaCktA2TNQAXoukya4qWnmLnajBhy6PFXH83TKzEph2c8biY7VasojzTAm6VdLPQaJs5_r2b3SzxOZK0eJrLaWPtb0tBrWnkcY2W5vFrpyMrAECdaIPp0tXpiibgTk5X-PTHRMdr1aE/s1600/P1060610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1135" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLaCktA2TNQAXoukya4qWnmLnajBhy6PFXH83TKzEph2c8biY7VasojzTAm6VdLPQaJs5_r2b3SzxOZK0eJrLaWPtb0tBrWnkcY2W5vFrpyMrAECdaIPp0tXpiibgTk5X-PTHRMdr1aE/s320/P1060610.JPG" width="227" /></a>There are certainly some grounds and therefore some clubs who for one reason or another we have passed through the turnstiles of and spent more time in the company of, then others. Be it because of a personal obsession with a certain non league club in N17, the fact it’s the team of your other half or that particular club just happens to play on Wednesdays, which for the last couple of years has been our go to midweek match day.<br />
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The fact that Hampton & Richmond Borough FC (HRB) are neither local, play on a Wednesday or as far as I know are not supported by any known loved one, I'm not quite sure why our visit today to their tidy West London home, The Beveree, tucked away at the end of cul-de-sac a stone's throw from the banks of the Thames, is our third, having seen them play a total of five times at home and away.<br />
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No end of nice cars, parked outside nice houses surround their little corner of the football world, and when I finally find a place to park with what in comparison to some of the motors, is a complete shit show of a car with it’s broken rear window windscreen wiper, drooping down like a gun dog's tail, it is a more than an agreeable walk to the ground.<br />
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The blue wrought iron gates, and similarly coloured turnstile at the end of Beaver Close, no really it is called that, are all very familiar, so are a few of the faces as we walk on in. The lady selling the golden goal tickets from the bespoke white wooden box with a hinged lid and the person managing the table outside the club's supporters trust office, which is a re-purposed shed, all ring a bell.<br />
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One thing I naively didn't expect to see, in such an affluent part of the capital was a table set up to accept donations for a local food bank. The lady behind the heaving table makes it clear in no uncertain terms that my assumption that such a thing can’t surely be necessary in an area where a river side dwelling costs probably the same as some small nations defence budget. In fact the necessity for such things is so great, they have just opened the “fifth” one in the borough recently.<br />
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With The Beveree you just about get the perfect mixture of charm, dilapidation and proper football. A tuck shop hidden away down the side of the slightly incongruent and extremely deep covered terracing on one corner of the pitch. A ramshackle all seater stand alongside it’s older neighbour in marginally better condition, are just a few of the options as to where to watch the match. If that’s not for you, you can always shelter underneath the mixture of scaffolding poles and marine ply behind one goal or if you’re feeling revering, you can take a seat in the stand named after the man who wrote such comedy classics as Steptoe and Son and Hancock's Half Hour, who until his death in 2017 was the clubs Honorary President.<br />
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Trees starting to lose their leaves surround almost the entirety of the ground, poking up into the murky Saturday afternoon sky, and they are all that separate the nearby houses from the match day goings on. Such is the proximity of the clubs next-door neighbours that if I remember correctly from a previous visit, they are not allowed to play music, but it does little to hamper the building atmosphere.<br />
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One thing any half decent non league ground wouldn't dare be without, is of course the humble portacabin, be it for a clubhouse, club shop or changing room, the building site staple that is front runner of affordable accommodation, is ever present today adopting a role rarely seen, and in a slight twist to the norm, is where we will be spending the afternoon.<br />
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An unexpected email was a welcome surprise among all the usual spam about penis enlargement pills and compensation claims. An invitation to join the guys of Fotmob, for a day of prawn sandwiches, that was only my assumption, any potential food that might be available was not outlined in the initial email, in surroundings somewhat far removed from what we usually do at a match, plus the chance to go to a game in daylight at a ground we’ve always enjoyed visiting, was too hard to turn down.<br />
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The second of the blue double stacked portacabins behind one goal, with the clubs crest adorning one end is where you will find the Chairman's Lounge, accessed along a narrow passage and winding blue metal staircase, that feels almost intertwined with the adjacent tree. Once inside the it’s not quite what I imagined, less VIP, more annex at the end of the garden built for an elderly relative so they can have some semblance of independence, but are close enough at hand for when they take a tumble that you can help, just minus the cats and the floral covered armchair.<br />
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The small tablecloth covered table with a kettle and selection of tea and coffee only strengthens this feeling, however I’m not sure Grandma has a small fridge containing completely beer. A small TV secured to the wall is not showing rolling Sky Sports News as I’m sure happens in such surroundings higher up the pyramid, but some random European rugby, that happens to be on channel four.<br />
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We are not alone however, and because of this, neither of us are brave enough to peel back the see through plastic that covers, if I'm not mistaken and I know my shop bought sandwiches, so I doubt I am, two platters of M&S’s finest.<br />
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Being the two salt of the earth kind of guys we are, somewhere to lean and a hot cup of Bovril is normally all we require, but with high life though does come the odd perk other than free coffee. The view the Chairman's Lounge allows is one of them. Ask me this again when someone has finally peeled open the delicacies and I might have a different answer for you, but for now the sliding patio doors allowing us exclusive access to the balcony and the obscured vista, is just about defeating the internal turmoil I’m experiencing, that we might have sold out.<br />
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Below us those having to struggle with only standard admission tickets seem happy enough, but really they don't know what they are missing.<br />
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“For the Beavers” says a well spoken voice over the PA as it crackles to life, the kind of voice from a person one might imagine wears a monocle and a freshly cut carnations in their buttonhole pocket, as he proceeds to read out the homes starting eleven.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_9zn5yBMR7iScxYn59NjQZMhFWj5piNIOnSLZCYSHJf6FPYQ1pl6hV6Pw9lFaEgXxvrkQcsJFsaShRKejUQwWkZItmHxDcj8IHTXkt7CTE_1jrwCWeMIdOIY4ixgQ5J-oLA138FLWkU/s1600/IMG_20191116_144222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_9zn5yBMR7iScxYn59NjQZMhFWj5piNIOnSLZCYSHJf6FPYQ1pl6hV6Pw9lFaEgXxvrkQcsJFsaShRKejUQwWkZItmHxDcj8IHTXkt7CTE_1jrwCWeMIdOIY4ixgQ5J-oLA138FLWkU/s400/IMG_20191116_144222.JPG" width="400" /></a>With their allegiances not clear until now, the ever growing crowd, something that has been lacking somewhat on our recent outings, soon make which side they are rooting for abundantly clear. Catching me out somewhat the followers of Wealdstone FC (WFC) most if not all have congregated under the roof of the sloping covered corner terrace, break into song, “we are the Stone”. The home fans are quick to reply, with what I still stand by is the nicest football nickname in the world, a nickname that from as far as I can work out no one knows why they are called it, that could not be more diametrically opposed to something hard and coarse like stone, “come on Beavers”.<br />
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Combined both sets of fans make a fair old din when the players emerge from almost directly below us. For a moment it goes all very GTA circa 1997, our birds eye view of the top of the players heads filling out from our lofty position on the now almost full to capacity balcony, no one has taken up one of the single line of fold down chairs, is a new experience for us.<br />
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If I’m honest the thought hadn't even crossed my mind standing up here, but the WFC fans seem to <br />
be goading us to “shit on the bastards below” or is their latest song about someone else? Whoever it may be, I feel for the unsuspecting people below in direct firing line of any potential dirty protest, should a certain section of the crowd get their way.<br />
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The home fans now down the opposite end of the pitch, sound faint compared to the rowdy gaggle of travelling supporters standing around the base of our ivory tower, who reply quickly not with songs about pooing, but something far more PG, “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers”.<br />
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Tom impervious to the vulgar exchanges and animal based chanting, mutters in my ear that he is quite fond of the blue and red faded shirt being worn by the WFC players, which is paired with neon orange shorts, but I have to admit it looks like the kit man has packed the wrong kit. A kit clash, all in one strip.<br />
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We don’t have to wait long until the first chance of the match, a lashed HRB shot from close range skims over the bar, prompting a “ohhhh” from the home fans and a nervous “weyyy” from the away ones. There also isn't long between songs from the sizable WFC support, “oh when the Stones go marching in” they sing, the home fans respond as any good home fans should, by rattling the hoardings.<br />
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The flood lights flicker on and one person on the busy balcony comments “I didn't expect to watch a game under the lights”. Sounding like someone doing a Friends impersonation, one home defender does his best to emphasise to the referee that he is sure the ball has gone out of play “hello, hello” he repeats, only for the throw in not to be given, and the WFC attack is allowed to continue, culminating in a slightly panicked clearance, nudging the WFC supporters to belt out their next chant.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92GerF2_d9a6llHTPAV_0j81y-40jH9vglH20xq1oKsT36FviFkkQPHnIQGoa-SIc1_Mf9B_jTMt02QE27dkPpqJIz06YDKKJXgo406vuwPVAhPX5DIkgEpFUGCQImKtjHdHBsO280BA/s1600/IMG_20191116_141830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92GerF2_d9a6llHTPAV_0j81y-40jH9vglH20xq1oKsT36FviFkkQPHnIQGoa-SIc1_Mf9B_jTMt02QE27dkPpqJIz06YDKKJXgo406vuwPVAhPX5DIkgEpFUGCQImKtjHdHBsO280BA/s400/IMG_20191116_141830.jpg" width="400" /></a>Another shout from the home players goes up that the ball has gone out, but it’s not given and again the table topping visitors are able to fashion another chance, much to the dismay of the angry HRB players. All the calling for the ball being out, means some are out of position when the ball is eventually cut into the box. This time the chance is over, however the away fans know full well they have had a stroke of luck, so thank the referees assistant accordingly, “nice one lino”.<br />
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Not one, but two quickfire saves from the man between the sticks for HRB keep the score level. Two saves one after another, which proves that the speed I’m able to get up off the floor after playing with my daughter is of concern, because he was up in a flash. “Well done keeper” applauds one home fan close by. WFC showing every inch of their league leading credentials, crafting the chance with some excellent football, turning it on all of a sudden like the manager had flicked a switch in the dugout.<br />
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Seemingly not needing much of an excuse to sing, the WFC supporters crack out another, “we play in white, we’re fucking dynamite”. One of their flags hangs over the railings and their singing does a cracking job in drowning out the constant call of the still covered sandwiches. Everyone is either too polite to be the first or they are just not quite as obsessed with free food as us too, so are yet to tuck in. By being the person to break the seal, I only reinforce age old stereotypes I’ve spent thirty five years trying to quash, ‘oh look at the fat bloke tucking in, typical, no wonder our NHS is struggling’.<br />
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A home fan spins their old wooden rattle and WFC chalk up another effort on goal, this time a wild volley, the player in question watches the ball dropping from way on high, but his connection is poor.<br />
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Having admitted to not really feeling very well, and having looked all sorts of sad when we met earlier, Tom is feeling the side effects of allowing someone to pump him full of rubella and typhoid, the inoculations for his honeymoon taking their toll. He does look a little grey and pasty, but the draw of football on a Saturday was too good to miss out on, so he’s resorted to the age old remedy of Coke a Cola and Ibuprofen, to keep him going. “Feeling rough” he says, as he necks his umpteenth white pill.<br />
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“They're threatening” Tom ponders between sips of coke. HRB in a matter of about five minutes go close to taking the lead on more than one occasion. “Ohhhh” gasp the home fans at the sight of a header going wide from a corner. A quiet cry from the far end of the of the pitch for a penalty is waved away, with the rest of the place stony silent and then on the stroke of twenty five minutes their best chance of the match. An up and under pass is plucked from the air by the forward, who has just enough time to bring it down and shoot, however the WFC stopper is out quickly to meet him, deflecting the ball out for a corner.<br />
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The acrid smell of a nearby bonfire is soon masked by the sweet smell of one tropical fruit or another as Tom takes a large hit on his vape. The wooden rattle goes up another gear and lets off its loudest salutation so far and the visiting fans in ever growing voice inform us all they “care about is Wealdstone”.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAwD451cqgv1t9ynAfKRpvjWEqIDkLI9iDqpQTt05cDnihaA3-mbtTwBILVTZrGUPLOtZBT9mG4awp1h1HLDY4ZwxPM9vkGu3pSzkih27RzBgxPEkFzXcwReWzBK2PRHRRWW78Pgd2dg/s1600/IMG_20191116_144559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAwD451cqgv1t9ynAfKRpvjWEqIDkLI9iDqpQTt05cDnihaA3-mbtTwBILVTZrGUPLOtZBT9mG4awp1h1HLDY4ZwxPM9vkGu3pSzkih27RzBgxPEkFzXcwReWzBK2PRHRRWW78Pgd2dg/s400/IMG_20191116_144559.jpg" width="400" /></a>One conundrum I didn't expect to encounter during our VIP experience was Tom fretting about wanting a burger, but not wanting to bring it in to our luxury surroundings. He could just sit on one of the steps below us and have it, where one man passing does a fine job carrying a tray with three pints on and a Kit Kat, watching the match with one eye and the path ahead with the other, without spilling a drop.<br />
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Spelling out the name of their beloved team, “e…….a……..l” the WFC supporters deviate from their en masse spelling bee, to berate the free after their forward was clattered from behind as he shaped up to shoot on the edge of the HRB box at the end of a breakaway. “He's gotta go” insists one man about the guilty looking home defender.<br />
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The resulting free kick right on the very limit of the HRB penalty areas sees them bombard the home goal with not one, not two, but three shots, each one blocked in turn, until one WFC player mixes it up with a floated cross to the back post which has to be headed out for a corner. The defencive masterclass, the likes of which Tom could only dream of seeing from his beloved Arsenal pull off, inspires his one word review, “solid”.<br />
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I’m weak, I could not even hold out until half time, I got a sandwich. The break is only minutes away, but the lure of an egg mayo was too great.<br />
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A groan from the home fans follows a poor cross and Tom is starting to wonder if we have been “cursed” this season. We’ve not exactly been blessed with thrillers this year, the two we were supposed to go to, but missed because life as is its habit of doing so, got in the way, were both 4 - 3 barnstormers. Today's match although it's been OK, has hardly really got going.<br />
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“The referee has indicated two added minutes” says the voice over the PA. “No rush keeper” jokes <br />
one WFC fan, the HRB stopper is not exactly hurrying to take his goal kick and come the double blast of the referee's whistle, it's a bit of a slow trudge off by the players. “Come on lads” urge the WFC supporters gathered around what is not an extending tunnel as has been the case on previous visits, but temporary fencing right off a building site and someone loudly reports in the lounge that “they got sweets downstairs, we’re missing out”.<br />
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Another potential stumbling block I didn't think we would encounter was what I call the Goldilocks Effect, it being a bit too chilly on the balcony but far too warm inside, so I’ve no idea where to put myself. The fans who don't have such dilemmas, swap ends and with the WFC ones departing it’s a lot quieter now. The whole of the covered terrace opposite us is now packed out, with their expectant faces peering out waiting for the restart.<br />
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I must admit not having to watch Tom eat a cheeseburger is quite a pleasant reprieve, I spend my half time for once chowing down. Scoffing coronation chicken and discussing parenting tips and stories of soft play. On tea duty, Tom is unhappy with my overuse of the milk, “felt like I was sucking on a cow” he tells me, but I’m not really listing, someone has just opened some spring rolls.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv3r_ORzATOYYpn1cX_UeLVkLG4Ol5JI0WfKldC_lS_Ysk1sfz9wVjP-b6X1aUGjL9TGDkmRQHoviHl93TBlhiH3wz67v0JoiJBSvbQI_5V-xNKPj0rFtQF7JyhkAmWSfupZdp1MbwjM/s1600/IMG_20191116_153124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv3r_ORzATOYYpn1cX_UeLVkLG4Ol5JI0WfKldC_lS_Ysk1sfz9wVjP-b6X1aUGjL9TGDkmRQHoviHl93TBlhiH3wz67v0JoiJBSvbQI_5V-xNKPj0rFtQF7JyhkAmWSfupZdp1MbwjM/s400/IMG_20191116_153124.jpg" width="400" /></a>It’s the turn of the HRB supporters to serenade us now. Lower in number, they are are though no less passionate, “come on Hampton, come on on Hampton”. With ten minutes gone WFC appeal for a penalty, however nothing is given and the home fans are let's say far from impressed with how easy one visiting player goes down, claiming a foul. “Get up you inbred” shouts one, “thats unkind on inbreds” adds another.<br />
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Tom’s fears for another dull match are soon out to the sword. When a roar goes up for another home penalty, the referee is having none of it and then WFC race right up the other end and go close themselves. However with fifty six minutes gone and I think somewhat against the run of play, although Tom disagrees, HRB take the lead.<br />
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The quality of the finish and the subsequent celebration with the fans following the goal where the scorer effectively waited for the WFC keeper to sit down having gone one way, then another before poking it in, just about make up for being three minutes out on the golden goal, three minutes. Actually what am I saying, I’m gutted.<br />
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Seconds after the restart and WFC hit the target with a bobbling shot, the tension around the ground is palpable and for the first time both ends are quiet. On twenty three minutes HRB almost double their lead with a rising shot from a very tight angle that ripples the wrong side of the net, chatting a few home fans out, who have to cut short their celebrations.<br />
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“I get no pleasure watching” says the chain smoking HRB chairman, who I think spends as much time on the steps lighting up, than he does watching the match. He squirms and contemplates his next gig, at the sight of an edge of the box shot by WFC being touched over the bar.<br />
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WFC are starting to pile on the pressure, with a quarter of an hour to go. The smooth voice of the announcer giving the attendance goes unnoticed. The HRB keeper is forced into a rash punch to clear the ball and then pulls off another smart save low to his left to keep the visitors out. “Hampton fucking stick in there” pleads one fan. The feeling of impending doom only lifting for a moment when laughter breaks out among the fans, because of a bit of a shonky kick from WFC keeper.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUjXaOGcu0EIX4G7xrh3SxrLBm2pDD8fvT135WhfTzK2wP9t97jotamAQkMhk_2fdzTSghEkSyYFo31swPiLZtJKO0aolXdNQ9_dxtdjsUrjC99A1mGud-EH8IGn2KzBey1p67hWa0Mw/s1600/IMG_20191116_162356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUjXaOGcu0EIX4G7xrh3SxrLBm2pDD8fvT135WhfTzK2wP9t97jotamAQkMhk_2fdzTSghEkSyYFo31swPiLZtJKO0aolXdNQ9_dxtdjsUrjC99A1mGud-EH8IGn2KzBey1p67hWa0Mw/s400/IMG_20191116_162356.jpg" width="300" /></a>It feels a bit like tempting fate, but the latest HRB song “you're top the league, you're having a laugh” could maybe considered a tad ill advised when they're only one goal to the good. Firing the ball back and forth across the HRB six yard box, not one of the WFC players are able to hit the target, instead they thrash the ball across the home penalty area, causing hearts to reside in home mouths. “Come on Beavers” chant the loudest section of the home fans, the home team now forced right back up against their own goal, the WFC hitting against them time and time again.<br />
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HRB’s one and only outlet when they have possession is a loan forward found with a big lump up field. A tactic probably sneered at in some circles, but it's working for them. With less than ten minutes left, they close one and one with only the keeper to beat, the forwards side foot finish is wide. “Ohhhhhh” go the home fans, who knew full well that was the cushion they so desperately need.<br />
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What better way to distract yourself from the anxiety of just about holding onto a one goal lead, then giving the opposition goalkeeper some grief, “you're going bald in the morning”. They then resort to some more traditional prose, with a less personal song, “aly o aly o red and blue army”, before all hell breaks loose, and all that tension dissipates in a heartbeat.<br />
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A well measured pass across the WFC box, a well timed run at the back post and side footed finish via the face of the away keeper and again against the run of play, although Tom still disagrees, HRB double their lead. The crowd below us erupt, pints are spilt not quite summer 2018 style but close and more than one person takes a tumble down the steps.<br />
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“Is there a fire drill?” they ask as some of the away fans who have seen enough, start to make their way home, “we can see you sneaking out”.<br />
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Two goals up against the league leaders and with less than five minutes to go, what better way to celebrate than slagging off your rivals, “we hate Staines Town”, as well as rubbing salt into the wounds of your opponents, “2-0 to the Hampton boys, 2-0”. The small group underneath us have hit <br />
peak loudness, the hoarding is getting a kicking and they are struggling to comprehend how the team they look very close to beating, are so much higher than them in the table, “top of the league you're having a laugh”.<br />
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The final throes of the match all belong to the away side, the nerves at new levels, but you wouldn't know that judging by the fans below us, “cheerio, cheerio” they sing waving to the departing WFC supporters. The name of their manager is now stuck on loop “Gary McCann’s red and blue army” and one person hopes the WFC faithful have enjoyed their “stay in the good part of Middlesex”.<br />
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“4 minutes of added time” enunciates the PA, dripping with such regal magnificence , I feel like a have to curtsy in his presence. Every WFC error is greeted with a relieved “weeyyyy”, each one eating into their time to potentially score and make the last few minutes unbearable.<br />
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A third for HRB might have been a bit flattering, but with nigh on every WFC player in the home half, they were always going to be vulnerable to the counterattack might and bearing in on goal, one on one with the keeper, they miss the chance to once and for all put everyone's mind at ease. Which for some reason prompts one person to ask “are you Tottenham in disguise?” bit rude.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynNfNlTn1ZkA41Nhn4TeYFrWW5_Blncoz6tKs16tKx9UrOOCvCY4SpA0Y8ejysznkL2dvNv9NonjeKt62mJcedbTc-O6Lpe2UAaC0j93lvcTDPZolyUbUR8hxI5JktUNANGsR1ggvuEI/s1600/DSC_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhynNfNlTn1ZkA41Nhn4TeYFrWW5_Blncoz6tKs16tKx9UrOOCvCY4SpA0Y8ejysznkL2dvNv9NonjeKt62mJcedbTc-O6Lpe2UAaC0j93lvcTDPZolyUbUR8hxI5JktUNANGsR1ggvuEI/s400/DSC_0147.JPG" width="400" /></a>There is a collective "yeahhhh" from almost every HRB fan come the final whistle, separated by only the recently erected semi permanent tunnel, both sets of fans go at it. "We are top of the league" sing the WFC ones putting on a brave face, after I would imagine was somewhat of an unexpected defeat. The reply from the home ones is loud, with plenty of banging, every flat hard surface close at hand is whacked with a clenched fist.<br />
<br />
With the ground all but empty, the last few fans who stuck around following both teams elongated tunnels have left, I take in my surroundings one last time and deliberate with myself if I've room for just one last sandwich. I also mull over the pros and cons of watching football this way, and I'm scared to admit that I quite liked it, which I'm not sure why makes me feel a bit annoyed with myself.<br />
<br />
Who doesn't want a great view, plenty of room and the odd few nibbles too? I used to turn my nose up at those in the corporate seats, fat cats killing the game we all love, that don't care about the match, they're just there for the hospitality. Am I turning into everything I once loathed, is this a slippery slope, I've tasted it once, so now chasing the high? Sniffing around boardroom doors for a biscuit or the chance of a coffee in an un-chipped china mug?<br />
<br />
I'll tell you one thing I understand why they call them fat cats, it's the sandwiches, all the bloody sandwiches. If I am going to take this up as my new way of watching football, I might have to get a gastric band or something, otherwise I'm going to become a very fucking fat cat indeed.<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-15028104868797621642019-12-05T12:13:00.000-08:002019-12-05T12:15:31.734-08:00In Direct Line Of The Burgers - Guildford City FC Vs Hanworth Villa FC, Combined Counties League Premier, Spectrum Football Ground (30/10/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCixmzeHP4VOH-iDKcX6kWGpROpkVE4yyDmK5a_31lGVje974T0ohXDNetFcXE3oENpeybOT8XL-p_rhzOejG5uTubEfgjHPVa5zhBQyjaEkeQin4heqW17A2d05Q9KaIg28zHng5bpT0/s1600/P1060496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1126" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCixmzeHP4VOH-iDKcX6kWGpROpkVE4yyDmK5a_31lGVje974T0ohXDNetFcXE3oENpeybOT8XL-p_rhzOejG5uTubEfgjHPVa5zhBQyjaEkeQin4heqW17A2d05Q9KaIg28zHng5bpT0/s320/P1060496.JPG" width="225" /></a>Bumper to bumper traffic and 40 mile per hour speed restrictions make for slow going, but at least I have the unusual, but not to say enjoyable mix of the Queens of the Stone Age, George Michael and Soundgarden to entertain me, as I journey along the M25. With no Tom, the music fills a void, however I miss our banal chatter and friendly bickering. Tonight, as has been the case on a few occasions this season, because of the location of our destination, we are both travelling solo.<br />
<br />
Entering the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Complex, the UK’s number one leisure complex by all accounts, the name I accept is quite a mouthful, and not one I think that will be remembered in the annals of time with other more evocative stadiums like Anfield and the Camp Nou, is visible from quite a distance.<br />
<br />
Illuminated like something from a Spielberg film set, it's about as far from the usual non league set up then we are used to then you could imagine. The rows and rows of parking bays, many if not most are filled, signs pointing off in all sorts of directions towards one thing or another, an ice rink and bowling alley and not one of them says club shop. Modern, bright, and more concrete then you could shake a stick at, a monolith built in honour of wholesome family entertainment.<br />
<br />
“I left the house it was 11.5” is Tom’s opening gambit, me barely out of the car, and he’s already miffed that it’s a bit chilly. He recounted how his on board thermometer tumbled the closer he got, until stopping almost at zero, although the way he is going on about it, you would think it had gone well below, “freezing”.<br />
<br />
A long white banner fastened to a high green fence lets us know, in no uncertain terms we are in the right place, the club's name Guildford City FC (GC) written across it, however there are no obvious hints that there is a ground anywhere nearby other than the towering floodlights. The green fence doing a good job of obscuring what is beyond. Something that is vast, much, much larger than your average bottom of the pyramid football ground, and I’m curious to investigate. It’s not until Tom escorts me through a small open gate, that our venue for the night, comes into full view.<br />
<br />
Imagine a bowl cut out of the earth by General Zod’s World Engine. Then drop into it, all the necessities for an athletics stadium. The red running track a lone runner is doing laps of as we arrive, hammer and discus cages at either end, the steeplechase hurdle, and blue tarpaulins covers the long pit jumps. There's a large steep grass bank at one end, and an even steeper bank of concrete steps at first floor level down the home straight, and of course a football pitch far out in the middle, and you have yourself the Prospect Football Ground.<br />
<br />
There is more than a smattering of the Eastern Bloc about the place, one would not be shocked to see a steroid pumped shot putter appear and start hurling things about. The noise of the nearby main road is a constant and the newly arrived players and staff of Hanworth Villa FC (HV) who have just trekked down the formidable steps like a troupe of Sherpa's arriving at base camp, each ladened with one giant bag or another, mill about on the edge of the pitch, looking less than impressed by the facilities to say the least.<br />
<br />
The vast complex that surrounds us, that not only includes the athletics track and football pitch, but also we’re told an ice hockey rink too, where a game is also on tonight, and I think I'm correct in thinking the now home of the former Chelsea and Arsenal goalkeeper Peter Cech, is in direct “competition” with our match, which according to one GT volunteer, will cause a bit of a dent on their gate, “lucky to get fifty” he tells us. Fifty that is unlikely to include any away fans, “not much hope the visitors will bring many, if any,” we are informed they “don't travel well”.<br />
<br />
The clubhouse, a pitch side portacabin accessed by a single file path that I’m just about able to get along, without getting stuck, reminds Tom of his exploits on a “building site”. Between his brief stint in the army and time as a hairdresser, what he knows about building sites, I'm not sure, but I take his word for it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZzPoXkchUhdCSn8J0-VT4L8CsjpGv0icU_tJu_zJbsRL7wsnTXuiiwea3cc_6x71HRjdcBahhO7f0nVxj_iq90V79aODIjILgHzMakS806vb-xO8ugdgOFfJVC1pswQ2Dv50GnriVms/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZzPoXkchUhdCSn8J0-VT4L8CsjpGv0icU_tJu_zJbsRL7wsnTXuiiwea3cc_6x71HRjdcBahhO7f0nVxj_iq90V79aODIjILgHzMakS806vb-xO8ugdgOFfJVC1pswQ2Dv50GnriVms/s400/DSC_0014.JPG" width="400" /></a>Signs around the rather bare room allude to better times in the club's history, and their stint in the Southern League. A ghetto blaster straight out of 1981 witters away on a small table, the unmistakable drone of TalkSport tumbling from it’s tiny speakers.<br />
<br />
A somewhat makeshift looking bar takes up one end of the room, its red and white frontage, with the club crest on is currently unmanned. A shelf with everything available for the anticipated customers, does not give them many options. Next to our table on a blue notice board, four pennants hang wonkily, each one a memento from a previous FA Cup or Vase encounter.<br />
<br />
“Two years ago it won best programme” says the man selling the clubs match day offering, from a bag for life. My money along with the few others who have bought one, goes straight in a small red metal lock box, the likes of which once upon a time you kept your Christmas and birthday money. The kind that was about as secure as a chocolate safe and if you lost your key, a swift whack from a hammer would open it.<br />
<br />
I’ve yet to see anyone make their way through the single turnstile perched halfway up the side of the large bank of grass, the way down to the pitchside a zig zagging path, that makes you go back on yourself as you descend, like a day at a theme park.<br />
<br />
A few of the green plastic seats in the covered section of the first floor stand sandwiched between the huge slab steps have been occupied. Below the teams appear for the warm up, first hit by the blinding orange glow that radiates from the running track, then the cold. Many with hands secured in sleeves, wishing they had not forgotten their gloves.<br />
<br />
I’m happy to be accosted by a teen with a book of green raffle tickets in one hand and a plastic money bag clutched in the other. Tom then shares some advice for when and if I decided to visit the loo, “take a torch” but on opening the door when I do go, I’m not sure what he was going on about, it was perfectly well lit.<br />
<br />
“A fucking queues forming” says Tom under his breath, standing at the rear of the baying mob waiting for food. The lifting of a blind to allow the fixing of a menu to the inside of the window, is like a red rag to some. The crowd surges slightly, but the shutter remains down. Nearby a committee of three kids write the teams out on a white board. The two dictating take no end of pleasure from winding up the scribe, sniggering loudly, forcing he with the pen to rub out great swathes of what he’s written, because he’s not noticed that starting in goal for the home team is I. P. Freely.<br />
<br />
Tom’s transition, by his own admission, from summer to winter wardrobe has been a rather slow one, however this evening has prompted him to quicken the pace, “time to get the long-johns out”. The crowd shuffles a few steps further forward when one lady looks close to opening the hatch. The false sense of hope coming from the throng of bearded anorak wearing men, Tom included, when she doesn't, is palpable.<br />
<br />
A traffic light system would be more than appropriate for the single file traffic in front of the clubhouse, however the bottleneck soon clears when a young woman throws open the shutter, “look at them go” mutters Tom. The stampede which he refrains from joining, lunge at the window in search of something to eat. We hang back, Tom sticking to his half time regime, surrounded by those also not eating, but instead occupy their time by defacing their programmes while updating the starting elevens.<br />
<br />
“Testing, testing, 1, 2” says a quiet voice over the PA lifting the place out of just somewhere people have gathered to eat outside in the cold, towards somewhere in the realm of an actual football match. To be fair to him, I can't work out if his voice sounds quiet, because he is a softly spoken type or just because where we are is so vast. It wouldn't matter if it was Brian Blessed, it would still sound rather mousy.<br />
<br />
“That's all from me, enjoy the game” is how he signs off, having read out the starting lineups. The away team complete their final shooting practice, “you don't save those ones” shouts one player having slammed the ball past the diving keeper, and soon the pitch is clear, the referee and his assistant appear to lead the teams out over the running track and onto the island pitch surrounded by a red sea.<br />
<br />
“It’s chappin” says the home captain, his team in a classic get up of red and white stripes, his opposite number, the visiting captain, heads up his team who have effectively been dressed to look like yellow highlighter pens.<br />
<br />
The home manager is booming to say the least, “leave everything out there,” he tells his team, standing in front of the Subbuteo looking plastic dugout, resting on wheels to allow it to be wheeled <br />
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away and off the track come the end of the night. “We start early, come on” he beseeches before restating his previous point, just in case nobody heard him the first time, “leave nothing out there, I mean it”.<br />
<br />
A few late comers are pacing down the hill from the turnstile as the referee completes his final checks and such is the gap between the back of the goals and the edge of the ground, it's got to be at least sixty, seventy metres, two ball boys are standing fast, and they better be on it or we are in for about twenty minutes of added on time, come the end of the match.<br />
<br />
Tom’s review of the tea is to the point, “hot”, and even though we bought them about ten minutes ago, it’s still scalding. There is little more I can add on my thoughts of the phenomenon that is the temperature of non league tea, but really someone should set up some kind of study group. He then tells me he “likes” the neon yellow away kit, but my mocking of him for this laughable opinion is interrupted because of our proximity to sustenance. Sitting as Tom puts it “in direct line of the burgers” the smell wafting up from the burger bar directly below us is verging on the overpowering.<br />
<br />
The first chance of the match falls to the visitors, all because of a mistake at the back by GT, a goal for the highlighters is only prevented by the home keeper in a Jens Lehmann shade of orange, gathering up the ball moments before the HV forward can take advantage of the error. The home manager continues to be the loudest thing here, a little petered by this teams slow start, “It's fucking embarrassing. We've gotta get back quicker”.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes gone and a goal bound GT header is cleared off the line, the man behind us tucking into his sandwich brought from home is only able to muster a muted “ohhhh” on account of his mouth being half full of cheese and branston pickle.<br />
<br />
HV then go close with a flashed shot wide and less than a minute later a ball cut into the box is cut out, seconds before reaching its intended target. The home side then get a chance to catch their breath, after a high HV tackle poleaxes one of their midfielders, which in turn ignites a fleeting scuffle. “Fucking referee” shouts the home manager, the man in charge soon has control of things, “It's a physical one” snorts Tom.<br />
<br />
Strutting around in midfield, you can see how the GT keeper might just be able to add to his goal tally this season if he stays that far up the pitch, “he clearly wants another goal” says Tom, having scored one in their last match. “What's he doing, on the edge of the centre circle?” ponders my fellow ex keeper, his positioning causing him some concern, “he's not the smallest bloke to run back” he adds, “he’s gonna get lobbed”.<br />
<br />
Skipping into the box, and after a spot of good fortune, the GT defence tests their managers patience again, letting the visitors in, but luckily for them the shot is tame and right into the midriff of the keeper. A home shout for a handball is declined by a stern “no” from the referee and then off his line at a rate of knots, the GT keeper makes Tom eat his sizeist comments, out to clear a through ball in a flash.<br />
The visitors are bossing it, the Villains as HV are known aren't letting GT have a touch, and the away side are soon in again after another lapse at the back, a last ditch block stops the close range shot hitting the target.<br />
<br />
“Can you smell rosemary?” asks Tom, turning towards me with a rather perplexed look on his face. He’s convinced that the ladies in the kitchen are whipping up a bit of “roast lamb” and his craving for a bit of a midweek carve up, prompts him to tell me to go and get him some “roast potatoes”.<br />
<br />
The first cold feet dance of the season sees Tom frantically tapping his feet, doing his best to get some life back into them, “my toes are frozen”. However the thawing technique is soon forgotten when a home breakaway, a slick and well rehearsed overlap pulled off by the full back and the winger is brought to an end by a “Guendouzi” type tackle. Tom laughs out loud at the similarities in the move more commonly seen at Twickenham. Imagine the young Frenchman's recent tackle against Crystal Palace, but with a heavy dose of Boris Johnson at Soccer Aid chucked in too.<br />
<br />
“Think that's the weirdest goal I've even seen” suggests Tom, slack jawed. The combination of not one, but two flicked headers in a row following a GT corner, sees them, quite against the run of play take the lead, and before the delighted sounding PA can confirm the time of the goal, I do love a stadium announcer who can clearly be heard to be delighted that the home side have scored, someone, much to Tom’s annoyance, informs everyone that “Liverpool” are “beating Arsenal” in their game at Anfield.<br />
<br />
Blessed with an ungodly amount of pace, the HV winger on the far side is soon flying once again, causing the home side all sorts of issues. His latest foray down the touch line is ushered out by one defender, much to the delight of one concerned home fan at the sight of him striding goalwards, “come on”.<br />
<br />
It’s fair to say Tom takes pleasure in the simplest of things, a good cup of tea, some well cooked chips, tonight however it's not food that’s got him grinning, but the name of one of the players, Cyril. “Kind of love that” he says, “a name from football yesteryear”.<br />
<br />
The away bench does it’s best to rival the noise of the home one, when following a particularly big tackle they go all “braveheart” as Tom describes it. “Well done” cries one man, overflowing with enthusiasm after his player won the ball back.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij77K2bLUG5YQ4BXgnbkoTz2ePhp8M0zyLbPJmpYtbAunD3xZRq3BoFx4xDdHeVPAgodSsW05-MDTX6xYxr3g-Vs_D2SRzH4fkh_k_-r4QzbcsOzeRCFMdOENGsjxkuP-whWxdHDzz7tw/s1600/DSC_0024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij77K2bLUG5YQ4BXgnbkoTz2ePhp8M0zyLbPJmpYtbAunD3xZRq3BoFx4xDdHeVPAgodSsW05-MDTX6xYxr3g-Vs_D2SRzH4fkh_k_-r4QzbcsOzeRCFMdOENGsjxkuP-whWxdHDzz7tw/s400/DSC_0024.JPG" width="400" /></a>Into the last five of the half and HV are in again, but put it wide from a narrow angle. Tom has taken to his feet, in an attempt to wake up his extremities, “I’m getting frostbite”. With me still sitting he suggests I’m going to need an “inflatable” if I stay on my arse for the rest of the game, increasing my chances he thinks of getting “piles”.<br />
<br />
“He nearly missed that” scoffs Tom, who I can just about hear over the one women cheer squad along to our right, celebrating the home sides second goal. The simple tap in is almost sent the wrong side of the post, but gets in the end to double GT’s lead. “Cheese that” says Tom, it being this close to half time I imagine he’s talking about his burger, but actually its some FIFA 20 lingo. A “cheesy goal” he goes on to explain is lots of R2 to sprint down the wing, a touch of X to pass it to the player in the box, and a dot of O to roll into the empty net, but the scorers connection was a tad scuffed, but he was spared any blushes.<br />
<br />
GT’s keeper is elated, the HV keeper is not. “What the fuck?” he asks of his team mate, arms stretched out, not because as Tom points out he has “no number” on his shirt, but because his defence were non existent in the face of the GT attack<br />
<br />
Bang on the stroke of halftime, what looked like a comfortable lead for the home side is halved. “Looked innocuous” says the man behind me, a tackle in the GT box has resulted in the referee pointing to the spot and curiously and for no apparent reason, the player brought down to win it, picks himself up and at nearly at full pace runs away from the scene of the crime, back to his own half. Very odd.<br />
<br />
“Yes” exclaims the HV manager, “we go again” shouts GT’s, both of them keeping up the battle of the loudest gaffer right to the death.<br />
<br />
An injury to a home player holds up halftime and Toms inevitable dash for food. The vigorous massaging looks to have done the job and the downed player is soon back up on his feet. “Bad sportsmanship” tut's Tom, when instead allowing the customary throw back to the keeper after the ball was put out of play, is instead kicked back out for another throw in.<br />
<br />
Tom is absolutely chomping at the bit, “is it not half time yet” he wines. Barking his instructions, “hold, hold” the GT keeper makes sure there are no more slip ups, and such is his volume that I can barely hear the half time whistle.<br />
<br />
“Our staff will be happy to serve you” says the young man over the PA, with Tom already on his way to put that to the test. It’s quiet as the teams depart, with neither managers having anything to say. As I unfold my 50/50 ticket I’m sure I’ve won, “211, 211” confirms the voice, but on second glance mine says 217, six out, my heart sinks, fuck. Tom thinks it's very funny when I explain just how close I was on his return, seeing it fit to nigh on laugh in my face, but he has his own problems to deal with, so his mocking is short lived.<br />
<br />
“This is not going to end well” he prophesizes, the height of his ginormous burger, his huge, double patty burger, that looks close to toppling over that he admits to having been “too scared” to put sauce on.<br />
<br />
Like some kind of sick wind up, the PA pipes up again informing us that the “50/50 has not been claimed” maybe this means a redraw, the ticket six away gets the prize instead? “I’ll have it” shouts one local optimistically, but any hope of my first win of the season, that our petrol money might be covered, is soon dashed to the floor, “quick update, it's just been claimed”.<br />
<br />
Tom’s quiet, which can only mean he’s enjoying his food. “Sorry I’m dripping juice on you” he tells me, breaking away from his furious chewing. His apology and the constant pinging of his phones notifications as the goals fly in at Anfield is all I can hear, in fact all anyone can hear, until one home player appears buoyant for the new half, “come on Guildford”.<br />
<br />
Bemused I think is how you would describe the expression on the face of the GT player, when for no clear reason an HV player next to him crumbled to the floor in search of a free kick. The visitors mind you are not the only ones guilty of a bit of play acting. The blood curdling scream that follows a tackle on a home player, surely means his leg is broken, no both of them, but soon he is back up, like nothing has happened.<br />
<br />
The half time oranges have done little to dispel GT’s wobbles at the back, a cross into their box is crudely hacked away and the foul play is increasing too. “Never” screams a home fan when HV are<br />
awarded a free kick on the edge of the box “he fell over him”, however GT have nothing to worry about the set piece is woeful.<br />
<br />
“Start playing, start playing” pleads the the GT manager after what has been a pretty uninspired start to the new half. When they are in possession of the ball it inevitably ends up out on the wing. “He can’t catch you” shouts one home fan, when the wide man is off on one of his gallivanting runs, “he’s nowhere near you” they confirm. Only for the defender who looked right off the pace, who is now the new poster boy for perseverance sticks with him, and against all odds recovers well and wins the ball back.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSMIs-sqOGWOHix8qPqaeFTaCe_fBsO3NhX6hLS4nJHEiGIg-hh9YgiXGh-MKXvaJOmJW9HvtQ43ETmXyYE1YQJC7laFllom9bWMxAcwjsTJ7Zw6vZuarvyUg8ghNLjrxC2IuytDdAgc/s1600/IMG_20191030_194228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSMIs-sqOGWOHix8qPqaeFTaCe_fBsO3NhX6hLS4nJHEiGIg-hh9YgiXGh-MKXvaJOmJW9HvtQ43ETmXyYE1YQJC7laFllom9bWMxAcwjsTJ7Zw6vZuarvyUg8ghNLjrxC2IuytDdAgc/s400/IMG_20191030_194228.jpg" width="400" /></a>As the clock ticks down the rate of theatrics increases. “Embarrassing” shudders a GT supporter, “get up” shouts another. In an attempt to win another penalty one HV player has just gone over very easily in the GT box, but his efforts go unrewarded.<br />
<br />
The halftime break has also done little to defuse the increasing physicality. “Thank you,” says one man sarcastically, when a poor HV tackle ends up with the home side being awarded a free kick in a promising position. “Do not lose the work rate” says the home bench, offering up a few words of encouragement, that ultimately have the opposite effect than intended. This free kick, just like all the others that preceded it, is poor.<br />
<br />
GT are growing increasingly sloppy, determined to chuck their lead away, and their manager is losing it. “Don’t let him cross” begs a home fan, but the defender does just that and the HV player sliding in at the back post is only a fraction away from tapping in for the equaliser.<br />
<br />
Long time readers will know how fond of shorts I am, how it was only recently I retired mine for the year, so because of this Tom is happy to do a bit of short shaming, when a man comes into view, who is not one of the twenty two players or any of the three officials, sporting the aforementioned no leg garment in November, “putting you to shame”.<br />
<br />
A long range HV shot is on target and has to be beaten away by the GT keeper, who has been nowhere near as cavalier with his positioning so far this half. All this pressure on his team, is causing the GT manager to hit new levels of audibility, forcing him to call out Tom’s favourite player, “Cyril concentrate”. What must be even more frustrating for the GT manager is when his team do knuckle down for just a second, they are able to dissect HV with ease. “Clip him” <span style="background-color: white;">instructs one</span> visiting midfielder after a GT players just skipped past half the team, bearing down on goal he ends up running somewhat down a dead end, the chance to pass has gone and the home fans are livid, getting the most animated they have been all night.<br />
<br />
In on goal, one on one, GT have the best chance so far to create themselves a bit of breathing space, but the side footed shot is wide, stirring an “ohhhh” from the crowd, whose half own half time refreshments, has clearly livened them up.<br />
<br />
“One, two, three, four” counts the home manager, his over the top delivery, is an attempt to highlight just how many HV fouls have gone unpunished, pointing to each spot of the pitch one of his players have been taken out. One home fan, ensures to make sure the players are not dejected by this rather underhand tactic, “boys keep your heads up, you're still the better side”<br />
<br />
What looked like it could have been a nasty one, a challenge on the GT keeper, goes neither punished or results in an injury, the man in goal rolling out of the collision like an old pro. The wind is picking up, and I feel a little exposed on the side of the man made mountain, the temperature is dropping and the game, well, the game is not great.<br />
<br />
The closer GT get to securing the three points, the closer they get to chucking it all away. “He’s in acres of space” bemoans a home fan, HV are away down the wing, the player cuts the ball into the box, tees up his team mate, the equalizer looks nailed on, however the shot is wild. “Weyyyyyy” cackles one man, the shot way, way over.<br />
<br />
A soft flicked header causes the GT crowd to squirm, but the late effort on goal is right into the hands of the keepers. Tom decides it's time to “get his little mittens out” and the home supporters, no rival to their managers noise of course, have though really come out fighting this second half, “switch on” bellows one. The recurring issue of major lapses in concentration at the back strikes again, HV are in, but can't take the chance, causing one grown man to briefly sound like a toddler, when he screams at one of the offending back four, “you stupid”.<br />
<br />
It’s a mistake by HV at the back which presents GT with their next chance, in on goal, the third goal looks only moments away, but for some completely unfathomable reason, the player with the ball squares it, instead of shooting and Tom is dumbfounded, “why?”.<br />
<br />
Falling short of stamping his feet and holding his breath, but sounding a lot like my two year old daughter, the boy in the shorts repeats “we've lost it, we've lost it” as HV get closer and closer to the goal, with only the keeper to beat. A block of John Terry esq proportions, flinging his whole body in front of the ball, stops the goal bound shot, the HV players appeal for a hand ball, but nothing is given.<br />
<br />
The wind gets stronger and is cutting through me like a knife and the home defence again, do everything they can to throw the three points away, despite the shouts of “urgency, urgency” from one supporter. Some miscommunication at the back ends with the one GT defender and the keeper coming together in an almighty heap, neither of them with the ball, which pops out as if it was a bar of soap in a cartoon, skidding through the box and wide of the goal.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaEmJ6OS-zPB7IoX2FopEWRn0Q8OAHsF3HCoLlyGl2Zu5f0rOGsgRVWoDLNStODedoGWk9FrrMAnZLBKzCzdK1d6MDJfzvqzYObEO8QQfDMGQS6QinnNdK0BiyIjRIPhdZ9sYF98m9rw/s1600/IMG_20191030_210726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaEmJ6OS-zPB7IoX2FopEWRn0Q8OAHsF3HCoLlyGl2Zu5f0rOGsgRVWoDLNStODedoGWk9FrrMAnZLBKzCzdK1d6MDJfzvqzYObEO8QQfDMGQS6QinnNdK0BiyIjRIPhdZ9sYF98m9rw/s400/IMG_20191030_210726.jpg" width="300" /></a>“Clear” shouts a home defender, sounding like the last man alive in the fox hole, when HV send another ball from out wide into the box, and goes close once more. GT are on the ropes, exploiting them on every occasion from wide areas, HV are in the box, only for some last ditch defending forcing the ball wide. The home fans are only able to show their displeasure now by making low guttural noises, “aghhhhhh”.<br />
<br />
The resulting corner, despite its best efforts misses everyone, every single HV player in the box is forced to just spectate as it’s whistles by, by the time it's travelled all the way though, its eventually hoofed clear, but the chances keep on coming for HV. “That was close”, gasps a home supporter, the GT keeper at full stretch can one watching as the ball sails past him and the post.<br />
<br />
Conspicuous in their absence, the ball boys are nowhere to be seen and when they do pop up, they are far from as energetic as they were in the first half, the time it takes for the ball to get back into play, slowing the last throes of the match to a snail's pace.<br />
<br />
Having clearly seen enough, those making their way back up the hill towards the way out, are stopped in their tracks by an almighty to-do, that plays out in one corner of the pitch. “I didn't stamp on him” states the HV player accused by a GT one, of just doing that. Close to all twenty two players are involved at one point, but soon calm returns. Allowing those drifting off early, to continue their climb.<br />
<br />
Doing their best to torture their supporters right until the very last whistle, the GT players continue to make things hard for themselves and the home fans patients is wearing thin, “keep. the. ball” orders one, “simple”, and come the final whistle one lets out a very loud and relieved “yessss”.<br />
<br />
If you put your hand on your heart, I think you will admit that the idea of watching a football match in an athletics stadium is very, very low down your list of things to do. I admit to being of those people, I'll hold my hand up and admit that a little bit of me cried inside on the realisation that GT played in one, but I can also admit I was pleasantly surprised. The elevated view makes for a very agreeable vantage point. That and the chance of a prize winning programme, and the chance of seeing a goal keeper score, I'd suggest a visit to the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Complex, see it actually rolls right off the tongue, will not be a wasted one.<br />
<br />
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For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2578552848919360&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARBy1ipggbGpVoSPCy6HuswVMahk7scsT6lMGGcqhqxpvt0uyw7wK8IXSi7TjCAiecAfQhb_tlEfd7A1Q4vVORuyjEZ4rIrHnU2vh0tLnfuAH5sgm2wVyqdCiY5Uy6wFXjhZd6ojSRk-T8YxDAYi85C7RR91UUqZFZl-ai040Y2uGhLoFNPeYwN4gr6G9Z0zcylmV2v3yaV2FGzYcCU2fzjEYhwLqBDsAwJp_bV_kpP7uYHsCKytdWA78sf7AmcWR6NDcCdVoYDKmtS141o7JZcmp2_iYSWq67xouKrWG9YHQ45hou0k7zkdIEFmT3mrEioOayczNPvNdNIMe_dYAA5zpe4sv95Cl5K-LzqbO3YZyJLELZbTqHNYDqj2tve1f697qisYKmqIRe9eEe0fzOI50aUL6tQxODIz-URN4cJ6JdNGIFEDwv6kK3YXoDveA8Jq4Mo_XfBBIhXgM6nGrb6bpQwybNx_oDsp5pAesmML8le0beDooo4_14cvuYpXARcLpDVTarjxaHHdAwzzWdn6S5AS0gDSKSDk&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-33734092875096808482019-11-17T12:05:00.000-08:002019-11-19T11:34:14.389-08:00I'd Go Closer, But I'd Need A Snorkel - London Lions FC Vs Enfield Borough FC, Spartan South Midlands Football League Division One, Rowley Lane (16/10/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPthbruirtbXbYsTmCnfg9Mya3-fTQmFO0VIRHew8IOwfGFbAOFTPjSRkHxr238SdEWRWSJiAYDhHjQOVaATs6vKgqBoR9APaA8WEq5ec9N_jmV-gcyKhPsk4-DgNXBcyqmJMIiwuPg_k/s1600/Capture.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="643" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPthbruirtbXbYsTmCnfg9Mya3-fTQmFO0VIRHew8IOwfGFbAOFTPjSRkHxr238SdEWRWSJiAYDhHjQOVaATs6vKgqBoR9APaA8WEq5ec9N_jmV-gcyKhPsk4-DgNXBcyqmJMIiwuPg_k/s320/Capture.PNG" width="226" /></a>Thank Christ for A Tribe Called Quest, was never a sentence I ever thought I would utter, I say utter, I just roll it around in my head, having tentatively opened the passenger side door of Toms car in anticipation of a deluge of morose music like last time out, but instead I’m greeted by the New York four pieces 1993 hit, Electric Relaxation, what a relief.<br />
<br />
Although I don't have long to enjoy their melodic hip hop beats, as tonight's ground is less than ten minutes away from my house, its eight minutes to be precise, I have just about enough time to consider the advice of my other half, “I don't know if its a big jacket day” she said to me as I left and just how thankful I am for ignoring her this time, because the last game we went out I was freezing and tonight's even colder.<br />
<br />
Another reason for a coat, is not just the plummeting thermometer, but the very high chance of getting wet, “at least it's not raining” mutters Tom as we step out of the car, the fact it's not is a minor miracle. It's been raining non stop for what feels like days and looking out across the floodlit pitch, the car park within touching distance of it, Tom says pretty much exactly what I was thinking too, “there is not much here, but it's very nice”.<br />
<br />
A single all seater blue stand, The Alan Mattey stand, with its many yet to be occupied blue plastic seats runs along one side of the pitch and that and the blue framed curved roofed dugouts really is all there is, Tom was not kidding. A white railing, the kind I always describe as looking right from race course surrounds the playing surface, and like I said, that really is all there is, as Tom puts it, “it feels more like a Premier League training facility than a ground”.<br />
<br />
Midweek games can be testing for many non league clubs at the best of times, but according to Velina London Lions FC (LL) 1st team Secretary in her long almost knee length club coat and high red boots, she reckons they would be lucky if they got more than “15 or 17” tonight. She also points out that come kick off, the sections of fencing currently lent up against each other in one corner of the car park will be used to “build the tunnel”.<br />
<br />
The clubhouse is more of a “conference suit” than anything else says Tom, a couple of large round tables sit in front of the bar, the rest of the room is empty, the enormous parquet dance floor is yearning for Barry from accounts to start doing his best Travolta impression.<br />
<br />
Scouring the bar for things to eat it’s soon apparent that its little more than bar snacks and J20’s available, Tom most likely is going to be going without any kind of dinner tonight. The face on him as he sits down next to me in the seat previously inhabited by either someone at a wedding reception or the speaker at a medical seminar, is not a happy one.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Dinner: Coke, crisps, Snickers” he explains, plonking them down on the table, he even contemplates nipping off to McDonalds, if it didn't mean he would most likely lose his parking space. He follows all that up with a couple of biscuits pinched from the hospitality table at the far end of the room. Where the hot water urn we grabbed our coffee from, makes a very unfortunate and flatulent noise, whenever anyone uses it.<br />
<br />
“It's a nice evening for some football, shame we've had too much rain” says a man on the adjacent table to us, breaking the deathly quiet that shrouds the large room. Tom is head down, food all gone, opening a couple of FIFA 20 packs on his phone, his bad mood emanating from him like a bad smell, only looking up to tell me “they've got free Wi Fi”.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHOrAgJtEmANfChhmjwd_4FhXqTmBSlvE0IcU3n0cO5vleOrZKU5W55yGaaFKCQtBW6Nng80JaJLXW4Mh1AXH2OI7eFNvZdFnv9ASfUeKHdniQutuHn9VIjv1z0MKmTK4B2vluvaLk60/s1600/IMG_20191016_182305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHOrAgJtEmANfChhmjwd_4FhXqTmBSlvE0IcU3n0cO5vleOrZKU5W55yGaaFKCQtBW6Nng80JaJLXW4Mh1AXH2OI7eFNvZdFnv9ASfUeKHdniQutuHn9VIjv1z0MKmTK4B2vluvaLk60/s400/IMG_20191016_182305.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Outside it’s still dry and thank God for that, because the pitch sounds so soggy underfoot of those brave enough to venture out across it without armbands, but it’s getting colder. “Bit nippy” grumbles Tom, trying his best to pretend it’s not his snood he’s just pulled from his rucksack, telling me like I was born yesterday it’s a “hand warmer” and not the much maligned go to for the latest South American import playing in Yorkshire in December for the first time, but that he’s trying to bring back every Victorian ladies staple, the muff.<br />
<br />
A man starts to build the tunnel and some very swanky cars jostle for position in the now rammed car park. The click clack of studs on concrete sees the players swerve around the makeshift construction, as they make their way to warm up. “Whats this?” squeals an Enfield Borough FC (EB) player, bending down to touch the sodden pitch, “oh my, Lord” he says on the realisation of just how saturated it is. Tom in a mild state of shock, astonished that anyone is allowed to warm up on it in the first place, the potential for absolute carnage, very high.<br />
<br />
Over the constant buzz of the nearby motorway, one EB supporter comments to one coach about the long line of “unfamiliar faces coming out of the changing room”. The coach in hushed tones then reels off a long list of “missing first team regulars”. Those readying themselves to pull on the clubs shirt tonight are a “young squad” many of whom are no older than “seventeen, eighteen” or “nineteen”.<br />
<br />
With the DIY complete, the referee stands at the head of the long temporary tunnel, that highlights one benefit of it’s bespoke design, it's probably about wide enough to drive my car down, and there is tons of space for both sets of players, no shoulder rubbing here, plenty of room to swing a cat or even a couple of cats.<br />
<br />
It is a rather muted entrance as the players walk out, there are a few enthusiastic shouts from the home players “come on Lions” but there is little noise from the crowd, most of whom are in the stand, that after doing a quick head count, might just exceed Velina prediction.<br />
<br />
Standing just to the side of the emerging players, a small group of men with the air of committee members about them, are having a right old grumble about the pitch, the pitch which is showing some rather significant signs of the recent work of a ride along mower. Three or four great scars cut into the turf. “I’m worried about over there,” says one, pointing off into the distance.<br />
<br />
I can't be certain if all the vigorous hand clapping by the players is a technique to gee each other on, accompanied by the odd hearty shout or its just a way to keep their hands warm. There is one other EB fan in attendance, he gives himself away by giving up his own shout with kick off imminent, “come on borough”.<br />
<br />
In front of us the referee's assistant runs the line, I say the line, because as Tom points out he is about “a foot” off it. To actually run the line, would mean stepping foot on the worst affected part of the pitch. “This side is bad” cringes Tom, on the few occasions the lino does get close to the white line, the squelching sound is akin to that of a person punching a bucket of jelly. Overhearing us discussing his predicament, the man with the flag engages in some top level, non league official bants, “I'd go closer, but I'd need a snorkel”.<br />
<br />
With just over five minutes gone the home side are first to hit the target, a rising powerful shot is pushed wide of the post, the home side in a kit Tom is a bit keen on “I like it” he tells me, the unusual design a nice break from the standard Nike template with the name of a local accountants on the front.<br />
<br />
The visitors weather the early home pressure well, and the young team slowly but surely start to get their foot on the ball and when they do, they move it around well. So much so, their ability to shimmy past the LL players is starting to affect one or two of them to “this is shit, get tighter.''<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51nkFZkmR86dXCX2NUT7U2Gz_BP59QjnMjPutptJQ5BuElC4ZqbbkXjQU-J4c1QMuRBZ-JbGxrBYpmZnqDxgWq-aa7cFHPnd9xvXMJuzXGLihp4-jlvoqTOUpzHSoemIlD8KpPEVpL9I/s1600/IMG_20191016_184431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="1024" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51nkFZkmR86dXCX2NUT7U2Gz_BP59QjnMjPutptJQ5BuElC4ZqbbkXjQU-J4c1QMuRBZ-JbGxrBYpmZnqDxgWq-aa7cFHPnd9xvXMJuzXGLihp4-jlvoqTOUpzHSoemIlD8KpPEVpL9I/s400/IMG_20191016_184431.JPG" width="400" /></a>Tuned into these kind of things, I must admit it completely passed me by, but Tom informs me of the slew of people who just prior to kick off “sneaked in” via an open gate by the overflow car park, one <br />
person who came in the official way, wished he had just stayed put, “£5 to get in, I could have watched from the car”.<br />
<br />
“He's got the right idea,” says Tom pointing to one man, who has just walked the full length of the pitch to get some crisps and a drink and is making his way back to his motor. “Perfect view” as well as a “bit of music and the heaters on” in Tom’s eyes is a no brainer and if he could get away with it, he would be off doing the same thing, but not on my watch.<br />
<br />
“Where are we?” screams for what will not be the first time tonight, the LL manager. EB are starting to run riot, the pendulum has fully swung their way now and the home players are rattled, “tighter” shouts one. The captain is emphatic to say the least, waving his arms at his teammates demanding more from them.<br />
<br />
A late away tackle doesn’t stop the flowing home attack, the referee allows play to continue, the move coming to an end with a dinked cross, that almost looks like it’s floating, the flight of which almost catches out the EB keeper and instead of praising the man in charge for allowing the match to carry on, Tom calls the referee “fat” and complements him on his dry cleaning, “I like his white collar”.<br />
<br />
“There it is” says a home fan, in a moment of clairvoyancy but the shot from the LL player is inches wide of the post, but minutes later they take the lead, much to the displeasure of the lone EB fan, who is prone to the odd outburst, “fucking hell man” as are a a couple of the players watching on as the LL ones celebrate, “too easy”, the ball looking to go right through the keepers midriff.<br />
<br />
Despite taking the lead, the home manager is not exactly impressed, “not good enough, by a long way” he hollers. His voice already starting to show the strain and we’re only about twenty minutes in.<br />
<br />
It’s around now and not for the first time since going to non league football, I see a sight that I imagine you might be hard pushed to see in your whole life, let alone twice in only four years, a dog in a pram, a dog in a bright pink pram, that by the looks of it is nicer than my own daughters.<br />
<br />
“It’s not a baby” clarifies Tom, like for a second I thought it was just a very hairy infant. Peering out of its luxurious carriage, its owner sitting in the front row of the stand like it's totally normal to take a canine in a buggy to a football match.<br />
<br />
The home goal has somewhat left EB, following their promising spell, looking a little bit shell-shocked and the home side are now officially bossing it. The linesman has officially given up actually trying to run the line, having stood still for about thirty seconds for a stoppage in play, he has almost sunk down to his ankles, but neither of us can take our eyes off the dog. “It's just sitting there,” says Tom, “licking its lips”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8op9KcdjV5etvN5L8t1eN_fl4DMr2IvCL9cVQGwt8orK3KJVWRBNCouerjWpxfcYfP1SLFASF8VGfGGJodARpdX0Hsof7xHjsJrzOU-JLjzFFYAIiH79VlEJJ3eWWqCAwJdNDRtEocI/s1600/IMG_20191016_195722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8op9KcdjV5etvN5L8t1eN_fl4DMr2IvCL9cVQGwt8orK3KJVWRBNCouerjWpxfcYfP1SLFASF8VGfGGJodARpdX0Hsof7xHjsJrzOU-JLjzFFYAIiH79VlEJJ3eWWqCAwJdNDRtEocI/s400/IMG_20191016_195722.jpg" width="400" /></a>I must admit the presence of you know who, is a tad distracting. I’m trying to work out why the need for its own personal transport. Tom suggests it might be “too old to walk” or “its got no legs”. Legs or no legs it looks very happy, it's probably better wrapped up than me, its little head poking out from among all its blankets. I do though have to take umbrage with Toms suggestion that it is “cute” it's the opposite of “cute”.<br />
<br />
One of the many things that non league football has over its relatives higher up the pyramid, is the chance of the officials giving a little bit back to the crowd, in response to getting it in the neck about something or another, and the half swimming half, officiating one before us, is just that sort, and I have to admire him for it.<br />
<br />
Assured, confident and with great feat the home captain is showing all the qualities that you would want from the person leading your team. Playing the ball out from the back, he has been the architect of LL’s resurgence since going ahead. They go close again following a corner, but the effort on goal is caught on the line and within the blink of an eye, EB show off just what they are capable of. Racking up the other end, it's a foot race with only one winner, bearing down on the home goal is the EB forward, but the keeper is there just in time to gather in the ball, curling up and clutching it to his chest.<br />
<br />
The pitch is holding up surprisingly well and it's an uncharacteristic error from the home captain, charging out from defence and missing the ball completely, that sees EB in again. A drop of the shoulder and the EB front man is in again, but he shoots straight at the keeper.<br />
<br />
Chances are coming at both ends. A curling LL shot from the edge of the box gets a “oohhhhh” from the crowd, and it needs two attempts by the EB keeper to gather it, who is starting to look a like shaky and the first booking of the match is for a EB player and not long after the home players are calling for another. “How many ref?” asks one, after a particularly agricultural EB tackle goes unpunished.<br />
<br />
Despite the away side seemingly unable at times to make a two yard pass when it counts and the home side wasting a Pep Guardiola amount of possession, the game has been far from dull. A home shot that’s high and wide bounces off a car in the car park and the away bench is full of praise for the player who just made the slide rule pass inside the LL right back, cutting him out of proceedings with ease, “that’s the ball I want”. The shot at the end of the move is low and from a tight angle, but again it’s right at the keeper.<br />
<br />
The simple awarding of a corner, would not normally be worth a mention, however detailed I like to be, however this particular one awarded to EB might be worth bringing up not for the set piece itself, but because for some reason the EB player assigned to take it, decided the corner flag was getting in his way, so he plucked it from the ground and chucked it. Not impressed in the slightest with his unsporting behaviour, the referee blows up and makes the offending player recover it and put it back before we can continue. The EB player looking a little sheepish as he does so.<br />
<br />
Reaching ever new heights of displeasure, the LL manager is scathing about this players efforts, “you're going deeper and deeper, that's not good enough, that's lazy” he shouts. This criticism nearly has the desired effect, because they almost score a cracking goal. LL’s number 7, who has a touch of the Griezmans about him, hooks the ball out the air with his right foot, wriggles away from his maker and the crowd are celebrating his impending goal, before it's even gone in, but awkwardly for them, his shot is a fraction off target.<br />
<br />
The phrase ‘if that was Barcelona’ comes to mind on the stroke of half time, when a one touch master class by the home team sees them threaten again, however where Messi and the gangs attack would end in a goal, queue the big inflatable pitchside men at the Camp Nou, this one ends with one LL player hoofing the ball right up a teammates arse.<br />
<br />
EB finish the half with the last effort of what has been an action packed forty five minutes. In on goal one person in the crowd is not exactly confident, “bet you he misses” which he does. The visitors are more than competent, they have the skill set and are prone to the odd nutmeg or two, but their lack of cohesion across the team is killing them.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbwcLo1Pf_1lW7qaUxX4yvWT9iW2HNpH8PfVyCN3dpaOBTCZchxi_bMnvXEWOuQqqiUiwXK47Sc6tFVcxdQwH4fEoZttv78DKxk-2E6eHpPOPIr2P72_XhNdZqPKJ7ESuhYTuPh3V3uY/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="1024" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUbwcLo1Pf_1lW7qaUxX4yvWT9iW2HNpH8PfVyCN3dpaOBTCZchxi_bMnvXEWOuQqqiUiwXK47Sc6tFVcxdQwH4fEoZttv78DKxk-2E6eHpPOPIr2P72_XhNdZqPKJ7ESuhYTuPh3V3uY/s400/DSC_0098.JPG" width="400" /></a>With the teams gone, the dog well and truly becomes the centre of attention for those unlike Tom who haven't gone in search of tea. By the size of the crowd that has gathered around the pooch, they could have charged a fiver for people to come and see it with no problem and when Tom returns with tea, the brown sweet liquid in the polystyrene cup is life giving and much needed.<br />
<br />
There are new shouts of “come on Lions” from fans and players alike as they appear for the second half, but not one cry of the visitors nickname, The Panthers. If I followed a team named after a big cat, I’d be shouting it at every possible opportunity.<br />
<br />
The break and whatever words of wisdom the EB manager had for his team have worked a treat, and it’s a very strong start for them, racking up three half chances early doors, one as Tom puts it “their best of the match”. The mini EB onslaught has one LL player to a point of imploring, “come on guys, what are we doing, do your jobs”. The home side having looked at one point like they were going to roll EB over, have come out half asleep, the bench is incensed for them giving away “too many fouls” and as one player puts it “we’ve gotta start playing”.<br />
<br />
What a glorious sound, what a hit from long range that more than deserved a goal, however the LL player responsible for the shot from well outside the area can only look on as we do as his effort comes back off the crossbar, the sound it made as it did so still ringing out as the ball spins back into <br />
play. Winning back possession outside, LL go close gain with a flashed shot wide.<br />
<br />
It’s a pass of sublime accuracy that does all the hard work, and makes the actual scoring of LL’s second a formality. “Goal” says the man standing next to me, before playing on the other of the pass from midfield down the right hand channel of the EB box, has rounded the keeper and slotted it home.<br />
<br />
The applause from the stand is as much if not more for the player who supplied the ball than the scorer himself. “Great football” says an appreciative voice from behind us. LL have notably stepped it up a gear in the last five minutes, the goal a culmination of three or four chances in short succession. They are stroking the ball about with ease.<br />
<br />
Some have paid to get in tonight, some have sneaked in and one man has climbed a rather steep hill to stare through a fence. Whatever way they have ended up watching, they can't ignore the furore the LL manager is getting himself into, high standards doesn't quite go far enough to describe his demands, “keep the ball, keep the ball” he screams, his team absolutely cruising.<br />
<br />
When EB have a rare half chance of their own, they are flirting with possession at best, sending the ball across the edge of the LL six yard box, it sends the home manager into near meltdown, “you must do better. KEEP. THE. BALLLL”.<br />
<br />
Football is better at changing one's mood, more than any drug. “Benji. Welcome back son” purrs the home manager, “Benji” who I’m not sure where he has been, has just scored LL’s third, making his gaffa sound like he’s just taken a very strong dose of a high grade upper, the EB players are reduced to signifying their discontent by simply letting out a long succession of pained groans.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11JPZDVdsVtSItfPNR4uaTxz0QXDs3YfKH_qIyBLEIVYM_hBj7pOhUxcH71Ih84bFJ1aOLYAmZCuRI3Rz-giO4c9DbxiY-GUr7u1HfoevDDMNzBUzJHVl6X7fLLot2YRECPpoKYSl1bc/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11JPZDVdsVtSItfPNR4uaTxz0QXDs3YfKH_qIyBLEIVYM_hBj7pOhUxcH71Ih84bFJ1aOLYAmZCuRI3Rz-giO4c9DbxiY-GUr7u1HfoevDDMNzBUzJHVl6X7fLLot2YRECPpoKYSl1bc/s400/DSC_0105.JPG" width="400" /></a>A shout for a home penalty is waved away, but three goals to the good, they don't seem all that fussed its declined, as Tom points out with the EB defence in such disarray, “I've never seen a back four or three, I’m not sure, look less comfortable on the ball. None of them want it<br />
None of them are talking” a fourth goal for them seems like only a matter of time.<br />
<br />
“Well played Lions” gushes a member of the crowd, that fourth goal with us sooner than I thought, a fumble from the EB keeper, pushed the ball to the waiting LL scorer, who even though he was falling over as he does, he is able to poke the ball into the empty net. “That's it” says Tom turning towards me, following the muted celebrations from the home players. The away players are probably louder in their remonstrating with each other, “fucking shit”.<br />
<br />
Into the final quarter and Tom suggests LL have, how do you put it, taken their foot off the gas, “it's like they went up a gear and now they've gone down one, happy to just pass it around”. The EB keeper is forced to vault the barrier in search of the ball, slipping over, his return to the pitch much more straightforward if not a little embarrassing. NAME on hand to open a nearby gate to allow him back on.<br />
<br />
“Keep it going to the end lads” motivates the LL keeper and so far his teammates look to be doing every bit of that. “Show off” chuckles Tom, the home side demonstrating a few of their tricks and flicks, totally in charge, they can afford too.<br />
<br />
Having eased off, it does allow EB the odd probe forward, one run into the box ends with a poor shot and the home player responsible for the lapse in concentration raises his arm in apology, which does not go down well with the bench, “I don't want your fucking hand”.<br />
<br />
Although the EB ball into the box comes to nothing, the home manager is still livid, his voice almost gone, his latest shouts reduced to screeches, “I don't want everyone saying sorry, get it right, get it right”. Tom almost whispering, frightened of getting scolded himself if he hears makes the understatement of the year, “he’s angry”.<br />
<br />
When EB score a goal that is little more than a consolation, his anger hits a new peak, ripping into his team, “you think you're all too good”. The players do their best to rally each other, “keep your composure” says one, “we want the three points” says another, sounding like they know full well they are in for a deluge of shit if they somehow conspire to balls this up.<br />
<br />
A “cracking save” as one of the crowd puts it by the hand of the home keeper pushing the ball onto the post stops EB’s second going in. “We’ve got to keep the ball” barks the LL manager, “tighten up” instructs one player as the home side suffer what is quite a sizable wobble, putting their comfortable lead in jeopardy. “Get them to liven up” says a concerned fan of one of the players. EB go close again, the keeper forced into another excellent save, this time the visitors are offside, but LL’s drop off in performance, must be causing their manager to have kittens.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOf6A7MA-cLyDr64AmHYGknM73_jABL5KinMdNTYA56pWHDWKDjPSLWh3cc4r3PjmU4uS7nFZN7lItoQNy_HU_v0LlrQaNO8tOWbcDgykBN21LFDFf6WYzYq9KcVp6HyHU7Yh9Aj-cIEg/s1600/IMG_20191016_215646_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOf6A7MA-cLyDr64AmHYGknM73_jABL5KinMdNTYA56pWHDWKDjPSLWh3cc4r3PjmU4uS7nFZN7lItoQNy_HU_v0LlrQaNO8tOWbcDgykBN21LFDFf6WYzYq9KcVp6HyHU7Yh9Aj-cIEg/s400/IMG_20191016_215646_2.jpg" width="300" /></a>"Oh my God" says the EB keeper, prone on his back, for the second time tonight what was a tame shot has completely evaded him. If there was even the slightest suggestion of a comeback, that's been well and truly put to bed with LL's fifth.<br />
<br />
A four goal advantage and only minutes left to play, one might think the LL manager might just relax a <br />
bit, the jobs done, the points secured, but not on your nelly, he's still going apoplectic at the smallest of errors. "Want the ball, want the ball" his new deranged mantra. The sight of his team almost bagging a sixth, a curling shot from wide, brings no respite at all. It's only a late tackle on one of his players right in front of the bench, that sees him direct his vitriol at the referee for a brief second and away from his players, "fucking deal with that".<br />
<br />
EB very nearly get a second of their own, but a last minute interception saves not only the goal, but everyone in a ten mile radius's eardrums and the crowd have seen enough, they are suitably entertained, but its time to go, "blow the whistle it's cold".<br />
<br />
You're not going to come to Rowley Lane for the chance of a hulking great beef burger, the rickety old stand or the years and years of history and non league charm. You're going to come for the chance of seeing a good team play good football, a manager putting himself through the ringer and of course because you might see a dog in a pram.<br />
<br />
You'll go to Rowley Lane for the chance to hear your mate say, “it's got a pink jumper that matches it’s pram”, it will be worth it just to hear that alone, I promise you.<br />
<br />
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For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2558795234228455&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARB9uxGYYkKJvP9KCZVv__lJMHv721MMLxoaU7trdc8B8C0OYlT1QKROdGHR3UxdA3uGVGkCqTEdavvI0kuIsZ-R3JuYgY4CsQiZHq1pXj_Sb0DEk8hZ9XT_qC3ow4VM1paxC-jb6kgcHABDszhmJQj5ajnghtLszYjlWETFoKtSz4MfrAz7fJPjhLl88CpKsVAhovU2_Fv55MjVL9Fnm2rF-LmQXCD2Wz1yi1s_J7fRHe74sxR27y4kfKDAZh1afI4Ul1l27Yj-tT-ZFXKxjBXr2A-fu52KwoDAk_R6cXyrYjh1CwZIEAE0rEuVOWzKdaqwf6S_1c7mrD0n_fHjFSWf0JjH533wEaFHm_oz0LGtcE854ufHcehhTxBnq4bzS7S3fGDGRNSYtUumKvANr4Iv9MTWKqPMwngDVwK-vPXKqQOCvOJ-oN6kSBPjh0cbJPDOn_-DnotPBwFsVTi0&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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<h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE</h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-41815132981990652752019-11-04T11:33:00.001-08:002019-11-05T11:27:38.211-08:00From The Road - Corinthian-Casuals FC Vs Folkestone Invicta FC, Isthmian League Premier, King George's Field (12/10/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DXnRdINGPANbTIUvfuwfxVb2tpApmE_n3fWStnjcfQIOSUTDaaqq31zXiK94yCs4LgMpsJBxiee7_gfKuwEbDrAvLPlHnBIjsP-wfUv_lJcuggX1rRt5cYk9I_C98-MmiIZ8b8MIrqg/s1600/P1060281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1141" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DXnRdINGPANbTIUvfuwfxVb2tpApmE_n3fWStnjcfQIOSUTDaaqq31zXiK94yCs4LgMpsJBxiee7_gfKuwEbDrAvLPlHnBIjsP-wfUv_lJcuggX1rRt5cYk9I_C98-MmiIZ8b8MIrqg/s320/P1060281.JPG" width="228" /></a>It’s officially that time of year, where it feels like the chance of the football match you intended going to is more likely to be cancelled then go ahead, in the non league world at least. Rapidly hurtling towards winter, each check of my Twitter time line is done tinged with apprehension, scrolling past tweets about games being called off come thick and fast and it's surely only a matter of time before the club we'll be making our way to fires one off about Mother Nature getting the better of their pitch.<br />
<br />
The short video from Tom of the torrential rain overwhelming the storm drains near his work and the vision out of my own living room window of almost twenty four hours of solid rain, doesn't bode well for our first Saturday afternoon match of the season, and it’s not any old Saturday may I add, but the final international break of the year too, which can only mean one thing, its Non League Day.<br />
<br />
We were relatively slow on the uptake when it came to non leagues holiest of holidays, but since having devoted ourselves completely to the cause, we have tried to make as much of a grand day out of it as we can. Last year's trip to North Ferriby meant this year had a lot to live up to, however I’ve an inkling where we will be going won't disappoint.<br />
<br />
I even have a little nosey around in search of some alternative fixtures such is the deluge of rain drenching the world outside my flat, in doing so feeling almost like I’m cheating on the club we have arranged to visit, but they are making all the right noses on social media, so I’m able to go to bed relativity confident that our game will go ahead.<br />
<br />
Such is the location of today's destination, almost equidistant between Toms and mine, we are both riding solo, so there is no FIFA, cheese or honeymoon chat for us today. I’ve even failed to charge my portable blue tooth speaker so can't indulge in a bit of a Spotify sing along, instead I try my luck with my supposedly broken radio, which as is it’s want, occasionally plays the CD stuck in it, Michael Jackson's History, a present from my elder sister circa 1995, but unable to adjust the volume, I nigh on deafen myself with a succession of Jackos hits, before the scratches on the disc and the din its producing become too much to bare, so end up sitting in near silence, just the sound of the motorway and the sloshing of standing water under my car's tires for company.<br />
<br />
I must be honest, railway arches are not the kind of places I usually like to hang around, the chance of bumping into one of the Mitchel Brothers or some such villain is greatly increased, but I’ve little option but to make my way under the one ahead of me, the road, which might be a bit harsh on roads, the pot holed track, which might be a bit harsh on pot holed tracks, the shot to shit ground before me means I’m forced to creep along at no speed at all, in fear that at any moment I might lose a wheel or god forbid my entire car to one of the numerous and cavernous holes that litter the ‘road’ ahead.<br />
<br />
Thankfully the car park of King George's Field is in much better nick than what precedes it outside. Past the high white sign welcoming you, held aloft in the best non league tradition by a structure made of scaffolding poles and there is an unusual detail as you enter, the clubs initials painted in raised white lettering on the floor.<br />
<br />
On first impressions this little part of Tolworth, in the shadow of an adjacent railway line rising up steeply along one side of the ground, is not the most picturesque of places we have visited. Neither and I don't think it is rude of me to say so, is it one in the best condition either, however it is soon very apparent, in its own very understated way, that this little part of Tolworth can happily say it is responsible in some small part for Ronaldo, Romário and Zico. It can lay claim to being responsible for the Brazil team of 1970, and a national obsession that might just be unrivalled around the world in its importance to a single nation's identity.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcpEUBxtXrtfkYiNeIXZ1YfdOSI0lEuXGxWw13mHPeYRBeQgILRhyphenhyphenQQ03H4KVgzcDMTr3jd-KjElqns993JgoVKqudf73meU2HCXoz7KjIbbwlHFYEE-63LAjdksdewcpmThYHHmIzb4/s1600/IMG_20191012_130528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcpEUBxtXrtfkYiNeIXZ1YfdOSI0lEuXGxWw13mHPeYRBeQgILRhyphenhyphenQQ03H4KVgzcDMTr3jd-KjElqns993JgoVKqudf73meU2HCXoz7KjIbbwlHFYEE-63LAjdksdewcpmThYHHmIzb4/s400/IMG_20191012_130528.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Very rarely do you see a kid walking around your local shopping precinct wearing the white of Germany, but I can guarantee you have seen plenty in the yellow and green of the Canarinha, the little canary, with the single word names of their heroes on the back.<br />
<br />
However all the magic of an airport themed Nike advert feels a very long way away at the moment, Corinthan-Casuals FC (CC) are in the words of maybe their most ardent supporter, Roger, and I say that based on the tattoo on his calf that he showed me within five minutes of meeting him, that “used to be pink and brown” he tells me, the famous colours of CC having run from his permanent expression of the love he has for his club, are “struggling this season”. In fact “struggling” might be an understatement, in ten league games, they are yet to win one, as Roger puts it, “we deserve more points then we've got”.<br />
<br />
Standing beside the pitch, a pitch that Roger informs me is all good to go, thanks to the efforts of those with forks still tending to it as I arrive, he tells me about just how important it is to some from over five and a half thousand miles away, specifically the supporters of S.C. Corinthians Paulista.<br />
<br />
As a Spurs fan, I'm not sure that if the fabled lamp post the clubs founders huddle around to form Tottenham Hotspur is treated with such reverence, in fact I’m not even sure it's even still there, but the patch of grass covered in white lines next to us, is the “father land” to those fans of S.C. Corinthians Paulista according to Roger. A place of pilgrimage, their Mecca if you will. A tangible link to their own clubs roots, the birthplace of its history.<br />
<br />
“Brazilians come” says Roger, almost half astonished he just said that. They “walk to the centre circle” and “kiss it”. Some don't even come for the match, “they come after the games finished”, just being here for however long is enough, it moves some to “tears” and where others “laugh” explains Roger, he’s on hand to put an arm around them, because he gets it.<br />
<br />
From a little bit closer to home and nowhere near as exotic as São Paulo, King George's Field is expecting some noted visitors today Roger explains, the “Preston Casuals are coming”. Admittedly Lancashire is a long way off south eastern Brazil, but this small group of Preston North End supporters are just as committed all the same, and their reason for being here just as intriguing.<br />
<br />
After their own PNE game was called off due to bad weather, they stumbled across CC playing an away fixture, while in search of their football fix, up the road from their abandoned match. After getting over the fact that their League game had fallen foul of the poor conditions, but a non league one had survived and thanks in some large part to Rogers expertise in public relations, insisting they all “swapped scarves”, they were taken in by the travelling CC faithful, following the away side because “we were the away side” and a friendship was forged there and then, the same group making their own mission to Tolworth now “three times a year”.<br />
<br />
Standing beneath the pink bunting hanging from the ceiling of the area immediately outside the clubhouse, littered with a couple of picnic tables, and surrounded by a few nods to CC’s founding fathers and its lasting impact in South America and like I said before the references to the clubs stature in football history are not flashy at all. The pictures and biography of those concerned are very understated, considering their significance, they look like something a few notches up from a well put together school project. I talk to Stuart CC’s photographer, about the clubs 2015 visit to Brazil, seven days of being “treated like royalty”, “living off adrenaline” and people everywhere they went wanting the “shirts off their backs” that was all captured in the stunning documentary, Brothers in Football.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNgY63VgfbvuefQ6i80XFkkvbtLfkPckCdr3kdj0MX0kQMWNtDz2mFOLHfFFICrHNvodrM_lJTYCQZ6VWqjbc_0hGFwX6BLZAxzhfVuUEFPeWUP9HXjHSyIWNoS9YtDTWoZRpfjRsebE/s1600/IMG_20191012_125403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNgY63VgfbvuefQ6i80XFkkvbtLfkPckCdr3kdj0MX0kQMWNtDz2mFOLHfFFICrHNvodrM_lJTYCQZ6VWqjbc_0hGFwX6BLZAxzhfVuUEFPeWUP9HXjHSyIWNoS9YtDTWoZRpfjRsebE/s400/IMG_20191012_125403.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
You might think Stuart is boasting, when after talking about his visit to São Paulo he casually tells me about CC’s “summer in Budapest”, where in the best traditions of the club they took part in a European tour, but I can assure you he’s not. I just think you get to say things like that, when you’re involved with this fascinating old club. As he says, it’s just upholding the “Corinthian ethos” carrying on being “pioneers of taking football around the world”.<br />
<br />
The gentle sound of the ever present drizzle on the corrugated roof above the makeshift seating area and my conversation with Stuart is interrupted by the boisterous arrival of the Preston Casuals, “here<br />
comes some of the Preston boys”, each barrelling through the single turnstile and making their way straight to the bar.<br />
<br />
“Lovely weather, lovely weather” says one rubbing his hands together. Another speaking to Roger recounts the conversation he had with his wife last night, after getting home from a late night out, “you’re not getting on that train in the morning” he says, mimicking his other half's voice, and despite feeling a little worse for wear, he was never going to miss today, “life is for living”.<br />
<br />
Although the order for the bar has already been taken, there is something far more crucial than a pint to be sorted first, and that's a picture with the silverware CC claimed during their summer in Hungary. Stuart hurries off to not the most auspicious of locations, a nearby shipping container, to fetch the large silver trophy, that is soon front and centre of the group, whose phones are hurriedly passed around to grab a picture of their own.<br />
<br />
Normally I’d be quite concerned to say the least Tom is as late as he is, but if I'm honest I had lost all track of time, due to the thorough history lesson from Roger and Stuart, so I’m not that fussed at all and by the sounds of is he’s had a far worse time then me. His Sat Nav opting for a very bizarre route indeed. At one point he along with all the open top buses, crossed over Tower Bridge.<br />
<br />
His first words though are not an apology, but after a quick glance to the heavens, he asks me “if I've seen the forecast”. I haven't, for the precise reason I explain to him, I don't want to make myself depressed, however he’s more than happy to be the bringer of doom, “come three o’clock, 90% double rain drops”.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's down to a bit of foresight, but along with the myriad of flags that now adorn the low roofed main stand, one man in no danger of getting wet should Tom’s deluge arrive, he has already found his spot not far from the halfway line, and is single handedly demolishing a pot of hummus. As eclectic a collection of flags it is, there is of course an S.C. Corinthians Paulista one, as well as plenty more in the clubs famous chocolate and pink, that Stuart told me is down to that be the the racing colours of one of the clubs creators, I can't quite take my eyes of the man inhaling the pureed chickpeas at a rate of knots.<br />
<br />
The homage to “Mr P Nut” on the side of the burger van gets the copyright lawyer inside of Tom all riled up, “that's not Burger Man” as it claims to be he points out. I try and calm him with tales of the clubs famous four cheese chips they have on offer, but not for the first time as of late he reminds me of his aversion to multiple cheeses all at once.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KJJqd5rzwkeFLeGqhHK4UbgD88FGaJnsL8yHXL2Av4HzfWeryEyTPycjKbe8NtnHYnxu6EYAt440n0zttNyfNu2fCkBGSv9WIFB9Cxv8MzR1tBbttO5uzJuGc5QzCYBcVakQb-weIRY/s1600/IMG_20191012_125439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KJJqd5rzwkeFLeGqhHK4UbgD88FGaJnsL8yHXL2Av4HzfWeryEyTPycjKbe8NtnHYnxu6EYAt440n0zttNyfNu2fCkBGSv9WIFB9Cxv8MzR1tBbttO5uzJuGc5QzCYBcVakQb-weIRY/s400/IMG_20191012_125439.jpg" width="300" /></a>My golden goal tickets are not secured from the small closed shed, with a sign on its front that alludes to it being the normal place one would get them, but instead from a man on a small table and via the tiny wooden counters all contained within a blue cotton bag. Quite the change from the “scraps of paper” as Tom puts it, that we normally come across very classy indeed.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure that a shed can really be dubbed a Mega Store and I imagine there is a slight sense of irony about the single window wooden structure, filled with a vast array of scarves and merchandise, really being mega at all. The only thing that was mega, was how mega hard it was to fit through the door, in constant fear of turning too quickly I might knock it down. As is the case with everywhere else the store is awash with all manner of chocolate and pink goodies, as well as a few black and white ones too. Such was the high standard of pins on offer, Tom emerges not with one, but two.<br />
<br />
“Welcome to King George's Field for today's slightly damp Isthmian League fixture” says the exquisitely well spoken voice over the PA. The kind of voice that would soothe you to sleep in your Anderson Shelter during the blitz, a proper BBC voice, and following her few bits of housekeeping, the music replaces her and the feeling of match day gets ever nearer.<br />
<br />
There is a certain level of desperation in the voice of the lady calling out to the CC manager as he and the players appear for their warm up, “please win today”. Even more flags decorate the stands, a Brazil one now hangs from the back of the covered terraces behind one goal and astutely watching CC’s opponents Folkstone Invincats FC (FI) warm up, is someone who I can only describe as looking like a Bond baddie. Head to toe in a black suit, black polo neck jumper and silver hair, he is only missing a white cat. One false move by the FI players and it's the shark infested water for them.<br />
<br />
Waiting very patiently in the uncovered tunnel, I say tunnel, it’s two lengths of a chain link fence, the players are held up by the stragglers at the back before the referee and his assistants can lead them out and then we are all caressed once again by the silky smooth tones of the announcer, who reads out the starting elevens without fault. The players don’t walk far before stopping to perform the hand shake, one CC player forced to awkwardly do it with his wrong hand, on account of his right one being heavily bandaged and out of the corner of my eye I notice we are in the presence of a former England cricket captain, Alec Stuart, who not only donned the whites of England but also the famous colours of CC once upon a time too.<br />
<br />
The very large group still around the door of the clubhouse, are spared the motivational one liners by the players in the seconds leading up to kick off. The ends decided and the match seconds old, the group are soon in motion, the exodus has begun. The CC fans leisurely make their way to behind the goal they are attacking, where even more flags are hauled from a Tesco bag for life and strung up.<br />
<br />
Decor sorted for their first half home, the CC supporters squeezed in under the small terrace start to sing, “Corinthian, Casuals”, however where I imagine on most match days there is no response from the visiting fans, today is not the case. The reasonable number of black and orange FI fans in the much larger terrace opposite them, respond almost instantly “come on Folkestone, come on Folkestone. Sea, sea, seasiders”.<br />
<br />
The small pitch covered dugouts are not quite big enough to house all the CC substitutes and staff too, and unless he is a Biease fan, one man has seemingly drawn the short straw and has been relegated to sitting outside of it atop a blue cooler box and despite all the history, and all that is associated with CC’s famous colours, Tom is not digging it at all. “I don't like their kit” he says shaking his head, “Brown should never be on a strip, unless its mud”.<br />
<br />
Eleven minutes gone and FI go close. Their effort draws another song from their fans, “oh when the stripes go steaming in”, hammering away at the back of the metal stand, it’s proving to be an excellent piece of percussion. It's the latest passing train that’s the inspiration for the next home supporters song, despite the distinct lack of attempts on goal by their side, "the grass is green, the sky is blue, The railway train goes rolling through".<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsqsnGdPPYmKnomZW7SyzVy7w7Fbh5DLBJozwVyHtSnKF8gMK0O5-K5MtMzGU_nNH-zF66t_L_66KeOuyY8D_lG5SdlJGyt5UvlqhSD6c3huywLTLLNUmtXISYbwiCG66wXzCLCEQidA/s1600/IMG_20191012_133812_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfsqsnGdPPYmKnomZW7SyzVy7w7Fbh5DLBJozwVyHtSnKF8gMK0O5-K5MtMzGU_nNH-zF66t_L_66KeOuyY8D_lG5SdlJGyt5UvlqhSD6c3huywLTLLNUmtXISYbwiCG66wXzCLCEQidA/s400/IMG_20191012_133812_2.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Tom is still going on about CC’s shirt, “home kits too busy” he moans. He briefly halts his bellyaching to point out the very impressive looking “joint” one FI fan is smoking, impressive on account of its size, Tom suggesting it could be the “worlds biggest” that was “perfectly rolled” too, showing me quite how massive it was, by holding his two index fingers about the length of a shatter ruler apart.<br />
<br />
Just past the quarter of an hour mark and we get our first moment of real excitement, the visitors are in on goal and look about to take the lead, only for a last ditch stretching tackle by a CC defender poking the ball away just as the forward was about to pull the trigger, clearing out the man and stopping the danger in its tracks. Considering it happened right in front of us, I can unequivocally say it was a foul and the calls from the FI fans for a penalty should have been rewarded, but they weren't, the referee pointing to the corner flag instead.<br />
<br />
Tom is not as certain as I am, which means he is wrong, “I can't work out if that was an amazing tackle or a foul” and one CC player following the corner felt it was worth reiterating with the linesman that it was “a fair tackle”. Tom now in a mild state of shock, his brain unable to compute what the right call should have been, he is thankfully jolted free of his conundrum by a passing train, and right on cue the CC fans start to sing.<br />
<br />
“It seems to be getting heavier” says Tom, having to speak up slightly because of the sound of a plane buzzing overhead, the rain is certainly plentiful, but it’s doing little to discourage the fans or the players. A new much smaller section of singing CC supporters have sprung up, around about where the hummus eater was, surrounded by a swathe of flags.<br />
<br />
The FI bench is growing increasingly frustrated with the players, when after advancing all the way to the edge of the CC box, the home back line gives them nowhere to go and they lose possession. The FI supporters are still dishing out their songs, although their attempt to make “oh ah Invicator” stick is not quite working and considering the home attacks are still not exactly frequent, the sight of one forward plucking a long ball out of the air having broken the FI back line, it’s almost a shock. However he’s offside, but maybe they have found a chink in what until now has been a rather stingy defence, who give up another chance not long after, conceding a corner, much to the home fans delight, their little stand taking a battering, “ally o, ally or pink and brown army”.<br />
<br />
Glancing towards the linesman to double check he is onside, having just latched onto a loose ball on the edge of the CC box, it takes a moment for it to dawn on the FI player he is, before he gives the home keeper the eyes, thinking I reckon judging by the look on his face he has sold him the wrong way, but how wrong he is. Not one, but two saves in quick succession, really high end close quarter stuff, keeps the home team in it. Lightening quick he is up after the first block, to do the same again. The crowd at the far end behind the goal erupt like they had scored a goal and it's all whistles and claps from the main stand on their feet.<br />
<br />
Sadly, he can do very little about the low curling effort from the edge of the box, less than a minute <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRMgU418uDnVjeWNE_YIG0UmQUDuWqw-hyNPNNJo8gFgJ0BkZf7XDAySE2lTwrIGPQnPfK025ffChh8p4vnj8pwUutQzqx4ymfbvw-5HkcoE6lly-KfYXPBlaxGMFKF-CWmBgtFU6myA/s1600/DSC_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="1024" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRMgU418uDnVjeWNE_YIG0UmQUDuWqw-hyNPNNJo8gFgJ0BkZf7XDAySE2lTwrIGPQnPfK025ffChh8p4vnj8pwUutQzqx4ymfbvw-5HkcoE6lly-KfYXPBlaxGMFKF-CWmBgtFU6myA/s400/DSC_0018.JPG" width="400" /></a>later, that puts FI ahead. “Well done” says one FI supporter to the celebrating player on the other side of the goal to us, who turns to except the crowds plaudits. “Come on Casuals” shouts a home fan from the main stand, and the demure voice informing us of the name of the scorer, is rudely interrupted by the chanting FI supporters, “sea, sea, seasiders”.<br />
<br />
The rain gets even harder still, and sends those last brave souls, those without a brolly who had been standing out in the elements near the dugouts to flee for the safety of the terrace. The small choir in the main stand has more than found its voice and is belting out a song about a subject much talked about in certain circles, “we've got four cheeses on our chips, quattro formaggio”.<br />
<br />
Into the final ten minutes of the half and a smart low one handed save from the FI keeper stops CC drawing level, who worryingly, are spending less and less time in the visitors penalty area. A man in the main stand is at least encouraged, “better” he says at the sight of the effort, as are those packed into the terrace, “come on Casuals, come on Casuals” and one benefit of a slick playing surface is it allows for as Tom puts it “a lovely wet grass tackle”. The CC player using every bit of the soggy turf to his advantage to aquaplane and win the ball.<br />
<br />
So saturated are the flags perched on the top of the white flags poles dotted along one side of the ground, they can hardly move and the CC keeper has two hairy moments in the final minutes of the half, forcing home hearts into mouths. A swirling shot from outside the area, is moving too much to be held, forcing him to palm it out and it's not a case of “butter fingers” that strikes, but a “butter foot” as one FI imaginatively describes it, after his attempt to clear a back pass, spins up horribly in the air and out for a throw in.<br />
<br />
The mood of the song that follows the half time whistle, reflects somewhat the downbeat feeling coming from the home fans, who are getting a little too used to the notion of being on the back foot this season. Another train thunders by, the CC flags behind the goal are quickly down and it seems to only be the man with the large golfing umbrella in FI colours, who is willing to break cover, everyone else, except Tom driven by his need to eat, is staying put.<br />
<br />
If it wasn't for her winsome charm, I’d be a lot more upset than I am when the voice over the PA announces “the winner of the scratchcard”, that I somehow missed out on. Tom’s trip to the burger van, was a productive one. “Super burger and chips” he tells me, a proper “brioche bun” no imitations here like we have come across recently and so hot are the chips, the white polystyrene bowl they were served in, is starting to melt, like a scene from Aliens.<br />
<br />
A single home made looking flag has followed the FI fans to the opposite end of the ground, the players return gets a few shouts from the CC supporters joining us in the much more spacious terrace and they will be very encouraged by what they see from their team early in the new half. A bonafide fire in their belly, they have come out with bags more purpose, and are looking far more assured on the ball. With less than a minute on the clock a breakaway looks more than promising, only for a slip at exactly the wrong moment, means the forward can’t get on the end of the pass and the crowd to a man, each do their best pirate impression, “arghhhhhh”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZMuluj1DpfP4ISSc9O7DfjYkiBUm2XCeoazKs5nnVA2CYInJ_PlM0n0LlEQLC2VwXLx5vFtjGy7CCibFD7QkI_irf56UlhxnfPMU12oD76gxu9D0aI8MkKt9kiwxtI8wymbilxtjcn0/s1600/DSC_0197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZMuluj1DpfP4ISSc9O7DfjYkiBUm2XCeoazKs5nnVA2CYInJ_PlM0n0LlEQLC2VwXLx5vFtjGy7CCibFD7QkI_irf56UlhxnfPMU12oD76gxu9D0aI8MkKt9kiwxtI8wymbilxtjcn0/s400/DSC_0197.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
The passing Jamie Byatt, who I first saw today supping from a cup of tea in front of the burger van, gets his own song from the home crowd, and as he should, being something of a local folk hero and club legend, not only in South London I’m told, but Brazil too.<br />
<br />
It’s like a different team have walked out, CC looking the far sharper of the two sides. In again, it's only a last ditch block on the edge of the FI box, that stops them hitting the target and the crowd to our right respond in kind, “we’re pink, we’re brown, we’re coming to your ground".<br />
<br />
A somersault at the end of a slaloming FI run, the shot just wide, gets the first hummed rendition of the Entrance of the Gladiators we've heard this season and a certain section of the home fans are growing a little tired of their teams lack of creativity, the “ohhhh” when the final ball on the edge of the FI box fails to materialise is heavy with disappointment. “Could have slipped him in” says not the actor to the bishop, but a CC supporter who could see what needed to be done, so I don't understand why the player with the ball couldn't see it either.<br />
<br />
The next home attack, yes, like I said, a different team, that is two in more than forty five minutes, sees the player slipped in this time, he reaches the by line, and his near post shot is beaten out. All the signs are there of a resurgence for the home supporters, who and I would agree with them when they start singing about being “into something good”.<br />
<br />
With the rain now hammering down, the water cooler has been abandoned and the home bench is positively heaving. FI almost double their lead, but somehow the player charging towards the ball can't make any contact, and the gaping goal goes untouched. “Sea, sea, seasiders” sing the FI supporters, the home ones reply by informing them and anyone who might care to listen, that they are the “pride of South London”.<br />
<br />
There are more ohhhs from the home crowd, but still they wait for an equaliser. An unorthodox thigh pass across the FI area following a free kick, ends up in the right place, but no one can make the most of it and then the ohhhs are replaced with laughs, when a FI player slips over in the CC box, but he at least sees the funny side of it, “not very good” he says grinning.<br />
<br />
“Well done Jack” cheer the home fans, after the player in question crashed a long range shot goalwards that was touched over the bar. Tom thinks CC are showing signs of “running out of steam”. They should have “scored at least three times”, he says after they have a goal bound shot blocked on the line, but struggle to recover when FI race right up the other end and almost score themselves. The more and more CC go in search of an equaliser, the more they look like getting caught out at the back.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijk9K11dOM-9gjsxGSKTNQ7-loCsXHzwZ4lkDl130BmS9ooc7mnTZcQk7yFjUqKTNcBGxqcSJXKtpVie9-E8Ei00c3SSrxC3sHlEc7ApYvbhh5e6hQVXG5Nqlc5gLCIACp9M2pdXirXLk/s1600/IMG_20191012_164226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijk9K11dOM-9gjsxGSKTNQ7-loCsXHzwZ4lkDl130BmS9ooc7mnTZcQk7yFjUqKTNcBGxqcSJXKtpVie9-E8Ei00c3SSrxC3sHlEc7ApYvbhh5e6hQVXG5Nqlc5gLCIACp9M2pdXirXLk/s400/IMG_20191012_164226.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
“That's inches outside” says a concerned sounding CC supporter, drawing the air in over his teeth, when a FI player is barged over, in what I was sure was the penalty area, but the referee thought otherwise.<br />
<br />
It can't be said that CC have not had their moments to score, but that all important killer pass has eluded them all day. “That’s horrible” says one fan at the sight of another lacklustre attempt to find <br />
the player at the end of a move and just about summing up their day in front of the goal, when presented with probably their best chance of the entire match, they miss.<br />
<br />
“I thought that was in” gasps one man, the same one who had berated his team for “wasting” the corner, and taking it short, but it found the player at the near post perfectly, who somehow managed to bounce his point blank range header down and wide from a foot out, falling to his knees, arms aloft, he goes the full Platoon.<br />
<br />
From the brief time we have spent in the presence of the CC supporters, it's clear to see that they are a ‘sing regardless’ bunch, not an ‘only when things are going well’ lot. The on field action, having little bearing on them, “ally, ally o” they sing, while FI race away for the umpteenth time and the home keeper pulls off another super save, keeping his team just about still in contention with ten to go.<br />
<br />
As the clock ticks down, a few fans around us start to dissect their teams performance, “we're not that bad,'' says one, “compared to the other teams in the league, we're just not taking our chances,'' which based on today's performance I would say is just about bang on.<br />
<br />
Caught in two minds, one CC player with the ball doesn't know if he should listen to one fan and ignore the other or visa versa, “do it” says one, “don't” says another, in the end he doesn't pass it, the internal dilemma, the hesitation is written all over his face. Dawdling on the ball, CC’s hopes of getting anything at all are dwindling fast.<br />
<br />
The man with a four pint beer carrier is very popular as he returns from the bar, much more popular than the latest CC player whose attempt to find a team mate is poor. The singing still continues “Casuals, Casuals” and the small section in the main stand are still focused on having “four cheeses on our chips”, and then the old seductress pipes up, caressing us for the last time with her dulcet tones, when she informs us that there are “four minutes of added on time”.<br />
<br />
For the final time today, and by far the loudest they have been, the home fans give one last rendition of “something tells me I'm into something good” the stand around us sounds like its close to collapse, they are positively booming, “ally, ally o” their volume not dropping a decibel even when FI at the death almost score their second. “Why did he shoot?” wonders one of them, the away forwards decision making a little confusing.<br />
<br />
One last wild home shot gives the supporters a momentary glimpse at hope and the man in the first floor scaffolding made filming gantry gives the team one last push, "two minutes left, lets keep going", however it's all in vein and CC fall to another defeat, however the disappointment of which is <br />
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soon forgotten, as the players begin their customary thank you to the fans. High fiving those who want to be high fived, shaking hands and even hugging one supporter, as they complete their lap of the pitch. A fine way to finish any football match, a mutual recognition of each others efforts.<br />
<br />
Keen to join those already in the bar, his bag of flags in one hand, Roger a CC fan for "thirty years" who despite needing them in the CC documentary, I don't require "subtitles" to understand, is pragmatic to say the least.<br />
<br />
His club rooted to the bottom of the division after promotion last year, CC it's important to point out and in accordance with the ethics of their original formation don't pay the players, only travel expenses and that's only a recent thing, puts things into perspective so beautifully, the beer already starting to flow just a few steps away, the Preston Casuals pink flag now hanging from the ceiling, the songs have already started. He shares with us a notion, one that is worthy of getting a tattoo of myself, one every football fan should remember, that league position, players, grounds are all immaterial. Its the club, the badge that is all important. As he puts it, even if they got regulated, and lost their famous old home, "if they're playing in the road, I'd support them from the road".<br />
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<h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-53409318814481400352019-10-24T11:37:00.000-07:002019-10-24T11:47:57.119-07:00Engage - Highworth Town FC Vs Swindon Supermarine FC, Southern League Challenge Cup 1st Round, The Elms (02/10/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDlkU2InsdN4AxFLIScju3LC6EuLQ8bKGKXoX1ifMYJ74VnKKmwGRAmWusIvPCCld4MGuFFNb69xMweyg8MpXQ9S9BKF8QK1hyphenhyphenAMBHGNm-Iqg5_7s1pu-nJeu2ehKU0Dntn5n9flU65fE/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1132" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDlkU2InsdN4AxFLIScju3LC6EuLQ8bKGKXoX1ifMYJ74VnKKmwGRAmWusIvPCCld4MGuFFNb69xMweyg8MpXQ9S9BKF8QK1hyphenhyphenAMBHGNm-Iqg5_7s1pu-nJeu2ehKU0Dntn5n9flU65fE/s320/1.jpg" width="226" /></a>“You live in a stupid area” whines Tom, annoyed that the space my car has just pulled out of, yes I’m driving, the status quo has resumed, is not big enough to accommodate his wide hipped gas guzzler. “Silly small car, silly parking” he mumbles under his breath like a cantankerous white haired muppet on a theatre balcony. It takes him at least three tries, in three different spaces, before he eventually finds one he can get into, much like the Goldilocks of parking: one was too short, one was too narrow, the third being just right.<br />
<br />
Just about settled in, just about over his parking debacle, Tom’s choice of topic of conversation is of course the weather. “Is it going to rain?” he asks himself, peering out of the car. “Its that time of year” he says, exactly what he means by that I’m not sure, but it's clearly causing him much consternation what combination of numerous items of clothing he has dragged from his car into mine.<br />
<br />
The latest incarnation of FIFA occupies almost the entirety of our drive west, and Tom's upcoming honeymoon in the Maldives, that despite my best efforts, will be happening during the season. Tom going all European on me, having himself a winter break, while we’re all Brexiting at home.<br />
<br />
As is the case each year, Tom talks to me through the intricacies of Football Ultimate Team, speaking almost in another language, I try and decipher a few bits I think I understand, but it's all a bit over my head. I’m very much a career mode guy, got to get Southend to the Premier League, as I have done, with the few exceptions of when I did it with Barnet, every year for the last fifteen.<br />
<br />
Only two other subjects manage to crowbar their way into proceedings, one is, unusual player celebrations, and Tom’s aversion to anything including mixed cheese. He’s OK with a single cheese, like on a pizza or toast, but mix multiple cheeses in one meal, well let's just say it’s not pretty, “does not react well” he says while having a momentary flashback.<br />
<br />
Something that certainly is pretty, is the countryside we are winding our way through, in this particular part of Wiltshire. Yes Wiltshire, when I said West, I didn't mean Chiswick and after all the cheese and FIFA chat, the car has fallen very quiet. A quick glance over at Tom and I understand why. He is astutely studying his phone, I ask him what he is doing, and he tells me “buying and selling”. His FIFA 20 grind extending much further than his living room sofa, as I negotiate the motorway, he’s flogging second division Spanish players, to earn a handful of FIFA coins.<br />
<br />
Anyone who is a regular player of computer games, will know grinding is a routine part of 99% of games nowadays, collecting thousands of stone or wood to craft a new cart, but who knew such behaviour was required in FIFA?<br />
<br />
Despite the well meaning sign, what it is actually pointing to is not exactly clear on first inspection. A further sign, one displaying the details of tonight's match confirms we are in the right place and I can see The Elms home of Highworth Town FC (HT), floodlights and what I’m guessing is the clubhouse perched overlooking the pitch, however between us and it is a sizeable field with kids playing on it.<br />
<br />
It is soon apparent why all the signs direct you to the spacious car park, the other side of the field, and not to the one directly next to the ground, that it shares with the neighbouring swimming baths, because it's tiny and full of parents dropping their children off for their lessons.<br />
<br />
I must do at least three or four laps of it, until I’m lucky enough to stumble across a space just about big enough to fit my modestly sized car, the same could not be said if it had been Tom’s, so up yours mate. However some people are not so lucky, as we approach the single turnstile, one man is going around and around and around, all signs of hope having completely drained from his eyes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva_rbK-7W4p7HfgsVgRQ3s_CrenuHJHU3vlkg1CAWiT4ASVxFSIeTVJlzq7z5305-8ucOUAsWVixib-MKcxKiSbZ4lahP_IYtaXlIQmKIWnkJIbm3VAh4MmNDW2xCRRT9NVFOeFNhNqE/s1600/e7cc8f71-f88c-4214-87f9-1cf41f059a2f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva_rbK-7W4p7HfgsVgRQ3s_CrenuHJHU3vlkg1CAWiT4ASVxFSIeTVJlzq7z5305-8ucOUAsWVixib-MKcxKiSbZ4lahP_IYtaXlIQmKIWnkJIbm3VAh4MmNDW2xCRRT9NVFOeFNhNqE/s400/e7cc8f71-f88c-4214-87f9-1cf41f059a2f.jpg" width="300" /></a>At the far end of the pitch, one very eager Swindon Supermarine FC (SSFC) supporter has already fastened their flag to the fence behind the goal, however there is something much more apparent between us and it, that needs mentioning, something the kind of which you won't see everyday, even in non league.<br />
<br />
“You looking at that hill?” asks one SSFC player barely able to contain his laughter to another coming in, who looks slightly in shock. The change in gradient from one corner of the pitch to the other is staggering, as Tom puts it, it's like a pool table in the pub that too many people have sat on the corner of. Regardless of what you do, the cue ball always ends up rolling that way.<br />
<br />
Other than the slope, there is not much else of mention. It’s a very peaceful setting, the sound of dogs being walked in the park behind occasionally break, the relative silence. It's getting a bit dark for anyone to be playing in the playground visible over the fence, and in another twist, to add to the rarity of the slope, the ground is only three sided, which we later learn is down to the adjoining cricket club, the fence having to come down whenever a game is on and HT have to get “special dispensation to play without it”.<br />
<br />
The man in one of the two flat roofed stands with their mixture of black and red seats, sloping down the hill along one side of the pitch, the same side as the large tree that might be responsible for the conkers littering the goal mouth, is absolutely hammering his packed lunch and won't have any left if he carries on at the rate he’s going and I can only hope Tom’s premonition of rain is wrong, because there is a distinct lack of cover.<br />
<br />
“Lots of wood here” notices Tom, and he’s not wrong. The Elms most definitely has a bit of a Nordic sauna feel to it, well at least one part of it does. The brand spanking new structure by the entrance stands out quite a bit compared to the rest of the ground. Opposite it, with a plaque on the wall celebrating past glories, Hellenic League Champions 2004-05, is a building much more in keeping with what we’re used to seeing. Single storey, white UPVC windows and swinging doors, the clubhouse.<br />
<br />
“Not coming in here with them” says the apparent HT prefect standing guard on the door to a man who has just arrived with his own chips, “disrespectful” he mutters to those clutching their non club sanctioned food.<br />
<br />
The sun now gone, having set gloriously over the cricket pitch side of the ground, its now cold, really cold and Tom smirks, “I bet you’re glad you don't have shorts on”. The warm lights of the clubhouse draw us in, the doorman is nowhere to be seen, our entrance is accompanied by the Champions League music buzzing through the speakers of one of the TV on the wall.<br />
<br />
It’s been a while since I’ve stepped into one, the summer to me at least making them a bit redundant, much rather sit outside, then be cooped up inside, but edging closer and closer to winter they really come into their own. The shelter from the cold, the promise of a warm drink, the reassuring blinking of the fruit machines lights, absolutely delightful.<br />
<br />
“Food is limited” whispers Tom, after his brief stint at the small table covered in milk and sugar, making our teas. “Pot Noodle” he informs me is about as good as it gets, before slinking off to the loo in a bit of a grump. On his return, he doesn't bother to sit down, “time for a Pot Noodle and a pie” he tells me, the menu having doubled in size in the brief time he was in the toilet, and although it's not going to be as plentiful as his usual order, he admits it will “fill a hole”.<br />
<br />
Sitting in its own silver tray, which is sitting in half of a yellow polystyrene one, Tom looks far from enamoured with his dinner. “They've got a Cornish pasty” he tells me before taking a bite of his pie, his back drop the kind of advertising covered board you'd usually see Brendon Rogers conduct an interview in front of, and I’m trying to suss out why he is drip feeding me the menu information, it’s so tedious. However with a mouthful of pastry and chicken he’s soon moved on, ruing the fact he “should have bought a thicker coat” and for at least the two hundredth time in almost five years, he tells me that he needs to get himself a “Wenger jacket”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_6QO1UxYF8tifhOlim_InwDqLHtLWFGYDG1ikWm5aKcfWhyphenhyphenKR1kvUfXPA70C2wXMLU4TrYYadQjJ_gO5BuV54znnIR1L5HU2UzEomkPemkWxycVFXYz_bXZUuWmUcPJB02xnKsGafCE/s1600/DSC_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_6QO1UxYF8tifhOlim_InwDqLHtLWFGYDG1ikWm5aKcfWhyphenhyphenKR1kvUfXPA70C2wXMLU4TrYYadQjJ_gO5BuV54znnIR1L5HU2UzEomkPemkWxycVFXYz_bXZUuWmUcPJB02xnKsGafCE/s400/DSC_0006.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
It’s quite the descent down the slope from the changing rooms behind the clubhouse to pitchside, where the referee waits with a neon yellow ball in hand and it’s now we get our first taste of the booming PA. Which had previously been playing a reasonable selection of music at a very appropriate level, but the volume the starting elevens are being read out at, is of Deaf Leppard’esq proportions.<br />
<br />
Tom is far from a fan of midweek cup action, the possibility of extra time and even penalties, winds him up no end, so I know he will be just about the happiest person here when we are all told by the person manning the microphone, that he has been “intelligently informed that the match will not go to penalties” if it is a stalemate at the end of the ninety.<br />
<br />
A very angry “get into them” from a SSFC player follows the whistle as we get underway and Tom having had a quick scan of our surroundings, is somewhat surprised that “there are a few people here”, but no one stands with the SSFC flag still hanging alone at the far end of the slope, sorry I mean pitch. Some have “not bothered leaving the bar” he laughs. The terrace outside the bar, is as far as a few are prepared to venture, but as Tom points out they've probably got the “best view here”.<br />
<br />
It’s a feisty start to the game, which Tom confirms is normally the way according to an overheard conversation earlier, two home fans discussing how there is always seemingly a “red card in this game”. Both sets of players are very shouty, very vocal, and there is a reasonable amount of chatter and general football noise coming from the end SSFC are attacking, however the other, where the sad flag is, is deserted. Which might have something to do with quite how narrow it is, about a man wide or the chance of being hit by a falling conker being very high.<br />
<br />
“Cheeky” scoffs Tom at the sight of a slightly ambitious snap shot by a HT player, that is well, well over and its soon SSFC, the team from the league above time to have a pop, there shot at least hitting the target. An unfortunate slip by a home defender sees them in, but the HT keeper is equal to the attempt, and stops it with his feet. Then HT go close once more, the match swinging from one end to another, a low shot wide of the post and then SSFC sting the palms of the man in goal for the home side with a long range dipping shot, all this action condensed into about four or five minutes.<br />
<br />
Now you will understand why I won't pass comment on Tom’s latest observation, as it could be construed to be a little hypocritical if I did, but he is convinced the referee is a “bit fat”. When he gets no reply from me, he answers his own quandary, “he looks a bit tubs” and when I don’t entertain his body shaming, he sharply changes topic. Informing me as he always does around this time of the season, about how he’s “not looking forward to winter this year” and I remind him as I always do of the time he told me how much he looked forward to the day of a snow covered match, and we conclude that he likes the idea of aspects of it, how nice it will look on his Instagram feed, but he has made no practical consideration of how fucking cold it might get.<br />
<br />
Both the home and away players cackle at the referee's latest decision, for wholly different reasons. The SSFC player went down very softly, “he dived” interjects Tom, winning the set piece in a threatening advanced position.<br />
<br />
A quarter of an hour in, and as Tom puts it SSFC have notably “ramped it up a bit” kicking into a higher gear, they stroke the ball around effortlessly, testing the home keeper again with a thunderous <br />
strike, that he is only able to palm away. “Fucking hell” he says to himself, the ball moving all over the show, almost catching him out.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBU8bMMEopb63VnRQcueeToJ755atnDwQpCGxKk1YjxyBMWCUYjm9nZ-gJWhRmI1Rkq4mUtipBiYJS1iUkRyaWJldW00fU6DlKsY_OY1ql1rSWZcJ6LUsgGfEwXOMTlAUMQExPP43QHM/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBU8bMMEopb63VnRQcueeToJ755atnDwQpCGxKk1YjxyBMWCUYjm9nZ-gJWhRmI1Rkq4mUtipBiYJS1iUkRyaWJldW00fU6DlKsY_OY1ql1rSWZcJ6LUsgGfEwXOMTlAUMQExPP43QHM/s400/DSC_0037.JPG" width="400" /></a>The introduction of an early SSFC substitute is unfortunate for the player going off, clearly in some discomfort, and is also the cue for another assault for our eardrums. I’ll take some responsibility for the fact that we are standing quite close to a speaker, but the volume the announcement is being broadcast, I’m surprised isn't forcing locals in their droves to write angrily worded letters to the council.<br />
<br />
Looking on in woolly hats and gloves the substitutes watch HT work the ball up well to the edge of the box, cutting in from the wing, a home fan senses some promise, “go on” he stammers, but the final ball is nigh on assaulted out of the box by “big blue” as Tom dubs him, a hulking SSFC defender and the danger passes.<br />
<br />
The way footballers talk never ceases to intrigue me, their choice of words and blurted one line sentences, make up a whole dialect, reserved only for the ninety minutes of the match and very rarely at any other time. Sometimes it can be easy to decode, easy to get the gist of what they are getting at, but sometimes it can be impenetrable. To this day I still don't know what “pigeon steps” means. The SSFC winger though fluent in footballer knew exactly what the man in the box meant when he said “a little one”, the wide man dinking the ball to him perfectly on the edge of the six yard box, but his flicked header is over.<br />
<br />
Judging by their performance so far, with almost twenty five minutes gone, it's clear SSFC have ever more gears to change up into if they wish, they are running at half speed if that, them scoring feels like only a matter of time, their number 9, Tom points out is “the one to watch” his dribbling “amazing”. He is very much at the centre of everything.<br />
<br />
“Bit harsh” sniggers Tom, the home bench far from happy at the foul being given against them, “fuck off”. Another HT indiscretion, another free kick awarded, this time there is little complaint, the tackle getting a teeth sucking “ohhhh” from Tom, it wasn't pretty. The resulting set piece sees SSFC go close once more, they are giving the home keeper a right work out. The low stooping header is somehow kept out and minutes later the HT stopper is at it again, his one handed save from another header even gets the plaudits of the SSFC substitutes “save”. Managing to push the ball wide, he looks on as it bobbles along the goal line and out for a corner.<br />
<br />
Our conversation with Derek an HT official about the “tricast predictor” and how “half” the money raised goes towards helping to maintain “the pitch”, is interrupted by him becoming very animated, “good save” he cries. It’s now the turn of the SSFC keeper to display some cat like reflexes, a header at the end of a quality cross is kept out and would have been quite an undeserved lead, had they taken it.<br />
<br />
Derek also confirmed, something we have known for a while that the League Cup equivalent in this division, is as well respected as it is everywhere else, which is not at all. This season the Southern League couldn't even find a “sponsor” for it he tells me, and tonight's encounter is “more competitive than it normally would be” because “of who the teams are”, otherwise it would be a very damp squib.<br />
<br />
It’s only the home players laughing this time, when their reasonable claim for a free kick is waved away and then its the turn of the SSFC number ten to reel off a few expletives when he can’t get the ball out of his feet in the box, “fuck off”. He needn't be too hard on himself, they have another chance to take the lead shortly after, but the stabbed effort is right at the keeper, it’s only a matter of time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfGZAk68KajgRl8r7zNP9qG8zHKZB1TOSpC8LcAKQdyrvl2HLF33cAblnlYd2dq8EuApbt99XQ5OYyzgmCuh8j49MwuJQj094MdIJaCiF75RzrJpDysQIe4thCB5BrZlllxgNEsxct1I/s1600/IMG_20191002_192113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="1024" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfGZAk68KajgRl8r7zNP9qG8zHKZB1TOSpC8LcAKQdyrvl2HLF33cAblnlYd2dq8EuApbt99XQ5OYyzgmCuh8j49MwuJQj094MdIJaCiF75RzrJpDysQIe4thCB5BrZlllxgNEsxct1I/s400/IMG_20191002_192113.JPG" width="400" /></a>“Get hold of the game ref” barks a man from the SSFC technical area, following a home attack that started after a very heavy challenge. One HT player insists the player responsible, “got the ball”, making his sides case, as the player now in possession flies down the wing, but nothing comes of it<br />
<br />
It’s a low key response to the half time whistle to say the least. Tom follows Derek having taken him up on the offer of a much needed cup of tea or coffee in my case. A SSFC official clutching a clipboard passes us having a hotly contested debate with himself, suggesting, to himself may I reiterate, that it’s “only a matter of time before the first red card”.<br />
<br />
With Tom having already eaten, and no anticipation of the raffle or 50/50 results to come for entertainment, although it’s more entertaining for Tom of course, who takes much glee from how depressed I get when I don’t win, it's a rather sedate half time for us, however we are both shaken from our reverie brought upon us by the hot drink by the growling SSFC keeper making himself comfortable at our end, “straight in” he barks.<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, it's the home side who go close first, the new half only minutes old. “You what, no way” says a SSFC player, dumbfounded that the referee has awarded HT a corner, many of the visiting players each wear a look of unbridled shock across their faces and this phantom corner kick, rears its head the next time the ball goes out. “Corner, corner” appeal a couple of SSFC players, the referee not seeing the funny side, instead pointing to the keeper to signify a goal kick with a very sour look on his face.<br />
<br />
Despite the amount of time the ball has spent in the HT box, Tom is certain the game has “0-0 written all over it” and if no one is going to make the effort to at least get in the penalty area, “no one in the box man” laments one SSFC player, a cross into the channel goes unchallenged, he might be right.<br />
<br />
“Ohhh that would have been nice” grins Tom, his mood improved by a rising SSFC shot from the edge of the box, that just misses the cross bar, the ball having been latched onto after a poor punch from the HT man in goal.<br />
<br />
We might not be getting any closer to a goal, but we are certainly edging ever closer to a red card. “Oh that's a tackle” grimaces Tom, a full blooded HT challenge wins the ball back, but how fairly I’m not sure. SSFC’s number 9 trademark slick passing is just not sticking anymore and the “home players are fighting among themselves” Tom highlights, all making for an unpredictable final thirty minutes.<br />
<br />
I’m trying to keep upbeat, but the chance of a goal is diminishing by the second, the fact the the visitors almost score directly from a corner, but don't, makes me wonder what have they got to do to take the lead and a slightly scything SSFC tackle sees the first booking of the game.<br />
<br />
“Does it really need to be that loud” gripes Tom, the PA is deafening us both once more, “you’d be really pissed off if you lived over there” he states, pointing way off in the distance. He rightly adds, there are “only a couple of hundred people here” so it really does seem unnecessary.<br />
<br />
Just before the quarter of an hour mark SSFC go agonisingly close with a back post volley, Tom is close to freezing and is asking me to go and get him “some woolly gloves”, and much like a London bus, we then don't just get one goal, but two in as many minutes.<br />
<br />
“That was a very muted celebration” says Tom, the fact they have actually finally taken the lead only <br />
made certain by the return of the PA, but he’s not much help, “scored by Supermarine and I‘d love to tell you who he was”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3IoJx8dUV5kSniWL-JDktlc8AU9yxX20iB1nh9fRh5OnVWpCOjqbXUhU-osf3McvW6cYmSTRjT8-i8UigO_GuaQh0w89M_AZuTVZrJYyVPHL97GOyVDwCrSynX_aKl_A4BJPwsGcTQQ/s1600/IMG_20191002_191945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3IoJx8dUV5kSniWL-JDktlc8AU9yxX20iB1nh9fRh5OnVWpCOjqbXUhU-osf3McvW6cYmSTRjT8-i8UigO_GuaQh0w89M_AZuTVZrJYyVPHL97GOyVDwCrSynX_aKl_A4BJPwsGcTQQ/s400/IMG_20191002_191945.jpg" width="400" /></a>If Tom thought the display that followed the first SSFC goal was underwhelming, he’s not seen anything yet. The reaction to doubling their lead by the SSFC players is “even more muted” than before, says a confused Tom. We know barely anyone gives a toss about this competition, but they could at least pretend to be happy. Tom’s overriding concern now, is not that we are going to see no goals, but that we are going to see “loads”. He also wonders if HT are going to well and truly “fall apart” after quite a spirited performance so far this half, SSFC second might just tip them over into, ‘we just don’t give a shit territory’.<br />
<br />
“Engage, engage, engage” repeats the SSFC keeper, a clear Star Trek fan, doing his best to instruct a defender to stop the HT player getting closer and closer to his area. On one bench someone is blasting away on their vape, leaving a massive and slightly guilty looking cloud hanging above them and not for the first time tonight, the HT keeper, despite conceding, does his man of the match credentials no harm with a super save beating out a goal bound header.<br />
<br />
SSFC keeper is continues to quote Jean-Luc Picard and Tom is pretty sure HT haven't had a shot on goal yet, with more than twenty minutes on the clock, which might explain the players continued squabbling, one calling another a “fucking dickhead”.<br />
<br />
“Ohh he’s back” shudders Tom, the PA is on again, and as Tom adds the “bar sounds lively” the goings on in the clubhouse more than audible and having watched a fair bit of Star Trek as a kid, I was a Next Generation enthusiasts, sod Deep Space 9 I never heard Jean-Luc Picard say “fucking engage”. This time the SSFC keeper taking it up a notch, his defenders sloppy, allowing the HT player far too much time on the ball to send his dipping shot just over.<br />
<br />
Heading towards the final quarter of the game, the chances are still coming. A SSFC cross causes all sorts of confusion, the ball eventually hacked clear by a HT defender, but the visitors don't have it all their own way, the crowd “ohhhh” following a save by the SSFC keeper low down to his right, only for SSFC to show just what they are capable off, racing off straight down the other end, outnumbering the HT defence, but can't capitalise<br />
<br />
“That dog is pissed” says a concerned Tom, a nearby K9 going bonkers somewhere off in the darkness, that other than the Enterprise obsessed SSFC keeper, it is the loudest thing here. The home crowd are silent, so much so that when someones phone starts playing Tequila by The Cramps, I don't think there is a person here not humming along.<br />
<br />
Applause, an actual emotional response, SSFC have just added to their tally, and the bench are feeling ruthless, “lets score again”.<br />
<br />
One way to not ingratiate yourself with your teammates, is the overuse of flashy unproductive footwork, especially when you are three goals down. Back and forth, back and forth goes the HT winger, one drag back after another, that gets him nowhere, eventually he loses the ball, his teammates livid and his manager even more so. “Tell him” he shouts. What I imagine that would be is, stop prating about.<br />
<br />
Even though they have well and truly taken their foot off the gas, no need to expel any unnecessary energy, SSFC crown their rout with a forth, that gets a “yesss” from the crowd, there is life out there after all, the SSFC scorer slamming it home from the edge of the box.<br />
<br />
The final five minutes is just one SSFC attack after another, the visiting players are queueing up to score, Tom thinks for all concerned that referee should just call it quits, “come on blow the whistle I’m cold”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJi8xm-nunCZLOB3iYL1AKYUQQDedxQxuRrgRgDpBauIHgKnSEO3kjPg6Mtx89WTUZ-bGPr1_lfGowtGG44HxRE2F5tZN2MpwMhcnoiy0te5V1Mk3X5tlnFcvutsK2O1bHLpRMclExiw/s1600/DSC_0084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJi8xm-nunCZLOB3iYL1AKYUQQDedxQxuRrgRgDpBauIHgKnSEO3kjPg6Mtx89WTUZ-bGPr1_lfGowtGG44HxRE2F5tZN2MpwMhcnoiy0te5V1Mk3X5tlnFcvutsK2O1bHLpRMclExiw/s400/DSC_0084.JPG" width="400" /></a>It's only because we hear the referee tell one HT player there are “two minutes” left, that we have any idea how much more of this we have to endure. As Tom points out, “they don't even bother with the stoppage time board” and when the game comes to an end it's only because all the players starting walking off towards the slope to trudge back up the hill, do we know the game is actually done. A few SSFC fans offer up a few shouts of congratulations, “well done”, but all in all, tonight might just be the dearest four nil win, we are ever likely to see.<br />
<br />
We learnt two things tonight, firstly about the interesting relationship between the two clubs which are no more than four miles apart, where as Derek put it over the years there has been "quite the interchange of players" between the sides. Players "fall out with one club" but "don't want to travel too far" so just end up playing for the other, more than a few "go round in circles".<br />
<br />
We also learnt something really we already knew, something that we are reminded of each time we see a game like this, in a competition no one gives a toss about, the only saving grace tonight being the match up was between two "local rivals" as the booming PA put it, which gave it a modicum of intrigue, but as Tom put it, there was the distinct feeling from more than one person, that "no one wanted to be here".<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-79251138818764799272019-10-13T11:10:00.000-07:002019-10-13T11:21:25.264-07:00Stanley Matthews Would Have Scored - Bracknell Town FC Vs Westfield FC, Isthmian League South Central, Larges Lane (18/09/19)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have to admit I do feel a tad guilty as I disembark the good ship parenting, my daughter in the middle of a full blown meltdown, I can still hear her as I speed march away from my house, leaving her in the capable hands of my other half, who was let's say not best pleased at my decision to ascend the gang plank, at this particular juncture.<br />
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The last vestiges of summer are still clinging on, which of course means I’m opting for shorts, despite my ravaged legs, and I don't mean that in a sexy Victorian way, more an eaten alive kind of way, they're looking a little ropey to say the least. In fact the weather is surprisingly good, you'd be hard pressed to imagine it's almost October, however the melancholy playlist Tom’s opted for, oh yes I forgot to mention he’s driving again, insane, is bumming me right out.<br />
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His song choices reflect perfectly the “anxiety” he admits to feeling as we head towards the M25. “It never ends well" he sighs as we head down the ramp and merge with the four lane behemoth. He’s right of course, any previous venture where this particular highway has been required has very rarely gone to plan. Tom pointing out “as long as it's not closed”, we might just be OK.<br />
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I do my best to distract myself from the absolutely dire music, by staring at his new kidney bean shaped car freshener Tom now has dangling from his rear view mirror, but thankfully soon our surroundings are more than enough to occupy me and help me forget I’ve just been subjected to three Radiohead songs in a row.<br />
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“Oh fancy” chirps Tom, as we pass a very swanky looking university, and you can feel the closer we get to the Royal County, that the property prices start to sky rocket. “Bit rich round here” he adds, “Range Rovers, Astons, that's all I’ve seen so far”. I must admit I’m somewhat relieved I’m not driving, my little tin can would stick out like a sore thumb.<br />
<br />
Past Wentworth Golf course, past what look like ancient ruins, that are probably just some affluent garden ornament, ‘I’d like a to scale Acropolis out front please’ was one home owners request, and when we roll into Ascot, well it's a game changer, this really is how the other half live.<br />
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“Well nice, here” gasps Tom, money quite literally dripping from the street lights. Right before us the monolith that is the racecourse grows up out of the ground, like something from a sci fi epic. The main stand draped in union jacks, barely contained by the piddly red brick wall that surrounds it. It’s quite a sight and has completely taken my mind of Tom’s morose playlist.<br />
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Pointing to a shop window, full of mannequins dressed in race day finery, Tom suggests we could stop to get me a “hat”, knowing full well that my ‘megaton warhead’ as my brother calls it, is completely unsuitable for any off the shelf headgear, prick.<br />
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A bowed head, purple jacket wearing steed immortalised in bronze stands proudly on the centre of the roundabout we pass as we leave, where Tom lives it's usually a shopping trolley, so makes for quite the change and he reckons, and not for the first time, he says we should consider a “day at the races” some time soon.<br />
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Walking through the gates of Larges Lane home of Bracknell Town FC (BT) it's clear from the off that money is a running theme in these parts. The last moments of some local kids training session plays out on the immaculate 4G pitch, the name of the club and their badge emblazoned into one side of it. The tea bar, however this is far more than just a hole in the wall, is totally in keeping with the uber modern feel of the place, with its black leather benches. On the front of the counter heaving with all manner of goodies, is the clubs honours board, but despite the plethora of things on offer, Tom only opts for a tea and a packet of crisps.<br />
<br />
Outside the sun has started to set, but it's still warm, sitting on the back row of the prefab covered stand, with its rather flimsy red fold down chairs. Admittedly flimsy for a lump like me, I’m sure they are fine for normal people, Tom explains his reasons for not nabbing a couple of cookies and the reason he’s got chapped lips, that isn't because of a “weeks worth of kissing”, but because he’s a “bit unwell”.<br />
<br />
His supposed ill health is certainly not getting in the way of his appetite, telling me in one breath he feels “worse” then he did when he got to mine, but then shovels a fist full of Walkers in his gob in the next, I’m not convinced.<br />
<br />
The sound of the kids kick-about and the odd parental shout of encouragement wafts around the ground as we finish our teas, and having been studying it for some time and with no crisps left to occupy him, Tom pipes up with a slightly odd comment, “lots of rules here”. He then proceeds to reel off a whole list of dos and don'ts, including “no gum, no standing” and now he’s come to mention it, there are a lot of authoritative signs scattered about the place.<br />
<br />
There is no mistaking there are a few stand out accents among some of the people here, mostly emanating from the teen boys wandering about in flip flops, the undeniable twang of our cousins from across the pond. On closer investigation, the black containers at one end of the ground, are not re-purposed boutiques like Tom is familiar with in London's trendy Shoreditch, but in fact dormitories for foreign players on scholarships. Such was my interest in them, I didn't realise until it was too late that the window I was staring in, looked right onto someone's bedroom, who hurriedly shut the curtain, leaving me feeling slightly chagrin.<br />
<br />
The international academy we’re told is modelled on that of the La Liga giants Valencia that has produced the likes of Isco and David Silva and explains the their badge on the left arm of the kids shirts. Those in attendance from far afield and closer to home, hoping that Larges Lane can be their doorway to greatness.<br />
<br />
“That's a cool water bottle” says Tom, pointing at a passing child admittedly “not very practical” but very cool looking flask, made up of three interlocking footballs stacked on top of each other, with no apparent convenient place to hold it.<br />
<br />
Tom’s head is on a near constant swivel, there really is no end of things to look at, things that aren't exactly the norm at most if any of the other non league grounds we have ever been to before. Don't fancy a spot to eat in “the diner”, which is how I’ve heard one person refer to the tea bar as, then maybe you fancy a go on the red baize pool table in the bar or maybe you'd like to hit the gym? The one next to the bunk bed filled shipping containers, complete with massive tyres for flipping or those long heavy lengths of rope for wiggling.<br />
<br />
“2 -2 fuck off” mumbles one of the passing home players, sticking his head in the side door of the now much frequented “diner” where most are watching Spurs chuck away a two goal lead in the Champions League.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtabZ3Yy0ddZme1kxCzdvZvxDn-oIJYZ4fXL-u_NMOdA-Pbp-8slCX1gepL64K2m47oJzHwy0_9CZgYx1ErBNg_nixLhqV8c9B2b5_JkaKbytlfCuWgzgnIl5qccpmbA3rfqSTqzNq-So/s1600/DSC_0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="681" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtabZ3Yy0ddZme1kxCzdvZvxDn-oIJYZ4fXL-u_NMOdA-Pbp-8slCX1gepL64K2m47oJzHwy0_9CZgYx1ErBNg_nixLhqV8c9B2b5_JkaKbytlfCuWgzgnIl5qccpmbA3rfqSTqzNq-So/s400/DSC_0013.JPG" width="265" /></a>It would seem that despite being in a completely different county, the midge epidemic is rife wherever we go. Tom bursting into seizure like movements, blowing raspberries and waving his hands around in front of himself, “a midge just flew in my face”.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter who you are or what level of football you play at, you have to be pretty darn good to<br />
justify gold boots, my Dad would say the same thing about playing with an alice band in your hair, but that's another story. The Westfield FC (WFC) keeper more than does so, with his excellent footwork, impressing Tom to the point that he suggests he should be an “outfield player” who in their blue and yellow kit, Tom thinks look like “Sweden”.<br />
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The floodlights flicker into life, but take a while to bathe us in their stark unforgiving white light and I might have to check Tom’s temperature, because he swears blind he just saw “Rick Flair”.<br />
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Despite their banner strung up behind one goal, the Bracknell Ultras are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they will be joining us post march from their local watering hole or they are preparing their latest anti UEFA tifo and the sudden spike in the noise levels, is not because of the arrival of some scarf face covered pyro fiends, but because someone has just purchased a coke from the very loud vending machine, that lets out a deafening clunk every time it dishes up its contents, and the arrival of the players for their warm up. All of whom seem in very high spirits, which might have something to do with the top of the table clash to come, it is “first vs fourth” after all, someone reminds us.<br />
<br />
Plenty of burgers are being dismantled from white greaseproof paper and the gentle chatter of a football crowd mingles with the sound of the players drills. Who turns out to only be Rick Flair look alike passes us again, and Tom lets out a quiet “wooo” and the promise of a decent sized crowd seems a possibility, even with ultras still nowhere yet to be seen. There were “three hundred” here on Saturday, but as ever it being a weeknight, it's always hard to gauge how many will turn out.<br />
<br />
For a moment there it didn't look like there was going to be much of a crowd at all, but then with five minutes to kick off, it's a bit like shit, where did all these people come from. Most of whom are sensibly wearing trousers, with the sun now a distant memory, its chilly, but I daren't tell Tom.<br />
<br />
The tap tap tapping on the head of a microphone reverberates over the PA, not that anyone is listening, far too many people are still inside watching the Spurs game, some crane their necks from outside the packed room to catch a glimpse of Tottenham's capitulation. Those inside struggle to hear the commentary over the whir of the machine doing some last minute pumping up of footballs taking place in one corner of the room.<br />
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“Good evening ladies and gentlemen” says a voice, breaking up after every other word, the reading of the team sheets sounding like morse code. The announcer gives up, perhaps all the giggling got too much, returning after the teams have walked out, the WFC manager high fiving every one of the starting eleven and post the well observed silence, for who he explains with crystal clarity was for a recently deceased former player, “a club” legend and “all time record scorer”.<br />
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“Come on Bracknell” shouts a man in the crowd, as the referee puts his whistle to his lips and we are underway.<br />
<br />
“Pretty important game” says a stocky man to our right, with a thick American accent, to the small gang of WFC fans who have pitched up just to one side of the almost Bakelite looking bright red plastic away dugout. Which doesn’t have a hint of the homemade or the once was a conservatory about them, they look right out of the showroom.<br />
<br />
I’m officially cold now and despite not letting on, Tom can tell I'm suffering, “regretting the shorts?”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX11qmyLoSiyoX0xIbI7QA5cttTGSAP7l3Dr0czJfjoi6nhDYHEWYO-WSJ5gJUM_Ouc7q010PcwAfQUpPX1MNWFAs_VaTvbFCCSVHabyZ-Bzgi8ei9RpCvkuOAAjVFvDvpNQBF7YKrwCE/s1600/DSC_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="681" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX11qmyLoSiyoX0xIbI7QA5cttTGSAP7l3Dr0czJfjoi6nhDYHEWYO-WSJ5gJUM_Ouc7q010PcwAfQUpPX1MNWFAs_VaTvbFCCSVHabyZ-Bzgi8ei9RpCvkuOAAjVFvDvpNQBF7YKrwCE/s400/DSC_0019.JPG" width="265" /></a>The fact that WFC’s kit has not turned out to look like “Sweden” has somewhat disappointed Tom, he is actually quite scathing about both strips on show, “both kits are horrible” he sneers. WFC’s looking like it has been “washed on too high of a heat” and BT’s looking like a homage to Lady Gaga’s “meat dress”, it’s only saving grace the shorts, with their continuing stripe from just under the armpit to the knee.<br />
<br />
A booming home shot after five minutes is touched wide by the gold boot wearing WFC keeper, exiting the packed out section of home fans behind him, some standing behind a solitary flag. Then Tom sounds like one of the ‘football was better in my day’ brigade, passing judgement on the technicolour footwear of one player, “amazing how colourful boots have got” he mutters. Coming from a bloke who used to play in the park with gold and white ones, it’s a bit rich.<br />
<br />
Tim Howard, Brad Friedel, Peter Schmeichel, Paul Robinson and now you can add the name of the BT keeper to the illustrious list of goalkeepers who have scored. He can also join an even greater but shorter list, having done it from his own half, this was not a bundle it in from a corner jobby. This was some quick thinking, a free kick taken from just outside his area that has caught out everybody here, and while he is being rightly mobbed by his teammates, and the BT fans are going insane behind the goal, the beaten WFC keeper can only take a sip from his water bottle, rub his hands on his towel hanging from the back of the net and look as dumbfounded as everyone else.<br />
<br />
First blood to the home team. “We go again” shouts the stunned looking WFC manager, clapping his hands, trying his best to get his dazed looking players to focus.<br />
<br />
“Keep playing Westfield” insist one fan, the same fan next to us who will be a constant stream of quotable one liners for the remainder of the evening. “You've had your bit of luck Bracknell” he announces. And Tom is now concerned about his “burger” as the crowd only look to be getting bigger.<br />
<br />
BT unsurprisingly look pumped, having taken the lead they are being more than proactive about getting a second. “He’s got dancing feet” says Tom, out on the right the wide man does a quick shoe shuffle and is past his marker and into the box, but between complementing players on their footwork, he is fretting about his dinner, “I should have eaten early, look at all those people”. He then does his best to try and deduce who he thinks has eaten and who hasn't, to try and gauge the state of the queue come half time.<br />
<br />
Home pressure sees WFC attempts to play out from the back, almost end up with them going further behind. “Get after them” comes a shout from the home bench, WFC are showing signs of panic and the BT manager wants his team to capitalise.<br />
<br />
An injury to a BT player halts play, the ground falls silent except for a lone voice from the other side of the pitch, “come on Bracknell” and a deluge of instructions from the WFC manager, and despite all the home managers insistence his team “get after” their opponents, two minutes later the score is level, the goal occurring in almost equally calamitous circumstances as the first.<br />
<br />
“Keeper, keeper, keeper” goads the loudest of the WFC fans, scrub that, the only WFC fan making any noise, to the BT goalie, whose attempt to catch a high looping ball, ends with him clattering into the post, dropping the ball to WFC player on hand to stab it home, 1 - 1.<br />
<br />
“Thats unfair” says Tom, a card carrying member of the goalkeepers unions, feeling sorry for the BT keeper who has gone from the high of scoring, to the absolute low of being single handedly responsible for his team losing their lead, in no time at all. Not that there is an ounce of compassion on show, and quite rightly so, from anyone following WFC.<br />
<br />
The familiar feeling of something crawling up my leg is back, I dispatch whatever it is with the top of my foot, smooshing it against the back of my calf, steadying myself on the railing around the pitch. The midges are here, in nowhere near the numbers we have seen recently, but their presence is being felt.<br />
<br />
End to end, the match swings excitedly between one goal mouth to the other. The WFC orders of “go get it back” the ball that is, have not really been heeded and it's a case of you have the ball, no you have it, that sees possession yo yo like it does. The tackles are flying in and in their first attempt since being pegged back, BT roll a shot just wide of the post, which gets a “ohhhh” from the crowd.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRJ-B5eIE0b82DQgdqR5EJ2NnxG3Pr2j_7r7dfDn90TOZ2nnPOsfZTD-NsSFhWcJ06NROKA7fwESdHbFqrMpnYn7RilEPeOiZ3wSVwV34q5tbuUxKin36hMtbQ3oTfo87GweFLDOQN0c/s1600/DSC_0173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRJ-B5eIE0b82DQgdqR5EJ2NnxG3Pr2j_7r7dfDn90TOZ2nnPOsfZTD-NsSFhWcJ06NROKA7fwESdHbFqrMpnYn7RilEPeOiZ3wSVwV34q5tbuUxKin36hMtbQ3oTfo87GweFLDOQN0c/s400/DSC_0173.JPG" width="400" /></a>“Plan B, Plan B” shouts the WFC manager, “whats Plan B?” asks Tom, and I really have to stop myself from making any reference to the UK hip hop artist. Whatever it is, it works and soon the visitors have broken the BT back line, but a poor touch kills the move it in its tracks.<br />
<br />
Into the garden of the flats behind, goes the latest BT effort, a lashed half home volley is heading<br />
right towards one of the neighbours gnomes. The WFC commentator now in full flow, lets the “unlucky” number 10, know just what he thought of his wild attempt, however his comments are pretty even handed, he offers up his little jibes not only towards the home players, but his own too. “Poor” he grumbles following a loose pass, by one of his number.<br />
<br />
“I don't believe that” groans a WFC fan, the BT keeper has just made up for his clanger with a point blank save, he had no right to get to, the same supporter stands with his head in hands, unable to get his grey matter around how that didn't go in. “It will come Westfield, be patient” he offers up, having a go at being good the cop for a bit.<br />
<br />
A pass like a screwball in snooker almost finds the BT forward but its snuffed out and when the BT keeper is called into action again, Tom is blown away by his “massive kick”. Both the WFC bench, “play, play” and the fans, “it will come” are sure that a second goal is only around the corner, and they look to be almost spot on, going close with a skimming low shot that goes the wrong side of the post.<br />
<br />
“50/50, pound a ticket?” asks a man in a quiet American accent, a couple of the international academy have been roped into badgering old gits like me for a couple of quid, that I’m of course more than willing to put some money in the plastic pint glass, and the chance of a flutter makes up for the fact it's only an electronic programme on offer today.<br />
<br />
Almost on the stroke of halftime a BT shot is blocked by the WFC keepers feet, but Tom’s mind is on other things, “the queues all the way to Ascot” he says. Turning on a sixpence a home player looks to be away, but is wiped out, the awarding of the foul doesn't go down well with one WFC player, “stop guessing ref”.<br />
<br />
The resulting free kick is taken not once, but twice, much to the annoyance of WFC’s most vocal fan, “why because if wasn't on target?” he asks in the most condescending of tones. The second attempt is another try at a Ronaldo’esq knuckle ball that goes wide too, much to the amusement of the same WFC fan, who comes out with a pearler of a line, to conclude the first half, “Stanley Matthews would have scored”.<br />
<br />
His explanation to those baffled faces around him, is because both the player who took the free kick twice and Stanley were “both number 7’s”.<br />
<br />
The curse of the crackled microphone is back, and despite the broken pauses between words, I can tell the “winning number” is not mine, and my small pink tickets go back into the breast pocket of my shirt, each moistened by a single tear.<br />
<br />
Tom returns in record time, licking his fingers as he walks back. “They had a katsu curry that looked great,” he tells me with a kind of light in his eyes, I don't think I’ve ever seen before, but he decided it was probably a bit “messy” the “kind of meal you wanna sit down for” so opted for his usual. The service he informs me “super efficient”, in and out in no time at all, “I was four from the front, then next please”.<br />
<br />
BT are out early for a rather vigorous looking warm up, and when the WFC keeper followed by his teammates appear, he’s almost gone hoarse with still a half yet to play, “straight in, straight in” he demands. The referee just outside the centre circle, raises his whistle, “keeper, keeper” he asks each stopper.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0BUE8_zbYBpDksDOLUC-MMydkoset5Mhc3MS4UYOym2H7Ro0bBFhlIOMK6pPYNNrpPIC_Xf89lDnwBtDfA67I5h3Jq8qZDJ_pVQfL3lohwBwKAWbXx2-VoyYhlJHcyJXx1KYhlqQngyE/s1600/P1050818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0BUE8_zbYBpDksDOLUC-MMydkoset5Mhc3MS4UYOym2H7Ro0bBFhlIOMK6pPYNNrpPIC_Xf89lDnwBtDfA67I5h3Jq8qZDJ_pVQfL3lohwBwKAWbXx2-VoyYhlJHcyJXx1KYhlqQngyE/s400/P1050818.JPG" width="400" /></a>The BT fans along with their flag have shifted ends, there are plenty of them, but there is little to no noise coming from them at all and it’s the home side who have the first chance of the new half, cutting in off the right the wide man’s shot is “poor” says Tom, who thinks each teams overriding desire to not concede, means the game is “too tight” to call.<br />
<br />
This though, after quite a fast paced first ten minutes, if not a little bit stilted, is soon to change.<br />
<br />
“Finish it” gasps a WFC fan, their hulking great number 10 is away, with only the keeper to beat. Poking it delicately past the onrushing goalie, the table toppers take the lead. The bench are off their feet and while the players celebrate going ahead, one WFC coach high fives the outstretched hands of those WFC fans who have retaken their first half position next to the dugout.<br />
<br />
Not the usual response to going behind, the BT fans directly behind the goal, the very young BT fans may I add, are taking part in what you might call horse play, what Tom calls “play fighting” that skirts the line between looking like a laugh and a full blown punch up. “Very, very aggressive” tut's Tom, with his Dad hat firmly on, but secretly hoping that Lita might appear and jump off the top rope, “I couldn't see if Rick Flair was involved”.<br />
<br />
A quarter of an hour gone and the home pressure is ramping up, “tell them to weather the storm” appeals the WFC manager, the WFC fans are pleading with their team to “push up” as they drop deeper and deeper. When they are able to break out, their counterattacks look more than dangerous, but on this occasion the final pass is lacking, and it comes to nothing. “Unlucky” applauds the manager, glad to see his team out of their own half.<br />
<br />
I’m cold, and Tom suggests I should get myself some of those “rip off” trousers, Mel C style, however I don't have time to respond to his suggestion I should go the “full Dad” with my own pair of detachable drawers , because the WFC manager is shouting “pigeon steps, pigeon steps” and I’m trying to work out what the hell he is going on about.<br />
<br />
Turning the screw, BT go as close to scoring as they have since taking the lead in the first half, a deflected shot from the edge of the box spanking the cross bar and a man who sounds frankly scary bellows from the opposite side of the pitch, “come on Bracknell” and one WFC player is calling for “calm” and for his team to “get back on it”. They look a little rattled to say the least and the home side can sense it.<br />
<br />
It’s the same player who hit the bar, the one “with no neck” as Tom describes him, who is running the show for the home team, “he’s everywhere”. Both number 11’s are giving a very good account of themselves, but the fans behind the goal couldn't seem to care less about the match anymore, as another rumble broke out. Tom tutting to himself as they start to leap on each other, “too much testosterone”.<br />
<br />
“Good save” says one WFC supporter, when a free header is tipped over the bar by the very extremities of the BT keepers fingertips. WFC’s chances are few and far between, BT go close with another half volley and then their twisting forward gets the crowd very animated, turning his maker inside out, sending him one way, then another, eventually getting hacked down, which is received with a mighty cheer.<br />
<br />
The resulting free kick is just about as impressive as his earlier ones, and gets a rousing response from our nearby motor mouth “three times 7, not one on target”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXO2cpibzlRx58Qn4_AD6xIP_A4cLaESi0HXkkuprHzG7v-afZszuaS_m_XOytfhHYwlQUAtMXkidEO05cB3n40gS7_mglCD2Oi7SiyvPjDQdqp1msrfiNW-jlwlIix61idTTKOLExMQc/s1600/IMG_20190918_205837_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXO2cpibzlRx58Qn4_AD6xIP_A4cLaESi0HXkkuprHzG7v-afZszuaS_m_XOytfhHYwlQUAtMXkidEO05cB3n40gS7_mglCD2Oi7SiyvPjDQdqp1msrfiNW-jlwlIix61idTTKOLExMQc/s400/IMG_20190918_205837_2.jpg" width="400" /></a>It’s all BT, WFC have been reduced to only the odd counterattack, and Tom is amused by the obvious case that going behind has really “pushed” BT on. “Funny how much better they've got” he muses, their manger can he happy at least by the response he has received from his players, they have anything but given up.<br />
<br />
“Ohhhh” go the small group of WFC fans in unison at the sight of the rolled ball from the wing to their man in the box, going fractions behind him, missing out on an almost certain third. “Come on <br />
Bracknell, come on” screams the maniacal voice from the crowd opposite. The players respond in kind, one asking his teammates to “raise it”.<br />
<br />
When WFC are on the ball, they could maybe be accused of being guilty of overplaying it at times. “Too many touches” bemoans one supporter, their manager concerned about how easily they are giving up possessions asks his team to “think about looking after the ball”.<br />
<br />
It’s the turn of the home crowd to let out a sizable “ohhhh” after their team fizz a ball through the box, but no one is able to get on the end of it and frustrations start to set it, BT are getting increasingly physical, giving away free kick after free kick, which is doing their chances of getting back into the game no good at all.<br />
<br />
Into the last five minutes and one WFC player gets no end of shit from his team mates, his attempt at a low direct shot at goal from a free kick, instead of crossing into the packed box, does not exactly go down well and then another high class save, plus a bit of iffy finishing, maybe confirms it's just not going to be BT’s night.<br />
<br />
“Jesus Christ” shrieks one home supporter. Turning away from the pitch after instead of tapping the ball into the back of the net, the forward in the six yard box hit it directly at the keeper. The blistering attack deserved more, and it’s a another chance missed.<br />
<br />
Not calling on the almighty this time, instead just reeling off a couple of expletives, “fucking hell” the same fan watches on as another ball flies through the WFC box, but it can’t find its intended target.<br />
<br />
A flare up of monumental proportions somewhat mars the end of what has been a quite excellent spectacle. Both challenging for the ball in the area, the BT keeper wins the duel, claiming the ball and in the coming together, the WFC forward falls to the ground. On his way back down to earth, with the BT player at his feet, there is no denying that there is contact, the accusation from the WFC players is that it was a stamp by the home keeper, which results in the fracas between both sets of players.<br />
<br />
The resulting accompanying sound that follows any kind of handbags, emanates from the crowd and frankly I would expect nothing else. While the referee clears up the mess, the BT keeper entertains himself with a succession of skill level ten keepie uppies. The crowd are losing patience “get on with it”, all this mucking about is eating into their time to equalise, the terrifying voice lets out his final blood curdling cry of the night, “come on Bracknell”.<br />
<br />
“Referee how long please” asks a WFC player, the game finally back underway and the league leaders are hanging on to their tenuous lead. WFC’s number 11 is away again, flying down the pitch he is quite cynically scythed down by BT’s number 5, who knowingly walks away, quite at peace with what he has just done. Another big tackle this time by a WFC player, ends with the home player down, the WFC one having started his slide to meet him a fair way away is still going, and the referee waves on play, despite calls of “studs showing” from the crowd.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTX4YlV2RnIkw_YYkd5aS31yaIxlZzWPojZtN0B6cUX4Yv1fi4CH61CVxNn8zb3FHdxLfxx-FZlY25Kz_7O41oHPuL_qAIVSl25Ygc-tGxCwNevmW54h1CMqlaXTswQZ5ErkTVus_k9Y/s1600/IMG_20190918_212722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTX4YlV2RnIkw_YYkd5aS31yaIxlZzWPojZtN0B6cUX4Yv1fi4CH61CVxNn8zb3FHdxLfxx-FZlY25Kz_7O41oHPuL_qAIVSl25Ygc-tGxCwNevmW54h1CMqlaXTswQZ5ErkTVus_k9Y/s400/IMG_20190918_212722.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
I have to admit, I somewhat agree with the calls from the home fans that its all "getting silly", the referee looks close to losing control. WFC do their best to waste time, holding onto the ball when its a home throw in, taking forever to take goal kicks, this obvious stalling riling up the BT players more and more.<br />
<br />
"Well done Westfield, well, well done", comments the now much calmer WFC supporter who did not take a breath for the whole match, come the final whistle. Quiet descends quickly, the crowd soon dissipates, leaving both teams on the pitch to mull over the match. One BT player applauds the fans before crumbling to the floor, clearly exhausted. One WFC supporter talking to one of their players, points to his marker laughing, "he's still looking for you".<br />
<br />
<br />
Still relatively early in the season, it was quite a treat to watch a top of the table clash, where it was clear both teams were there to give it everything, not to mention seeing a goalkeeper score, something we I'm sure are unlikely to see again any time soon.<br />
<br />
Other than the seventy yard lob, two things stood out for me tonight, the WFC keeper ensuring his manager went the full accidental Partridge, ignoring his gaffa, who just shouting "Rossy, Rossy, Rossy" over and over, just like the well known East Anglian radio star.<br />
<br />
Second was a point Tom raised, when discussing the BT kit, that from afar certainly had the air of a raw bit of meat about it, and the dilemma that may cause some people, "unless you are super vegan, you can't not play for a club, because you don't like the kit".<br />
<br />
<h4 style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "yanone kaffeesatz"; font-size: 30px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
For all of our photographs from the match, click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2479508955490417&type=3&__xts__%5B0%5D=68.ARAqqoQpE3ww7tzcHfnKASBRJiLZYEF5a7sg5Cpo_qaU57VLlm0dGqlPbBkkzGjPe21F5u9OAWevi9sc9wdQ-_-6IsTDupkwjPRteT2ELWbxijCweH4ynDeaU5W5ZTnG9S4y8OcLKclaa4eRc6BxF3N7b6Xa_0WePcOfQV1zyOAmxEkCopmYSYeBOqxTuHLJniodmnqvwEYHkTfT1Ym_a-T0yZuy0uqs_fulUuq7yVsxhHc__7chj6GP0nk9bDLKSrdYAfVsm8ksc_KT0m8oeaTSH1QbUZD8G-M_crHo-drMMrgCXTBObrP2iJfuWmloolugq5D2aCE8qtUcvIqVj-MUfg3FesDWe_xfJMskm5v5Fya0wrwG5gMT6V9A7jqK_FkUTOhJ4Y9lNNA69WTD9vJ6hkAcLTvXWOANZZOUUHiCxW6SaUrb7rcONOLHVVzGnsu_WTqRFHDeXO_pgPxa3quUdQ8wM-lBxaC_FJFVrfsCb1YAskGSeVbAEv1iM1qtEKuLfiYRPL6B3SoUAEJqotxWkqpqdgJzprY3&__tn__=-UC-R">HERE</a></h4>
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-26270763790962420602019-10-03T11:05:00.001-07:002019-10-03T11:05:05.890-07:00Fake Brioche - Biggleswade Town FC Vs St Neots Town FC, FA Cup 1st Qualifying Round Replay, Langford Road (11/09/19) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85E4rIaQKMN-fgsqcOiawHmUfOcfJKfTerWR5TtdoVPaxcYO139nHNbzdgC8uOsaSf_6X1op0DiUs99i29X74X3G2VR71i71G_NasC_D5dI9NlX21CuUKSNnAiVluS7wYsi2pc92Ohi0/s1600/P1050912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1133" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj85E4rIaQKMN-fgsqcOiawHmUfOcfJKfTerWR5TtdoVPaxcYO139nHNbzdgC8uOsaSf_6X1op0DiUs99i29X74X3G2VR71i71G_NasC_D5dI9NlX21CuUKSNnAiVluS7wYsi2pc92Ohi0/s320/P1050912.JPG" width="226" /></a>We are blessed once again by the football gods with a lovely evening, but the spots of rain falling on the windscreen of Toms car could be a sign of things to come, however I’m far too preoccupied with the fact that he is driving again, completing his hattrick, I think I’d be ok if we were driving into the middle of a hurricane.<br />
<br />
We don't exactly have far to travel tonight, which might just explain Tom’s eagerness to get behind the wheel again, ensuring he has plenty of credit in the bank when it comes to this season's first slog up to Yorkshire or some such far flung parts of the world and it’s not long before we get our first sight of this evenings ground, hurtling past it on the motorway. “Floodlights” squeals Tom, like a child who just spotted the sea first on a family day trip to the coast, cutting short our conversation about “8K” TV’s.<br />
<br />
For a medium sized market town, Biggleswade is somewhat spoilt for choice when it comes to non league teams. Last season we saw two of the three that take their name from it, United and FC, but tonight’s visit to Langford Road will mean we can consider this part of Bedfordshire complete.<br />
<br />
My legs are still in bits from our last outing, where the entire midge population of Essex convened for an all you can eat buffet on my lower legs, which are no longer the muscular pins of old, but now pot holed, scab covered horror shows. I look like a victim of the bubonic plague, from the knees down at least, but this has not deterred me from clinging onto my shorts for another week, much to Tom’s amusement.<br />
<br />
The car park of the Carlsberg Stadium, Langford Roads alternative name, can join the long list of non league shockers. The kind of which where you fear for the safety of anyone who might be unfortunate enough to walk around it in the dark, such are the depth of the numerous craters or for anyone whose car is not quite robust enough.<br />
<br />
“Need my sunglasses” says Tom squinting, the low summer sun just skimming the horizon, flirting with the idea of disappearing, but sticking around for just a little while longer. Behind us a sea of turning windmills fill the sky, and having successfully navigated the car park, we head towards a rather bland configuration of single storey tan brick cloured buildings. On the front of one is the large green and white crest of Biggleswade Town FC (FC) featuring a very proment heron or stork, and although I’m no ornithologist, it’s certainly not a wader or a pair of waders, which BT are known as.<br />
<br />
There is no getting away from the sound of the nearby motorway, in fact ‘nearby’ might not go far enough to explain quite how close it is. Running behind one end of the ground, the goalkeeper who happens to be up that end, is at risk of being hit by a discarded fag butt or unwanted apple core.<br />
<br />
Doing a good job in drowning out the noise of the passing traffic are the kids arriving as we do, rushing off to one of the adjoining pitches for their football training, all from what I can see arrive present and correct, having not disappeared down one of the car parks treacherous crevasses.<br />
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In Mr Draxler, BT have a cigar smoking club secretary who has the air of a Sopranos mob boss about him, who tells everyone he is involved in ‘waste management’ but they all know that's baloney. In his long dark blue coat, ornately patterned trousers and club tie, he is smartness personified and chatting to him briefly, it is soon clear being a fellow “Muswell Hill boy” like us, he is unlikely to instruct anyone to give you a concrete overcoat.<br />
<br />
His story, like so many we have heard in the past, is such a common one in the non league world. Coming on board a decade ago to help where he could, in his case as the “physio”, he’s quick to point out that he is “not qualified” in any way, but you “didn't need to be then” all you needed was a “bucket and a sponge”, he has risen to the top of the family, sorry I mean football club, now pretty much running the show.<br />
<br />
He tells us he would expect around “three hundred” here tonight, which is not bad going, there were “two hundred and eighty eight” at the original fixture, so he sees no reason why there wouldn't be around the same the second time around.<br />
<br />
The clouds above us are straight out of a Constable, the sun spearing through them in broken shards, however my enjoyment of the picturesque Cscene before me is shattered by the agonising sound coming from the PA, that’s like metal dying.<br />
<br />
“It’s broken” says the young man sheepishly setting it up, but whatever caused the din, is soon sorted, replaced with a playlist of music one would not really associate with a person in their early teens, the first song verging on inappropriate, the opening bars sounding like a panting woman mid orgasm and what follows all has a definite 70’s disco theme, the kind of music which makes some put on their best lilac colored shirt and strut about the place.<br />
<br />
“This music's shit” groans Tom, the choice not really in keeping with his current nu metal flex. With the sun now set, the next song arrives with impeccable timing, “ain't no sunshine when she’s……”, which mixes with the hubbub of both teams now warming up and the latest passing HGV.<br />
<br />
From the front row of the modestly sized main stand with its BT themed clock above the tunnel and of course green and white seats, I spot on the far side of pitch, dancing in the provocative way they do, a swarm of midges, shit! This though is of little significance right now, because Tom is mid melt down, the appearance of Lionel Ritchie is the last straw. “This music is fucking depressing” he says staring at the floor, his next point though is not a bad one, however its delivery is a little over dramatic, “It's hardly galvanizing anyone”.<br />
<br />
The crackled voice over the PA gives a brief respite from the relentless music, however I can barely make out what they are saying and soon the salvo of wedding reception hits has resumed. Sweet Caroline, normally a song reserved for toasting a victory or a punch up in the crowd at the boxing is up next, the green tunnel under the clock has been extended and it welcomes out both teams.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNle3M8BJN8AOPnZUgDfktL70aliuAp9rLTLJK3zS2sh0O3l8prY9Z3de1vTFyuIyFpaqqGxnwS37bDjeWNHXVDgeE39Gslh4ZD0oyXBSnrzJkeNLpWGJ3-hnLjnOBAyoI3wAYVvkXds/s1600/IMG_20190911_175441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNle3M8BJN8AOPnZUgDfktL70aliuAp9rLTLJK3zS2sh0O3l8prY9Z3de1vTFyuIyFpaqqGxnwS37bDjeWNHXVDgeE39Gslh4ZD0oyXBSnrzJkeNLpWGJ3-hnLjnOBAyoI3wAYVvkXds/s400/IMG_20190911_175441.JPG" width="400" /></a>There is no mistaking Mr Draxler who has taken over proceedings as the stadium announcer, his havana tinged vocals more than audible as he divulges the starting 11’s and I’m pretty sure tells off someone for trying to cadge a free look over a nearby fence. Pitchside the turnout he predicted looks pretty bang on, plenty who have paid to come in, now stand under moon filled sky which has turned all sorts of shades of purple and blue, each one I’m certain letting out a small sigh, Tom’s however is far from small, at the announcement of the possibility of “extra time and penalties”.<br />
<br />
Surely contravening various FA codes of conduct, the BT technical area is absolutely chocker, at the centre of it the home manager, with his slick back hair, tied up in what I can only describe as a ninjas top knot. Every maneuver, every pass seems to be being dictated from the sidelines, the BT staff very hands on to say the least and from very early on, the league difference between the two teams is quickly apparent. BT are off flying down the right wing, cutting the ball into the box, only for it to be<br />
blocked by the St Neots Town FC (SNT) keeper.<br />
<br />
Less than ten minutes gone and I feel the first midge of the night start to tuck in. Next to me sat on the floor a young lady with no interest in the game, who has clearly been dragged here against her will, plays with her phone, above her, her parents lean against the white fence that surrounds the pitch looking like something from the edge of a race track, which lets out a whimpering creak anytime anyone goes near it.<br />
<br />
“I think your whitewash might be on, they've been the by far the better team” says Tom, it's been all BT since the off.<br />
<br />
“Noooo” agonises one of the nearby SNT fans, at the sight of their first attack of the night breaking down. Presenting BT with the ball they quickly engage a rapid counterattack, that is brought to a momentary halt by a “good tackle” applauds one SNT supporter, only for the loose ball to fall straight to a home player who is on hand to flash a shot across goal, which is followed by a rousing “ohhhh” from the home crowd. The majority of whom, as Tom points out as is always the case, fill the corner closest to the burger van in one corner of the ground. It must be the extensive selection of pick and mix it has strung out across its counter keeping them close by.<br />
<br />
Just over a quarter of an hour gone and BT go close with a thunderbolt of a free kick. “Well look at that” marvels a SNT fan, “wouldn't that have been special” he begrudgingly admits, however a minute later he is not anywhere near as complementary, when his team fall behind.<br />
<br />
The powerful shot from the edge of the area almost bursts the net as it flies in. There is no shortage of people to hug in front of the home bench, one of them mid embrace letting out a celebratory, “come on”. Mr Draxler is clearly delighted, he confirms the name of the scorer, “Solomon Samboooooo” and sounds every bit like the cat that's got the cream.<br />
<br />
“Jesus look at that” calls out one SNT fan, turning to God as the only person who can maybe stop the BT player skipping through their defence. Six yards out from goal it's maybe the almighty or just a defender in the right place at the right time who manages to get a foot in, and stops the home side scoring a quick fire second.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAzfY_YOgUnGoELCr_Zo2Zgu-J4mLd-7HRIwpoFzdhUB3O0lJOUNsWDmDB_t77rD0YsO3dYupCvLIUH0HCZybd9W_vQK5A-SwmqcyD6LjiWwQql9V5IrI7tveDpclpBEnWpXZbq5MgM4/s1600/DSC_0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAzfY_YOgUnGoELCr_Zo2Zgu-J4mLd-7HRIwpoFzdhUB3O0lJOUNsWDmDB_t77rD0YsO3dYupCvLIUH0HCZybd9W_vQK5A-SwmqcyD6LjiWwQql9V5IrI7tveDpclpBEnWpXZbq5MgM4/s400/DSC_0031.JPG" width="400" /></a>“You wanna go on the 50/50?” asks a small voice behind me, I turn to be met by a woman clutching a green bucket and a book of white tickets. “Absolutely” I reply, catching her off guard somewhat with my theatrical reply, she almost has to catch her breath, taking a few steps back, before she responds with a line I must admit I've heard a couple of times before, “that's the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever had”. As I tuck my tickets into the breast pocket of my shoulder, the lady tells me over her shoulder as she beats a hasty retreat, that the results will be “announced at half time”.<br />
<br />
It takes SNT almost twenty five minutes to register their first meaningful attack, “promising” says Tom. It’s not the most cultured of moves, a well timed ball over the top, that is met by the sprinting forward, who lets the ball bounce once, before hitting his first time shot well over the bar.<br />
<br />
The resulting goal kick also gets the first “you’re shit ahhhhh” from a gaggle of SNT youths behind the goal, which is greeted with a smirk from the home bench, who point out to the laughing BT keeper, “you'd take the lot”.<br />
<br />
“Sit down shut up” barks one SNT supporter towards the home bench who are all on their feet appealing for a foul, which the referee waves a away. One section of the home fans then squeal in delight at the dancing feet of one player who is turning his marker inside out, leaving him for dead and continuing as he pleases.<br />
<br />
The midges are getting worse and you can easily pick out those being plagued by them, they're the ones who almost look deranged, waving their arms around at what appears to be nothing, when it fact something has just flown up their nose.<br />
<br />
Half an hour gone and the game has “gone a bit flat”, says Tom. His attempt to lift the mood falls flatter than flat, inspired by one of the away teams apparent nickname “Sharkie” he starts singing “Sharkie and George crime busters of Biggleswade”.<br />
<br />
Shocking.<br />
<br />
It’s a long succession of general noises of disgruntlement now emanating from the SNT fans, they get so few attacks, when they do happen, they are just not making them count. Someone, who they are following is not abundantly clear, is much more than merely disgruntled, they by the sound of it are not having a very nice time at all, “God that babies loud” recoils Tom, sounding every inch like a person without children. Admittedly the wailing bairn is all the way on the far side of the pitch, but still sounds like it’s right next to us.<br />
<br />
“Great ball” shouts the home bench, the curling cross finding the player in the box, who somehow conspires to put his stooping header wide, much to the benches confusion. Each and every one of them buzzing around the dugout clasping their hands to the back of their heads.<br />
<br />
A rare away attack is snuffed out as the the match hurtles towards the break and the referees assistant is in for an ear full from the traveling fans. “Lino make up your own decisions” one shouts, the referee behind play, at first doesn't give the foul, blowing up seemingly after the home bench appeal that he does so. In contradiction of his assistants flailing flag.<br />
<br />
On the stroke of halftime SNT are awarded a free kick, which is taken, but it's hardly convincing. “No” mutters Tom, turning towards me, however I can see his attention is soon drawn towards something else, something far more concerning. “It's like a snow storm above us”. I slowly tip my head skywards, and he’s not wrong, if anything he’s underplaying it, its like a fucking blizard of insects swirling just above our heads.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRsY6B1KxsI3hhiUMoEHAy9lGVy0nvZ_G4e_w2VFh7sGbs1YckzNDqCWh6pmW_a_sZ_UXckOAcD3rgUqaRy4OVTzqo-ehkTMRxNOIhCyBf1-vEMtPMolV6H5Us0erOM8CwmKArWQlURoQ/s1600/IMG_20190911_183756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRsY6B1KxsI3hhiUMoEHAy9lGVy0nvZ_G4e_w2VFh7sGbs1YckzNDqCWh6pmW_a_sZ_UXckOAcD3rgUqaRy4OVTzqo-ehkTMRxNOIhCyBf1-vEMtPMolV6H5Us0erOM8CwmKArWQlURoQ/s400/IMG_20190911_183756.JPG" width="400" /></a>“See you after the break,” says a very chipper Mr Draxler, followed by the rattle of the tunnel. Somehow only a goal behind, one SNT fan is still hopeful “we’re still alive” and Tom having popped off for food just before the whistle, you can take the boy out of Arsenal, but you can't take Arsenal out of the boy, returns with dinner. A burger of course, with “good onions” but he is a little bit dubious about the legitimacy of what from the outside at least looks like quite a fancy bun, “fake brioche”.<br />
<br />
Mr Draxler confirms I won't be “heading to the bar” to collect the 50/50 prize when he reads out the winning numbers, which of course are not mine and I’m all about football clubs who share their nickname with 1960’s TV shows, one SNT fan letting out a supportive shout as the teams rejoin us and we prepare for the kick off of the second half, “come on the Saints”.<br />
<br />
I am somewhat comforted by the fact that it is no longer just me the midges want a bit off. Tom is now sputtering away next to me, swatting at one that just went in his mouth, trying his best to get it away from his face. I’m not exaggerating it's like something out of the bible, we are infested.<br />
<br />
On the pitch, the game feels somewhat critically balanced. BT’s slim lead doesn't exactly feel under <br />
threat, they go close in the first five or six minutes when the ball over the top finds its target but his attempt is blocked and then close again with a free header from a free kick, “too easy” bemoans the visiting keeper, is put wide. However SNT still show the odd glimmer of opportunity. Latching on to a loose pass in the final third by the home team, they are quick to counter. Which is brought to an abrupt stop by a hacking home tackle.<br />
<br />
“Be interesting to see what the Premier League would be if it was this lenient” ponders Tom, as we witness our second crunching challenge in short succession. This one almost thigh high on one home player, that gets an impassioned response from the home bench, “could have broken his knee” but only a talking to from the referee.<br />
<br />
Cannoning off the head of a pitch side photographer, Tom is more than impressed that even though he was struck forcefully by the ball, “he didn't flinch”, and then pulls a Snickers from his pocket, biting off half of it, before putting the rest back in this pocket to attract fluff.<br />
<br />
BT’s scowling manager is angry, his team as Tom puts it is creating plenty of “near chances”, case in point when another free header just before the quarter of an hour mark that instead of going towards the goal, goes straight up in the air, much to the bemusement of the players around him, can’t for the life of them put this game to bed. In his mind I imagine the thought of throwing it away again, doesn't bare thinking about.<br />
<br />
“That's fucking naughty ref” barks a home fan, the bench are livid too, “he’s gotta go for that”, but it’s only a yellow much to their dismay, “he’s gotta send himself off?” asks one of the multitude of BT staff swelling the technical area. The absolute hatchet job, bringing to an end the most mesmerizing of runs.<br />
<br />
Sadly for the home side the free kick is “shit” as Tom so eruditely puts it, the home bench admittedly are not that much more eliquant, “fuck off”, but thats all soon to be forgotten.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenqNeViyHjva1WUr7gntGt71_ZzxdjfnDcRp3gPJTj_pFn2I-jRJdlrYsCUKgfnLE6K925MGl9XC-GAtCQIRn5OuFbz0e2YgfDGBp35VodCNY_LytM-mAeEGkUEDydJmJvG0bkvMrDI0/s1600/DSC_0120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgenqNeViyHjva1WUr7gntGt71_ZzxdjfnDcRp3gPJTj_pFn2I-jRJdlrYsCUKgfnLE6K925MGl9XC-GAtCQIRn5OuFbz0e2YgfDGBp35VodCNY_LytM-mAeEGkUEDydJmJvG0bkvMrDI0/s400/DSC_0120.JPG" width="400" /></a>“Sambooooo” bellows Mr Draxler back on the mic, the ball having eventually found its way into the SNT net, via a very circuitous route. A mazey run down the left ends with the high pitched ping of the ball hitting the post. Bouncing back into play, the ball ricochets up into the hand of a defender which is followed by an almighty claim for a “handball” by the players, fans and bench, but before the referee can respond, the goal scorer is on hand to bundle home his second of the night.<br />
<br />
Despite being two goals to the good, the home bench is still a little anccy you might say. “Proper tantrum” laughs Tom when they somewhat lose their shit over the ten or so yards the SNT player has been allowed to take the throw in from away from where the ball actually went out and exactly because of being two goals behind, the visitors are starting to lose their leads, getting increasingly sloppy.<br />
<br />
In their number 11 BT have a player judging by his performance so far, who relishes in a bit of physicality. “He’s a pitbull” shudders Tom as he steamrollers his marker, leaving him prone clutching their shin. His tenacity, matched with end product, he’s not just betting heels then doesn't know what to do, gets no end of praise from the bench. His eyes full of unbridled rage, with clearly only one thing on his mind as he goes after the ball, kill, kill, kill.<br />
<br />
The latest SNT foul gets more unanswered protests from the BT manager and his crew, “fucking get hold of him ref” fumes one, “how many times?” asks a player. Another surge forward cut short by a chopping challenge. The BT manager stopping himself midway though telling the player responsible just what he thinks of him, “oh you……..”.<br />
<br />
Into the final quarter, SNT attacks now rarer than hen's teeth, it's taken them over thirty minutes to register their first of the half. “Ohhhhh” gasps Tom, “that could have been good” he adds, a blistering attack ends with a rising shot that’s high and wide. One might be able to say the result, which seemingly is all but assured might just be a case of the home side being more clinical, BT taking their chances, the visitors not. I think it’s simply a case of them being the better side.<br />
<br />
Lets manage the game” insists one of the many bodies still occupying the small rectangle in front of the home bench. One SNT player could maybe me accused of being delusional, telling his teammates, “let's go on and win”, which as Tom puts it, is “a bit optimistic”.<br />
<br />
Nowhere to be seen in the first half, I didn't notice them at least, maybe they were enjoying the pick and mix. It’s taken me almost forty minutes to clock the two green and white BT flags strung out behind one goal, with another hanging from the back wall of the metal covered terrace. Many of the Green Army as one flag dubs them, wearing green and white scarves, offering up their own hearty support.<br />
<br />
“Finish, finish, finish” urges one as the home team race way from the SNT defence, who have all but given up, however the pass at the end of the charge across the box is lacking a bit of finesse and the chance peters out.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsyH7-QnM7V1xxpR_8cn-5IueevPeIjhbHBx0BovCutnUKbSucZRHjZmZQzDPixUu3MMhFRhdmp_j0oGWpoH2i1ZXZ7tTKYswUKnH-b4F4Ox_Ugl6tJbf8MQzwd71aaWqEIazenmjf9g/s1600/P1050762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsyH7-QnM7V1xxpR_8cn-5IueevPeIjhbHBx0BovCutnUKbSucZRHjZmZQzDPixUu3MMhFRhdmp_j0oGWpoH2i1ZXZ7tTKYswUKnH-b4F4Ox_Ugl6tJbf8MQzwd71aaWqEIazenmjf9g/s400/P1050762.JPG" width="400" /></a>Flooding forward the green and white machine is in full flow, the SNT team not far off just standing by and watching as they push on for a fourth. “No way that’s rubbish ref” remonstrates an angry spectator in the main stand. The SNT keeper is down, the goal is gaping, but before the ball can be rolled over the line, the officials blow up for a foul.<br />
<br />
Outnumbered attack, after outnumbered attack keep coming. “Stay on side” hollers one person from the crowd, but the team can't and the chance goes begging. Forward they come once more, but this time the shot is way off target, but SNT are soon to be put out of their misery, only “three minutes of added time” are left to play according to Mr Draxler.<br />
<br />
It’s without a doubt not Neil Diamond singing his well known classic, that gets its second airing of <br />
the night come the final whistle. The Green Armies flags are soon down and Mr Draxler has one last thing to add, over the sound of the strange cover and the clapping of the crowd as the team's walk off, “we progress to the next round”.<br />
<br />
The opponents of which has already been decided, they will face Ware FC, which inspires a little comedy back and forth between two leaving fans “where”, “Ware”, “where”, “here”.<br />
<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-11337079942252135932019-09-23T11:31:00.000-07:002019-10-03T11:00:12.764-07:00He Can't Head The Ball For Toffee - White Ensign FC Vs Takeley FC, FA Cup Preliminary Round Replay, Burroughs Park (04/09/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolaiYLmoCfJL5f7kN8GRJe-wLkNkGYHz398rFaggjHsub3owWGMxB8egnTsiT6JrNjDG0M_9HAD8azm8epEFTrUkTg8AsDdXZsq-9tT7yYVW9eOJx8v-Ol2-eXc2eMKnB7Wp-aEaCUm0/s1600/P1050831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolaiYLmoCfJL5f7kN8GRJe-wLkNkGYHz398rFaggjHsub3owWGMxB8egnTsiT6JrNjDG0M_9HAD8azm8epEFTrUkTg8AsDdXZsq-9tT7yYVW9eOJx8v-Ol2-eXc2eMKnB7Wp-aEaCUm0/s320/P1050831.JPG" width="227" /></a>I moved house yesterday, which meant despite getting up at the crack of dawn I was still struggling with an array of flat pack furniture come 22:00 and didn't even have the comfort of knowing I had my own bed to fall into. It doesn't arrive for another two days, so I flop onto the sofa, certain of the fact that I will be waking up in the morning with a crick in my neck and a bad back.<br />
<br />
I’m too tired to even think about shooting Spurs’s new home a look, so plough on east, relieved that Tom is driving again, because I’d be a menace to other road users if I was. Such is my state of near exhaustion, I don't even have the energy to fully revel in this momentous event. Tom driving to two games in a row, will surely mean today will become some kind of national holiday, joining the other obscure ones you see on calenders, but quite can’t put your finger on exactly why it's there.<br />
<br />
“False alarm” says Tom, ever so slightly out of breath, our journey to deepest darkest Essex getting off to a worrisome start, after he thought he had forgotten to double lock his front door, and we ended up doing a lap of the block at breakneck speed, the car not quite at a standstill before he swung open his door to find out it was a lot of rushing around about nothing.<br />
<br />
He had looked so jolly and proud just ten minutes before, leaving his house and making a point to show off his new camera bag, his monopod strapped to its side looking like a katana and now he looks all flustered and red, muttering to himself because he can't decide if it's “hot or cold” which of course is playing havoc with his outfit choice. He is certain of one thing though, “its blustery”, which means I end up humming “let's go fly a kite” to myself for the next hour.<br />
<br />
As like last time out the entertainment on offer is severely lacking, Tom admitting he has recently “got back into metal” meaning I'm subjected not to “metal” as he put it, more what one might call ‘nu metal’ more decks than thrash guitar, which I point out to him, so he revises his previous statement “ok, my metal”.<br />
<br />
You can’t get much more Essex than Southend, with its beleaguered looking palm trees poking up out of the middle of a roundabout and as sure as I am that Tom wouldn't mind a go at Adventure Island, we are merely passing through, curious about where the woman with the dog in a pram we pass might be going, which in turn prompts Tom to tell me about someone he met recently who had a “pet squirrel”.<br />
<br />
The music takes a noticeable up turn with a spot of Black Sabbath, as does the weather. Having looked on the turn as we barreled our way towards the coast, “it's warm here” points out Tom as we get closer to our destination or “the Essex riviera” as he puts it.<br />
<br />
I can’t be sure, on the account of it being almost five years ago, but I’m pretty sure the last time we weaved our way down this narrow lane, that time on the Bowers & Pitsea team coach, it wasn't tarmaced, just a dusty track heading further and further away from civilization and closer and closer to the middle of nowhere.<br />
<br />
I apologise if I have got that wrong, it may have just been the case of it being a baking hot May Bank Holiday and the thundering coach kicking up so much dust, it felt like we were on the set of a spaghetti westen. As was then, and as is tonight, what eventually appeared past the allotments and back gardens, is a very smart ground indeed, everything from the gates onwards, very charming indeed.<br />
<br />
The handwritten notice on the way in, is more than most clubs get who groundshare, the sign fastened to one wall that reads “Welcome to White Ensign Football Club” (WE) suggests that tonights ‘home team’ are a bit more than just lodgers.<br />
<br />
Very little has changed in the almost five years since our last visit, which is no bad thing, trust me. As someone called it on Twitter in the past week, Burroughs Park is a “hidden gem”. Except for the sheer amount of people in attendance, no Clapton Ultras marching all over the place, filling the covered terrace behind the two rabbit hutch looking dugouts, I think it’s exactly the same.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GXocI6nXHgrOjtwpMTfBAVq-R7vhC7wFE8-0_g8zhyscNwwqZuaQYgE6QYniQI182R2DwWg-KBJw7O8Vab8G5-FOVbjE4FYBB-Yic_CG083cfQBfezrOn0n3w7lyYXZ6O6HF-Vzq5P8/s1600/IMG_20190904_182651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GXocI6nXHgrOjtwpMTfBAVq-R7vhC7wFE8-0_g8zhyscNwwqZuaQYgE6QYniQI182R2DwWg-KBJw7O8Vab8G5-FOVbjE4FYBB-Yic_CG083cfQBfezrOn0n3w7lyYXZ6O6HF-Vzq5P8/s400/IMG_20190904_182651.jpg" width="400" /></a>One could really not ask for better conditions, the sky is clear except for the odd wispy clouds, the sun is still just about hanging in there, slowly sinking behind some trees.<br />
<br />
“Breakfast for dinner” states Tom, his bacon butty firmly secured in his right hand, the only thing stopping him from devouring it, is the Mars bar he’s purchased, that is proving problematic to put in his pocket. “We might be stopping at McDonalds” he murmurs, the breakfast bap all gone, the away team not even here yet and he’s eaten, which must be some kind of record, the minimalist menu means by the time we’re done tonight, and there is the chance of extra time and a shoot out, no amount of Mars bars are going to see him home without a pit stop.<br />
<br />
“Biggest game in our history” I overhear a WE coach say to a supporter. WE in the FA Cup for the first time ever, each hurdle cleared a new line in the annals of the club's history, but you need an opposition, who are nowhere to be seen, and can now officially be considered late.<br />
<br />
There are a couple of Takeley FC (TFC) players here milling about, like the one who has just appeared from the changing room, cleared his throat with a phlegmy cough, then proceeded to pull a cigarette from the box in his pocket and light it up.<br />
<br />
The sight of the match day programme in the tiny turnstile is a welcome one, however the look the man manning it in his Portugal baseball cap, is a kin to one you might give a two headed creature that has just crawled from the sea and attempted to kidnap your first born, so I take it’s a no to them having a raffle or a half-time draw.<br />
<br />
Vincent Kompany might suck at it, Edgar Davids was no better, but WE player manager Brett is making a much better hash of it then them two, currently “top goal scorer” he tells me, his starting place because of that a certain, “can’t drop me” he adds laughing.<br />
<br />
“Not much chance of a badge here” Tom surmises, after telling him of my 50/50 woes. WE soon appear for their warm up and inject a bit of life into the place, that was feeling very, very sedate there <br />
for a moment. “That’s the one” gasps one of the players, the rest all looking on in shock after one's attempt at a shot, which would have looked more at home on a rugby pitch, cleared the high net behind the goal, heading straight towards the car park.<br />
<br />
TFC are still nowhere to be seen and the introduction of some music or “beats” as Brett puts it, coming from the tiny speakers at the foot of the wirey Meccano esq floodlights improves our surroundings even further. Whitney Houston the first on the very Best of the 80’s playlist.<br />
<br />
“Might have to get some chicken nuggets” grumbles Tom, as nice as his bacon roll was, it was in his words “insufficient” and “barely grazed the sides”. He distracts himself by doing a headcount, “oh nine, oh ten”, the man on the gate is hardly overrun, and Tom even goes as far as to mime his own “clicker”.<br />
<br />
See what I have to put up with, if only served some chips.<br />
<br />
With less than thirty minutes to kick off, the sight of one TFC coach putting out the cones is a welcome one, “not much urgency” comments Tom. It's not like the away team are rushing by any means to get on the pitch, maybe there is an element of them thinking this is a bit of formality, with <br />
them being from the league above. WE very much the underdogs, but with it being a replay, it only shows they can more than hold their own.<br />
<br />
Verging on the explicit, one older lady is clearly enjoying the music. She glides, nah, sashays her way along towards the gloomy all seater main stand, impressing Tom with her moves, “Grandma having a dance”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRADcMrOypL6bYG2Uno38ka3sLf0ySIlL_r64YannU0WkzdrEUnluN4Ep_cLAAzt9iCroVTaO0xzxyXTG6U0Jac1-sbe-0UFm5aNx_uzz1tyMQPbq_Of3kkkIHyVQ9qYT8cU2M9uSOL0/s1600/DSC_0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRADcMrOypL6bYG2Uno38ka3sLf0ySIlL_r64YannU0WkzdrEUnluN4Ep_cLAAzt9iCroVTaO0xzxyXTG6U0Jac1-sbe-0UFm5aNx_uzz1tyMQPbq_Of3kkkIHyVQ9qYT8cU2M9uSOL0/s400/DSC_0061.JPG" width="400" /></a>Showing about as much enthusiasm as an unenthusiastic thing, TFC finally finally appear. To suggest they are sauntering, might imply there is any haste whatsoever, as they walk out for their warm up. “Ohh here they come” says Tom, with an air of ‘nice for you to show up’.<br />
<br />
It doesn't take long to realise that the request from the away team, for a postponed kickoff has been denied. “Residential problems” explains one coach, the clubs strict licensing means the floodlights have to be off by a certain time and any delay could see extra time or a potential shoot out, being illuminated by everyone's mobile phones.<br />
<br />
“They told you how bad it is” asks a man to one of the referees assistants knowingly, who is currently dowsing himself in insect repellent from a can. “In my mouth” recounts another person, discussing the apparent midge problem that plagues Burroughs Park, which is news to me, but by the way the guy is napalming himself, it must be close to infestation levels.<br />
<br />
TFC are still on the pitch with five minutes to go before the supposed kick off time, the referee with ball in hand and his two assistants with flags at the ready are limbering up outside the changing rooms. WE are going through their last few pre match rituals, judging by the noise coming through the slight crack in the window.<br />
<br />
“Groundsmans getting a bit panicky” jokes someone, as the news of a five minute delay to kick off spreads like wildfire. The man with a clipboard and a TFC polo shirt though, doesn't feel the delay that has been agreed is sufficient enough, but he is comforted by the fact “there aren't any midges”.<br />
<br />
How wrong that statement will prove to be.<br />
<br />
The pause in the wedding reception playlist allows for the low key announcer to make himself heard for the first time. He’s far from showy and although I wouldn't go as far as saying he is amateurish, there are few pauses, dead air you might say. A muffled conversation happening off mic, that can just about be heard.<br />
<br />
It’s a rather frantic opening first five minutes, with plenty of early away pressure, the home keeper spilling a relatively straight forward shot, that is scrambled clear, showing maybe a few signs of nerves. “Relax” shouts a WE player in his red and blue kit, in front of what has turned out to be a half decent turnout. I’ll have to check with Tom quite how many it is, the main stand is well occupied, and something has already bitten me. I use one foot to try and stop whatever it is feasting on my calf, but to no avail.<br />
<br />
A big TFC tackle sees nothing more than a talking to from the ref for the offending player, “be mindful”, presenting WE with a chance to alleviate the onslaught, but the lumped set pieces is lacking in any guile and comes to nothing. All it does is give TFC the ball and allows them to put the home side back under the cosh.<br />
<br />
“I think they’re going to get battered” says Tom under his breath, not holding out much hope for the hosts.<br />
<br />
A few people are milling about on the terrace that last time we were here was the setting for an anti Thatcher tifo, smoke bombs and a whole forest of flags. The midges are going to town on my legs and with almost ten minutes gone WE produce their first real bit of quality, a well timed pass forward finds the lead attacker, but he just can't get the ball out of his feet, which brings about the first “ohhhh” from the home crowd, one of which to our left seems a tad more invested than most. Any foray forward by TFC normally results in a chorus of “no, no, no, no” until the attack has danger has passed.<br />
<br />
“Ohhhh” go the home crowd once more, a long range shot across the TFC goal signifies WE’s entry into the game, having weathered the early storm and the attempts by TFC to deploy a few dirty tricks. A well timed fart noise just as one WE player was taking a free kick works a treat, putting him right off and gets a solid “fuck off” in reply.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5QXrGV-G9h20_rPlmW_h8DXPb8GxsXSsdTbNNVaVSryGAuh05hG1D5kj5Ih3LS-4EXX0VT1uyF99kzfL7x5mF33yGIx53mHJAw2e6Tyn2UPbRLVtRPrPOVzKX3bmYjk-rD8WJquWsnM/s1600/IMG_20190904_180847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5QXrGV-G9h20_rPlmW_h8DXPb8GxsXSsdTbNNVaVSryGAuh05hG1D5kj5Ih3LS-4EXX0VT1uyF99kzfL7x5mF33yGIx53mHJAw2e6Tyn2UPbRLVtRPrPOVzKX3bmYjk-rD8WJquWsnM/s400/IMG_20190904_180847.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
Another free kick, that from what I could hear was not accompanied by the sound of flatulence, is this time delivered with eagle eyed precision. Very, very nearly finding the head of a WE player, only to be reached just before by a TRF defender whose leap was just that little bit more salmon like. All of this action being witnessed through a dense fug of midges now hovering around us, the odd one dive bombing towards my nose or eyes and a strange almost luminescent green glow emanating from the floodlights.<br />
<br />
“Unless you're city or Barcelona don't do it” snaps Tom, WE are almost caught out at the back, attempting the in vogue playing the ball out via their defence, but as is so often the case, almost balls it up and nearly concede. Tom then continues the Cataluna theme, with more talk about the WE strip. “Their kit confuses me” he confesses, the mash up between two of Europe's super clubs, “the backs PSG, the front Barca” has him a bit perturbed.<br />
<br />
“Like statues” barks an angry WE player, the movement in front of him or lack of it at a throw in is somewhat lacking and someone else glued to the spot, is the quiet voiced lady living every second of the match, “go on, go on, go on” she repeats to herself as a WE attack gets closer and closer to the TFC box.<br />
<br />
After somewhat of a lull in proceedings, the inevitable aftermath after such a rampant start, the pace picks back up, and we once again have ourselves an end to end encounter. WE have a penalty shout waved away, then one TFC player looks like he might just score the most sublime goal, his long winding run towards the home area unstoppable, he unleashes a shot from a tight angle, that skims the crossbar on its way over.<br />
<br />
Such was its proximity to crashing up into the roof of the net, one teammate starts to celebrate, cutting it short when he realises it's only a corner. “Goal” says a traveling away fan confidently, following the drilled in set piece, only for the WE keeper to manage somehow to get something on the point blank header and touch it over. “Good save, that” says Tom with his goalkeepers union hat firmly on.<br />
<br />
This time the latest crunching TFC tackle sees the player in the book. “How many times ref?” asks a particularly vocal home fan from the main stand, “every time” points out another having noticed quite the pattern starting to develop. “The one who was having a fag” as Tom points out, somewhat of a repeat offender.<br />
<br />
“That could have been good” exhales Tom, understating quite what a spectacular goal one TFC player almost scored, only for an overly exuberant attempt at a finish, just when a spot of coolness was required, scuppering it. No more than ten yards out, having been found with a wracking pass from the left, which was dropped right onto his right boot, his first time volley is hit so hard, “he’s absolutely taken the leather off it” says one man, it flies well, well over the bar.<br />
<br />
I honestly think some kind of press release may be required for future matches at Burroughs Park, because to our left the second person of the night and I’m sure she is not alone, is liberally applying repellent to her legs and all Tom can do is snigger as I swat away wave after wave of attacks on my bare flesh.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTzDHECF8XROj6h_Q0rXJSOK-ZKOWwrRFIHX4_duNVVC6GJuG_WkxrLTk4mMk8lET9EL6_mewj5PDn4LAw7OEOYupkCFY4FTtSU_45xcZG4hDbftujsl89kUGG37lrQkWLdXVS_okjf8/s1600/DSC_0082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="1024" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTzDHECF8XROj6h_Q0rXJSOK-ZKOWwrRFIHX4_duNVVC6GJuG_WkxrLTk4mMk8lET9EL6_mewj5PDn4LAw7OEOYupkCFY4FTtSU_45xcZG4hDbftujsl89kUGG37lrQkWLdXVS_okjf8/s400/DSC_0082.JPG" width="400" /></a>TFC go close again, this time hitting the post directly from a corner, the ball just about scrambled away in time before the rebound can be pounced on. WE have shown a few glimpses of promise, but TFC don't look like they have even got out of third gear and at any moment could kick on and brush the home side away.<br />
<br />
Thundering a clearance against a charging WE player, the TFC keeper just about gets away with his kick and then the home stopper is almost caught out himself. An underhit passback reaching him moments before the chasing TFC player, which is greeted with a few revelling laughs and “that was close” through puffed out cheeks.<br />
<br />
The most perfect crescent moon now hangs over the pitch and shouts for the home team from the stand are getting more frequent. “Goal” predicts a nearby TFC fan again, but their skills of the clairvoyant are a little off. The curling shot from the edge of the box is reached by the most acrobatic of dives, the shot destined for the top corner tipped over by the very edges of the WE keepers fingertips.<br />
<br />
“Gotta beat the first man” laments one TFC supporter, the resulting corner is straight out of the Tottenham Hotspur playbook, not even getting as far as the six yard box. The same person then suggests one of his team “have a go”. Latching on to the loose ball outside the box, he lets loose a shot, only for it to be about as good as the corner, which is greeted with plenty of laughter and a worried “that's a car” as it headed for the car park.<br />
<br />
Well out of his goal, and with the ball at the feet of a TFC player in midfield, the WE keeper is neither here nor there and the increasingly demanding TFC fans want the player in possession to take advantage and “finish” with a sixty yard lob and although he considered it, you could see the hesitation written across his face, he thinks better of it and does not attempt the Beckham impression.<br />
<br />
A late TFC runner almost gets them the lead that on reflection they probably deserve. “Back door” warns the home crowd, but it's too late and the TFC player is in on goal. He takes a touch to steady himself, then unleashes a rising shot towards the by far the busier of the two keepers, who reaches out with his other hand, going across his boy, instead of using the one closer to the ball, sending is squirreling up into the air. Dropping kindly to an away player in the box, he looks certain to break the stalemate, only for it to be cleared.<br />
<br />
Conducting his team loudly from the back, the home keepers counterpart is booming, the referee is in Toms words “very precise” I would say anal in his desire for each throw in to be taken in exactly the right place and the sharp blast of his whistle, followed by a series of claps, brings the energetic first half to an end.<br />
<br />
“The bars open, please indulge” says the voice over the PA and Tom suggests I should try and “get <br />
some bottoms” anything to cover up my ravaged legs. With the players all departed and many taking the advice of the announcer, the life somewhat drains out of the ground, except for the bats flitting in and out of the main stand, and the odd nose from the subs warming up.<br />
<br />
Like the flick of a switch, as the players return, so does the soul. “Come on boys” demands one WE player, and they are going to need all they can muster, because following the whistle, TFC are right out the traps. There is the distinct feeling that they have no desire for this to go on any longer than it has to, however Tom feels quite the opposite, “it's got extra time written all over it. The neighbors will be moaning”.<br />
<br />
A change of seasons is in the air, the breeze chilly at times, many are retiring their shorts for another six months and Tom is considering his winter fashion options, “I think it's time for a winter jacket. Think I might go the full Arsene Wenger”.<br />
<br />
Fifty one minutes on the clock and the deadlock has been broken, but I must admit I didn't expect it to be by WE. Many of those shrouded by the gloom of the main stand are on their feet, and by the sounds of it the scorer of the toe poked effort following a sumptuous back heel, has his very own fan club, one small section of them going bonkers.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvczMyHumv1XONJyC8dv0Aw6k4qiY6kNG8tD-uzBuEldaCebyDD_83ALZwLcC1uzH8w9W9e_tuKywVCdaBEPxuZ4baPcOAJZyBs_BCWZiNhLzwlVsq3WscYdOXe5ZBL7IPdwWEbak6u0/s1600/IMG_20190904_194658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvczMyHumv1XONJyC8dv0Aw6k4qiY6kNG8tD-uzBuEldaCebyDD_83ALZwLcC1uzH8w9W9e_tuKywVCdaBEPxuZ4baPcOAJZyBs_BCWZiNhLzwlVsq3WscYdOXe5ZBL7IPdwWEbak6u0/s400/IMG_20190904_194658.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
The quiet muttering lady is close to the edge, the insistence of “don't switch off” by one WE player is almost completely ignored, as moments after the restart they very nearly give away a penalty. “Touch and go” says Tom, who reckons that TFC are unlucky not to have it awarded and he thinks with still over thirty minutes left to play WE are really going to have to “dig in”.<br />
<br />
“Oh you are joking” says one woman, breaking away from the conversation she is having on her phone, TFC have equalized, WEare in front for all of about four minutes. “Not sure what happened there” ponders Tom, “odd goal”. An odd goal indeed, witch a heavy touch of good fortune for TFC, a header blocked, the rebound falling to the denied player, who was able to score at the second time of asking.<br />
<br />
Like pulling a plug out of a bath, the buzz that had emanated following the WE goal, drains away and Tom is fearful for the home side, “it's like they've angered a monster”.<br />
<br />
TFC’s party is almost as short lived as WE’s lead, a blinding solo run, a Bale Vs Maicon kind of deal, push the ball into space and put on the afterburners, almost results in a goal, only for a covering defender to be on hand to tidy up, which results in a hefty groan from those who thought we were going to see something a bit special.<br />
<br />
“Brett” shouts a WE player towards his centre forward playing manger, who gives a quick look up, finds him the box, only for him to put his header just over, leaving the gaffa with his head in hands.<br />
<br />
The chances for both sides are coming thick and fast, WE’s opener has kicked open the floodgates, one TFC player tries his luck at a Beckham from just over the halfway line but its tame and then WE are beaten by a “big save” as Tom puts it. The kind of save that gets a round of applause from both sets of fans. “Save keeper” says a WE supporter. Praise tinged with a heavy dose of annoyance.<br />
<br />
Almost every home fan sitting is as close to the edge of their seats as they can be, without falling off. The home side go close again with a looping header and then there is a collective sucking of the teeth as TFC surge forward, but nothing comes of it.<br />
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“He’s fine, he’s being a tart” says one WE supporter sympathetically, when an almighty collision between the TFC keeper and a WE player sees him laid out on his back. Looked like a fair challenge to me and by the time the physio has made it to him, he’s back on his feet and is waving them away.<br />
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The back of the stand commentator is getting increasingly loud, “well played Dave” he bellows and Tom is completely transfixed by the TFC keepers outfit, “horrible kit” he sneers. The all yellow and purple socks combo I admit would not be my first choice.<br />
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Swinging back and forth, back and forth the match feels poised for some last minute heartbreak. “Shut him down, shut him down” mumbles the nearby fan in response to the latest TFC attack. Whenever TFC have the ball the mood turns, the feeling of an impending goal infectious, only picking up again when the home side take up possession.<br />
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“Oh go on” she shouts, a fine WE through ball looks inch perfect, but again the skilled keeper is there to snuff it out.<br />
<br />
The home bench is deserted, and not because the midges have descended upon them, but because every single person on it is warming up. A flying home counter attack is cut down by another TFC hatchet job much to the displeasure of the home crowd, “every time”.<br />
<br />
Moments after asking me how long is left, Tom psyching himself up for extra time, the promise of chicken nuggets getting further away, with about a quarter of an hour left, WE lash home their second of the night and take the lead.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZOrPLzAQpwATIGmOUDPFT8qgwP1c24ysJmocF6kghSde85OxN2Dbg-xA7CvRBMWgLXMFZgG6u1w5O0ASUDDTil7_xwG3OaclY-t-TD6P4ijQdcC29HLC29tB9-tdh9xcr8Z2KzX8s4c/s1600/DSC_0162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="1024" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZOrPLzAQpwATIGmOUDPFT8qgwP1c24ysJmocF6kghSde85OxN2Dbg-xA7CvRBMWgLXMFZgG6u1w5O0ASUDDTil7_xwG3OaclY-t-TD6P4ijQdcC29HLC29tB9-tdh9xcr8Z2KzX8s4c/s400/DSC_0162.JPG" width="400" /></a>The players rush to catch up with the scorer, who ends up almost right in front of us. After being mobbed by his teammates, his reason for ending up where he did becomes clear, it was seemingly no accident, pointing to the sidelines to a member of the crowd. “Keep your heads” counters a supporter, Tom thinks they have “scored too soon”, if they are going to pull off the upset, they were going to have to score much later on, “fifteen minutes is a long time to hang on”.<br />
<br />
A bizarre decision by the WE keeper has home hearts in mouths, a decision to punch, and not a very good one at that, puts them under some unwanted pressure, but they get away with it.<br />
<br />
“Come on Ensign” shouts one of the expressive WE supporters. A brave stooping header by one of their midfielders sees him win the ball from a position he could have easily lost a few molars and then off he charges with the ball. Unleashing at the end of his run a squirming shot that squeaks just wide and gets a resounding “ahhhhh” from the crowd.<br />
<br />
The introduction by TFC in the last ten minutes of the half of the “blond man mountain” as Tom describes him, unbeknownst to everyone quite yet, is an absolute game changer. The big chunk, who Tom rightly points out “they’ve put up front” will end up having more of an impact on this match then I’m sure anyone could have imagined. Except his manager of course, who will put it down to his own tactical genius.<br />
<br />
Another bat swoops above our heads, feasting on the veritable buffet hovering around us. “Come on Ensign until the end” pleads one player and then a move from a TFC winger gets the crowd a little anxious. “Sold him” giggles one away fan, a drop of the shoulder and a burst of pace sees him easily away from his marker, the lady next to us can hardly bear it, but after all the preamble, his final ball is severely lacking.<br />
<br />
The departering WE manager gets one of the biggest rounds of applause of the night, “well played Brett” shouts someone as he begrudgingly drags himself off.<br />
<br />
Still hanging in there, WE have only got to survive a few more minutes. A big home block just inside the box brings about the most vociferous cries from the crowd so far “come on Ensign”. TFC are quite literally throwing everything they can at the WE back line, their keeper is tossed into the mix at the awarding of a free kick, and it's fortunate for WE “he can't head the ball for toffee” as one person puts it, because on reaching the cross, he makes an absolute meal of it.<br />
<br />
“Times up, a minute over” states someone close by, all the added on time they are sure has now been and gone, the WE players are now only seconds away from being history makers. TFC almost hand them a much needed third, not only can he not head a ball, but he’s not exactly got twinkly toes either. The TFC keepers attempt at a Cruyff turn almost goes tits up, and the next pass back to him gets plenty of sarcastic “wooooo” in anticipation of a clanger.<br />
<br />
Deep, deep into added time, TFC draw level, every single player, coach and substitute erupting into near fits, a mix of relief and joy, the “man mountain” having hooked the ball over the line from close range. The latest “come on Ensign” is deflated to say the least and there is barely enough time to think come the restart. The blast of the whistle to get things back underway is shortly followd by one to signal we will be heading towards extra time, much to one persons displeasure “fuck off”.<br />
<br />
“That was a blatant handball” snarls one of the home bench, which is seconded by one seething home fan passing us, “one hundred percent a hand ball”. “Come on Ensign you can do it” pleads one lady from the main stand and on the pitch a spat has broken out between the two sides, which is quickly squashed.<br />
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A hush descends across the ground following one last attempt to unite the team from the crowd and soon it gets even quieter, near silence, people are overcome with shock, because minutes into the first half of extra time, the “man mountain” has done it again, 3 -2 to TFC.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjFYCihGxgp7zrWKzNLXrMcKT7z7Vapkh3ZkXJHvM58j2Xa6KuZoFyF2SxEbYF-ow3w8dZ6mww3C7SFecVMTaIn4sQ5ofWWTW3nDgXYxJC4DH1189yHLELdkNut564-wqTNZg-Q0VbcI/s1600/IMG_20190904_211935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjFYCihGxgp7zrWKzNLXrMcKT7z7Vapkh3ZkXJHvM58j2Xa6KuZoFyF2SxEbYF-ow3w8dZ6mww3C7SFecVMTaIn4sQ5ofWWTW3nDgXYxJC4DH1189yHLELdkNut564-wqTNZg-Q0VbcI/s400/IMG_20190904_211935.jpg" width="400" /></a>Heads are low, the optimism around the place has bottomed out, WE are on the ropes, one fan tries to rally, “heads up” but it falls on deaf ears. In fact various home players look like they have lost their heads altogether, diving into challenges, committing needless fouls.<br />
<br />
A save of the highest order then stops WE drawing level. From point blank range old purple socks in the TFC goal makes himself big, starfishing Schmeichel style, taking a full blooded shot in the midriff he denies WE their third.<br />
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“Go on, go on” stutters the lady nearby on to her final nerve. WE’s number 11 shows some classy footwork, laying up a teammate, only for his shot to be woeful at best, one man can't bare to look and turns away in disgust. WE are giving their all, TFC are on the cusp of just being outright dirty. Both benches almost going toe to toe, when one home player is cut down. The awarding of the foul gets a jeering “weyyy” from the home crowd, who have seen too many similar tackles go unpunished so far tonight.<br />
<br />
TFC have the chance to wrap it up, one on one with the keeper, but it goes begging and the player fires over. On the far side of the pitch, one home coach is making his way towards the changing rooms. By the purpose in his stride he doesn't look like it’s because he thinks he left the tap on, its an angry gait. Occasionally looking back over his shoulder, Tom wonders if he has been “sent off”.<br />
<br />
“Referee! Handball! You bottled that son” screams one home fan, who along with almost everyone else rooting for the home side thinks they should have been awarded a penalty. A headed clearance from a TFC defender striking the hand of a teammate, but the man in charge is having none of it.<br />
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The first half of extra time comes to an end with WE doing plenty of huffing and puffing, but just not having the cutting edge to draw things level and one man is being told off by his wife for calling the TFC keeper a “nonce”.<br />
<br />
There are plenty of motivational quotes being fired off by the crowd in the break, “heads up now” and such like. The turn around is blistering, Tom pointing out its surely because of the “lights”.<br />
<br />
It’s now or never as Tom would say, a quarter of an hour to play and by the looks of it every WE player is fully aware of quite what it means, because they come out all guns blazing. Their main threat is the howitzer of a throw one player possess. An overhead kick is inches wide and gets a loud “argh” from fans and players alike. “Come on Ensign to the end” utters someone offering up yet another quote from a self help book. Another long throw results in a header that brushes the paintwork as it goes the wrong side of the post.<br />
<br />
The tension is mounting and the referee is close to losing control, shouting from the main stand is reaching near noise abatement proportions. The latest launched throw in causes problems, but WE just can't capitalize on the panic its causing among the TFC ranks. A fierce shot looks to have been touched wide, but no corner is awarded, they are just not getting the rub of the green.<br />
<br />
TFC’s only answer to the onslaught is to foul, racking up one WE free kick after another. The homeside pack the box every time, but just can't make anything stick. On one occasion the ball traveling all the way through the box completely unscathed. The whole place is on tenterhooks, as time slowly ebbs away.<br />
<br />
“Get in the mixer” roars a home fan, as the long throw specialist winds up for another chuck. They go close again, another header wide and one person who now seems resigned to the fact in just might not be their night, sums it up perfectly, “they’ve had their chances”.<br />
<br />
At every opportunity he can the TFC keeper falls on the ball, quite unnecessarily, each time eating up those vital extra couple of seconds. One optimist shouts, “ there's still time” but there isn't.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNm34h_hzMHXGrHyc2LjfKYCc_rGtKG1vwU_FXs9g3KgFc8veJxUIqT3HXV8KbdSkpbrMTtu-3uwm2SBNJI_Xyl_dbEj60FkMbzEE-_n-7dFQLfBiS5nsiPWvzTjwpJOxFGal177Mrpo/s1600/DSC_0241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNm34h_hzMHXGrHyc2LjfKYCc_rGtKG1vwU_FXs9g3KgFc8veJxUIqT3HXV8KbdSkpbrMTtu-3uwm2SBNJI_Xyl_dbEj60FkMbzEE-_n-7dFQLfBiS5nsiPWvzTjwpJOxFGal177Mrpo/s400/DSC_0241.JPG" width="400" /></a>The majority of the crowd stick about come the final whistle, TFC's celebrations are hardly raucous, more along the line of 'thank fuck for that'. WE ran them close all the way to the end, it just came down to one side taking their chances.<br />
<br />
Both squads gather in their respective halves for a debrief, to talk over a few pointers from the past two hours. When they finally trudge off, the home crowd let the players know, that despite the result what a cracking job they did.<br />
<br />
Burroughs Park until today was always just the place we first encountered the Clapton Ultras, but making our way home, we now have some new memories forged in a place that really is a "hidden gem". Burroughs Park will now be the place that the spirit of the FA Cup was once again confirmed to be alive and well. Where the underdog almost triumphed and the unrelenting passion that most if not all the players from both teams showed undeniable.<br />
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I'm not a huge fan of the overly exposed former Manchester united and French international fullback, but his tag line, his much used catchphrase repeated by one departing TFC player, seemed apt, "I love this game".<br />
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BeautifulGame15http://www.blogger.com/profile/01572349615654705605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9204362850296526201.post-3311358636162041072019-09-15T11:46:00.001-07:002019-10-03T11:00:17.832-07:00El Clasicoast - Worthing FC Vs Bognor Regis Town FC, Isthmian League Premier, Woodside Road (26/08/19)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_pC6bEGUuMhKwjOK2Jc1Qvgp24JvD5HhgO8Y7dM-4_cVjn2l_U2H_fwbnSp6VDVdFEg_Sh3OOua7tiJs-SHzuhf9oMkccxN8DfW6dlniedrHHW1D9F9m9vxcXP-M8GRe1b8eVFZ-XEHw/s1600/P1050804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_pC6bEGUuMhKwjOK2Jc1Qvgp24JvD5HhgO8Y7dM-4_cVjn2l_U2H_fwbnSp6VDVdFEg_Sh3OOua7tiJs-SHzuhf9oMkccxN8DfW6dlniedrHHW1D9F9m9vxcXP-M8GRe1b8eVFZ-XEHw/s320/P1050804.JPG" width="227" /></a>I can’t bring myself to take the customary glance over my right shoulder to catch a glimpse of the de facto White Hart Lane, after yesterday's shit show against Newcastle. Knowing full well it will be glimmering like a brand new penny, looking quite resplendent with a cloudless backdrop, all lit up by the late August sun, I’m still just that little bit annoyed.<br />
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Tottenham's quite dismal run out against Steve Bruce's men, very nearly ruined what was until then a quite excellent Sunday. Ben Stokes heroics at the crease, followed by a BBQ at my Mum’s. I set my Sky box to record, catching the game a few hours after the final whistle hoping with a beer in hand it would be the crowning glory, but it was quite the opposite.<br />
<br />
It really doesn't feel all that long ago since we were staggering away from Wembley stadium, exhausted from the FA Vase final, talking about a football free summer, with plenty to occupy us until it all started again, not least of all Tom’s wedding.<br />
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It is because of the aforementioned nuptials, which was quite honestly a magnificent affair, that we are getting our season underway a little later than some. Some are already into double figures, and it’s not even September yet.<br />
<br />
Such are the heights the temperature is forecast to hit today, mid 30’s if the weather man is to be believed, I’ve taken a leaf out of the book of the late great Barry White and have furnished myself with a towel to mop my brow throughout the day, although I’m not sure Mr White ever used a gingham tea towel, but it should work all the same.<br />
<br />
Your carriage awaits I tell Tom, parked up outside his house. He then utters three words he so rarely uses it throws me, “aren't I driving?”. I could count on one hand how many times in almost five years he has sat behind the wheel, and I am touched that this season he wants to share the responsibility, take up a bit of the slack, but it doesn't take long for his real motive to be clear. It’s not a case of wanting to give Parker a rest, oh no, “I’ve got air con” he explains.<br />
<br />
I must be honest the thought of driving for two hours, and the chance of this being extended by the threat of Bank Holiday Monday traffic, as everyone and their mother bolts towards the coast, filled me somewhat full of dread. My “tin can” as Tom has christened my motor, can get somewhat unbearable in the heat.<br />
<br />
“No your carriage awaits” Tom repeats, snapping me from what I was sure must have been a daydream and when I open the car to his hulking Mini to the roaring sound of the air conditioner set to “max” it’s a welcome one. Retracting my seat as far back as it will go and familiarising myself with my very own temperature control and where my USB charging point is, I’m all set.<br />
<br />
Most of our time on the road is consumed with recounting Tom’s wedding. Getting the lowdown on what my co best man got up to with one of the brides best friends, and what exactly his father in law was going on about, finishing his speech with a joke about a Polish World War Two fighter pilot, that included a myriad of iffy accents and a machine gun impression, “tat, tat, tat, tat, tat”.<br />
<br />
Having not spent that much time as a passenger of Tom’s, I never realised quite what a middle lane hogger he is. He’s like a Top Gear joke and he doesn't even know it. More worryingly though, and not quite realising that when I relinquished my driving duties today, I also gave up control of the radio, I’m not sure how long I can cope with two hours of KISS FM’s own nostalgic station KISSTORY.<br />
<br />
Although he’s only been married a couple of weeks, he’s already showing signs of change. He’s come to the conclusion that at the ripe old age of thirty five, drinking like he’s eighteen, no longer agrees with him, and it’s time to reign in it, however the downside is, and with the pre wedding Tom turning in his grave, for the last thirty minutes he’s been raving about the “Downton Abbey” esq spa retreat he went to recently.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLwM0na2Dm6jbZc7hyphenhyphenc2HpxZpLlXk_pboF7PEeswN32qRZfIZ4r7JlD4wNj6Xd0u_JQGHgSWcEqGzj-HPMYAT7n3851uuo7GSdFO7q2tkT03h8UOFx4HhSP6zHRQH2h9I6tKzhonvP2s/s1600/68460698_2398663400241640_1048472418273722368_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLwM0na2Dm6jbZc7hyphenhyphenc2HpxZpLlXk_pboF7PEeswN32qRZfIZ4r7JlD4wNj6Xd0u_JQGHgSWcEqGzj-HPMYAT7n3851uuo7GSdFO7q2tkT03h8UOFx4HhSP6zHRQH2h9I6tKzhonvP2s/s400/68460698_2398663400241640_1048472418273722368_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>Passing through the stone plinths that signify you are entering Brighton, Tom like me is “dreading getting out the car” once we arrive at our destination. It might be positively polar inside his car right now, but I’m sure I saw some bitumen bubbling by the side of the road, and I’m not sure my tea towel is up to the task, come full exposure.<br />
<br />
“Do you ever get sweaty hands driving?” he asks over the sound of some late 90’s UK garage, hovering his hand over the vent next to him. Not quite sure how to reply to his query, it would be a no, in fear of where the conversation might lead us, I instead study a Hogwarts like edifice on a hill in the distance, but his second heat related statement is one I’m more than happy to engage with, “I wouldn't want to be playing today”.<br />
<br />
It’s become somewhat of a tradition to get our season underway on the coast, and once over the tidal wave of heat that hits us both as we climb out of the car, with the faint sound of seagulls in the distance, on a particularly pleasant leafy suburban street in this part of East Sussex, it feels good to be back.<br />
<br />
Nothing says ‘welcome to my football club’, like a wrought iron gate with the clubs initials across it. In today's case it’s the yellow WFC of Worthing FC (WFC). Beyond it and the chatty steward wearing a scarf, a fucking scarf, a man on a ride along mower is combing the pitch and the food cabin is ready. Peeking out through the open hatch an army of women prepare for what I hear could be quite a bumper crowd, the condiments already neatly lined up on tables in the mouth of a nearby goal.<br />
<br />
I was relieved when I eventually worked out that the ground under me is like that in a child's playground, black and rubbery, with a bit of give, and it’s not a case of me starting to faint. The heat is oppressive and I’ve only gone and left my bloody towel in my car. Setting up in a black marque, effectively a human oven, is a local band going through their final sound check. Wailing away on a Yamaha keyboard set to Hammond Organ they are soon in full flow, belting out Southern Man by Neil Young, that’s drifting in the open door of the club bar at the base of the main stand, that feels distinctly like an Ed’s Diner, where it’s cool and they have large ice filled drinks.<br />
<br />
“Best wee ever” states a satisfied Tom, joining me at our table and not one of the booths, that only <br />
add to the American diner vibe. The walls are covered in blown up pictures denoting various highlights in the club's history, and by the way in you're greeted by the wide smile of a man who has been hoisted onto the shoulders of his team mates, holding aloft a sizable bit of silverware.<br />
<br />
At the bar a family take turns to guess, for £1 a go, what they think will be the attendance today, with the chance to win whatever ends up in the plastic pint glass and I make it clear in no uncertain terms to the lady with the clipboard martialing it, that I would like a go too.<br />
<br />
Not only did Tom relieve himself of a litre or so of water he consumed on the drive, but also took the opportunity to scout out the pin availability, and returns with tales of “drama at the club shop” which sounds like one of Agatha Christie's lesser known novels. A Bognor Regis Town FC (BRT) fan is attempting to “negotiate the price of a pin”, having baulked at the £5 price tag. By all accounts the woman in the club shop stood fast, and fell just short of waterboarding the lone BRT supporter, in her attempt to extract from him the name of the website he said he could get them “cheaper”.<br />
<br />
The band are playing some quite excellent music, Tom should really take some notes and we are soon joined at our table by the lady and her clipboard, the plastic pint glass full of cash, as well as my new found confidence that unlike last season, I might win something this year. So I toss my pound coin into the glass with a touch of nonchalance, and make my guess.<br />
<br />
Behind us a woman squeals excitedly having been given a bag of wool “Ohhhh I've not got any of those colours” she says, only in non league and as Tom puts it the man on the table next to us is “making a right mess of that”, as he deconstructs his footlong hot dog, sauce everywhere, sausage free of bun, consuming it in three hearty bites.<br />
<br />
Further gambling opportunities present themselves in the shape of an old gent in a fold up chair situated by the turnstiles. “Can’t guarantee they're winners,” he explains, ripping the tickets expertly along the perforation and handing them to me. In fact the 50/50 tickets are just the start of the Bermuda triangle of matchday essentials. My programme is soon secured from what is essentially a nearby shed and Tom bags his pin, a perfect enamel version of the club's crest, with three shimmering mackerel on it. despite the slightly higher than average price, “£5 bit pricey”.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJzPW79Itw1AnZTfzaLsvykJ7h7qQyQ4E7NBAN1KEVhhwx00qVpvrFJtMvZx0qZnUnD1GSVOdyFK0uA2GU8PgbMGERQrG86O_beFS0lVDL-VCH07UNse_Jdkk_Q3JGaOuW8FPAA8R8zE/s1600/69410051_2398704283570885_8164316518515998720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJzPW79Itw1AnZTfzaLsvykJ7h7qQyQ4E7NBAN1KEVhhwx00qVpvrFJtMvZx0qZnUnD1GSVOdyFK0uA2GU8PgbMGERQrG86O_beFS0lVDL-VCH07UNse_Jdkk_Q3JGaOuW8FPAA8R8zE/s400/69410051_2398704283570885_8164316518515998720_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
I’m glad to report he didn't try and haggle, the lady in the big sun hat, who would also sell you a WFC body warmer for £40, doesn't look like the kind of person you want to quibble with about 50p.<br />
It’s the Doors now filling the air waves, the original version over the PA and not a cover by the very accomplished band who are taking a break away from their self imposed sweat box. The only outstanding part of our well established routine is of course Tom filling his stomach and with the rumoured bumper crowd, he’s getting it now, instead of battling the crowds at half time.<br />
<br />
“Oh I have missed them” he murmurs, clutching his onion ladened cheese burger, barely contained within its white paper napkin. It was quite hypnotic watching it being constructed. Cooked on the large grill by a big man with a spatula tending to about thirty patties, he passed it down the line down where a well oiled team of three apply all the necessaries, Henry Ford would be proud.<br />
<br />
Having ensured he fitted in his dark green suit, the “wedding diet” is now officially over as Tom puts it, but such is his eagerness to taste grilled beef, cheese and onions after his self imposed football food hiatus, he’s a little hasty taking a bite, and proceeds to burn his mouth, “hot, hot, hot, hot”.<br />
<br />
Fanned out in his hand above his head, a man wearing a money belt sells the club fanzine the Rebel Yell. As well as being known as the Mackerel Men, WFC are also known as the Rebels, but not I imagine because of some affinity with Billy Idol. Gone in maybe no more than four bites Tom’s burger is demolished and he comments once again on the “good music”.<br />
<br />
With lunch completed, we then make the quite unorthodox move of leaving the ground, before we’ve even seen a ball kicked.<br />
<br />
Wafting in the breeze, across the roofs of the neighbouring terraced housing, comes a sound more commonly associated with football much higher up the pyramid and very rarely in this country. It’s clear what it is the first time we hear it, no cupping of the ear is required, and it only gets louder the closer we get, the both of us exchanging a knowing glance at the prospect of what is to come.<br />
<br />
Our encounter with the fan march by the WFC supporters group the Away Boys, is somewhat hampered by the arrival of the 12:30 from Brighton. The barrier of the level crossing prevents them from getting any further. The various criss crossing trains do little to stifle their singing, the flimsy red and white gate starts to bounce in rhythm with the latest song, “ole, ole, ole, ole”. Their various flags dancing above their bopping heads, in anticipation of it rising.<br />
<br />
When it eventually does, what turns out to be quite a sizable group which had not been first apparent because of the succession of passing trains, occupy the width of the pavement. Led by a long white banner that reads “Fanatics”, the Saturday afternoon traffic is slowed by those who have spilled onto the road. One transit van forced to crawl behind the chanting supporters, and as they get ever closer, for a second looking like they were going to consume us, before making a sharp left turn, the drummer within their ranks, someone who we have crossed paths with before, who is quite proficient, keeps the pace. One of their number, a man in a violet jacket, who has a touch of the Kasabians about him, holds a single red flare above his head, the smoke billowing over his shoulder which mingles with the group behind him.<br />
<br />
I think it’s fair to say all the stops have been pulled out for derby day, not to say the WFC home support is not regularly both emphatic and sizable, today's opponent being their most local of rivals, means it’s naturally increased.<br />
<br />
From one side of the car lined road to another, the supporters are cloaked in a thick red fog. The flare having been extinguished at the foot of a tree, someone at the front of the column has ignited a billowing red smoke bomb, as the march gets ever closer to Woodside Road, the songs getting louder and louder as they go, “we’re the red army” and at one point the crowd broke out into an energetic chorus of “bouncy, bouncy, bouncy”<br />
<br />
It doesn't take long for the newly arrived WFC fans, fresh from their procession to adorn the ground with all manner of flags and banners. In keeping with the strict colour scheme, red and white, a thick crimson band encircles the entirety of the 4G pitch, they fill every available space behind one goal. Adjacent to where the BRT fans have set up shop, hanging from a chain link fence, the stance of the home fans is spelt out, “I’d rather be a Rebel than a Rock”.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtevDje8Joni-HRdwOa-3jmP7KRKyMZQWziwZK9wMgCKwZ-k6jRsspQLiWx1DXpMYuzubm3NFgiChBWSJsWUG9go_mkODNRug0tuZWgqbk6kS-YOC7URzN0Y5ZNBYmIW6313wOA-VPpw/s1600/70313765_2398703626904284_1189513127025180672_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtevDje8Joni-HRdwOa-3jmP7KRKyMZQWziwZK9wMgCKwZ-k6jRsspQLiWx1DXpMYuzubm3NFgiChBWSJsWUG9go_mkODNRug0tuZWgqbk6kS-YOC7URzN0Y5ZNBYmIW6313wOA-VPpw/s400/70313765_2398703626904284_1189513127025180672_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>With thirty five minutes to kick off, the WFC supporters look on, laughing sarcastically at any perceived mistake made by the BRT players warming up in front of them, between their latest song or bout of pogoing in the small covered terrace they have colonised.<br />
<br />
“Welcome to Woodside Road” says the buoyant voice of the PA, who then proceeds to read out the starting elevens once all formal platitudes have been concluded. It’s no big surprise the reception for the away players is a far from a hospitable one, a healthy chorus of boos ring out from all corners after each name, and it’s also no great surprise that the reception for the home players names, is the polar opposite.<br />
<br />
The look on the face of one BRT player says that his day might be over before it has even begun. “I've rolled my ankle” he says to the physio and coach with an agonised expression, who with their help, his arms on their shoulders, limps off.<br />
<br />
“We hate Worthing, we hate Worthing” is all the BRT supporters can muster from their much larger covered terrace, a couple of their own flags have gone up, but nothing close to the home fans display, in response to the Away Boys rendition of Bob Marley's Three Little Birds, a little bit of Amsterdam in East Sussex. The hands of those singing are not idle mind, many knot the necks of numerous red balloons, in readiness of their pre kick off performance.<br />
<br />
It’s quite a wall of sound that greets the teams as they appear from the tunnel at the foot of the main stand, where almost all of its red seats are occupied. A mixture of local ish boys Norman Cook’s Right Here Right now, and the constant drumming, sets the scene for a raucous afternoon ahead.<br />
Cascading, the red balloons, plus a single inflatable sheep rain down from the WFC fans onto the pitch as the PA’s enthusiasm takes a noticeable spike, “let's get behind the boys, come on you reds”.<br />
<br />
From our position at the very back of the main stand, we have a perfect view of the pitch, both sets of fans and the downs in the distance. The racket from the WFC supporters is more than considerable not only from behind the goal, but all over the ground. However they have a cuckoo among them, in the form of BRT’s very own commentator. With his laptop perched on his knee, him and his co commentator huddled around his iPhone handsfree set, he turns a few heads with his own boisterous shout, “come on you Rocks”.<br />
<br />
“A frantic start” is how he describes the opening exchanges, both teams with early chances, BRT’s being the best, a low powerful shot, that’s just reached by the WFC keeper. The odd balloon still bobbles along the pitch, but as of yet have not looked like they're to cause a Sunderland Vs Liverpool situation. BRT beat the offside trap, the forward rushes towards goal, but the man between the sticks claims the through ball in the nick of time.<br />
<br />
With both sets of fans more than playing their part, it's a lively start to the El Clasicoast<br />
.<br />
Normally the kind of topic reserved for the sixty first minute of a dire 0 - 0, the conversation going on <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
around us among some home and away old boys, is one I’m franky shocked to hear ten minutes into a spirited derby day encounter. “If we lose three a year it’s a miracle,” says one man in a BRT tie, at the sight of a hoofed clearance clearing the fence and into a nearby garden.<br />
<br />
It’s been a fairly tentative start by the home side, but with ten gone, they have more than grown into it and almost take the lead via the head of a BRT defenders head.<br />
<br />
Not long after the visitors are away again on one of their blistering counterattacks. Outnumbering WFC at the back, the wide player looks to find his team mate in the box with a whipped cross, only for an interception by the WFC number 5 or as the BRT commentator puts it, ladened with praise, “what a block by marvelous Marvin”.<br />
<br />
The fact that the main stand is chocka, has given many few other options then to brave the unrelenting sun. Most if not all are required to shield their eyes with their hands to have any chance <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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of making out what's going on.<br />
<br />
Manically waving his flag, the home fans and players claim for a penalty, the referee takes heed of his assistants signal and blows his whistle, but points to the extremity of the box instead of the spot. “He shoots” shouts the BRT commentator, expelling far more energy in saying so, then ended up in the eventual set peace, the attempt at goal gathered with ease.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguB5dAc0dnvk9v3P8atYLbxdu7I-NBwzPQbegoG6oyC9qNUH5OXgx1cDFDxTORMqXwVK9eZxaaMApkLmDIIJWSmAY09HQj3Mq9Z4lg5ehyphenhyphene-cjt_qU2ln3SttEi1-EmKVkxmR_8AT_j4w/s1600/69461405_2398704240237556_8581582675905609728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguB5dAc0dnvk9v3P8atYLbxdu7I-NBwzPQbegoG6oyC9qNUH5OXgx1cDFDxTORMqXwVK9eZxaaMApkLmDIIJWSmAY09HQj3Mq9Z4lg5ehyphenhyphene-cjt_qU2ln3SttEi1-EmKVkxmR_8AT_j4w/s400/69461405_2398704240237556_8581582675905609728_n.jpg" width="300" /></a>Approaching twenty minutes gone and we've been spoilt for half chances, but as of yet neither team has grabbed one with both hands. BRT are very much set up for the counter, two in short succession almost put them ahead, but on both occasions the final touch or lack of it, kills the chance dead in the water.<br />
<br />
“Like a boxer on the ropes” explains the BRT commentator to his listeners, as his side come under their first period of sustained pressure. A free kick is not lumped into the box as anticipated, but is instead slid down the side of the wall with great accuracy, where it is met by a WFC forward whose first time shot is beaten away. Chipped back in, the ball falls to a WFC player who sends another effort goalward from a narrow angle, hitting the post.<br />
<br />
An injury to a BRT player gives both sides the chance to head to the dugouts for a much needed water. The break in play sees what until then had been a relentless atmosphere dip ever so slightly, the general hubbub of matchday still simmers away, with the odd sporadic shout from the sidelines replacing the din of before.<br />
<br />
“Ohhhhhhh” gasps the home crowd, their team first to register a chance after the restart. A crossed ball finds an unmarked player, but his attempt at a volley is miss timed, and another chance goes begging, not that Tom is paying much attention to the frequent goalmouth action. He as ever finds his entertainment in the minutia, in the strangest of insignificant details. “He’s massive for a left back” he gawps, at admittedly the very tall defender, “he’s like a basketball player”.<br />
<br />
Someone is going to have to take one of these chances soon or they are going to end up sorely regretting it. A back post header from BRT that looked destined to be the opener, is somehow clawed out by the WFC keeper and the resulting corner sees them find enough space for another attempt but the shot is scuffed and off target.<br />
<br />
Perhaps he was distracted by the intermittent blasts of his supporters air horn or the repetitive shouts of “we’re the green army”, but having been found with pinpoint precision, the ball along the front of the WFC defence, teasingly out of reach for them all, the BRT forward just can’t get the ball out of his feet, and the gilt edged chance can’t be converted. With fans and players alike frustrated at his momentary lack of dexterity, he gets some small reprieve, via the raised flag of the referee's assistant, so it wouldn't have counted any way. Which of course he knew, hence why he didn't really try.<br />
<br />
“Off, off, off” demand the travelling fans, a late home tackle was a tad late, but not red worthy. The guilty player takes his talking to and yellow card quietly.<br />
<br />
What is the average English fans aversion to a drum? I really don’t get it. Clearly not fans of the home supporters choice of percussion, the away end suggests they “stick that fucking drum up” their “arse”, and this is coming from the people with an air horn, which I could quite happily see disappear up someone's anus, long before the drum ever did. Regardless the air horns cameo is short lived, maybe it did end up in someones bum, because after thirty five minutes, I don’t remember it rearing its head again. It’s owner never really having any justifiable reason to use it.<br />
<br />
A clanger, a howler, a real case of butter fingers, call it what you will the BRT keeper has had a shocker. The tamest of shoulder high shots, somehow slithers through his Lurpak smothered digits, over his shoulder and into the back of the net. First blood to the home side.<br />
<br />
Sinking to the ground, face buried into the artificial surface, it’s only because of the help from a teammate that the BRT keeper gets back up, otherwise I think he would have happily stayed right there. Arms outstretched like he’s running towards a loved one, the scorer, WFC’s number 5 makes the short dash towards the fans ready to receive him and the rest of the team following up. Both players and fans leaping on top of him, to congratulate him.<br />
<br />
The response from the away fans is stirring but oh so brief, “champions of Sussex we know what we are” however their attempt to rally, soon turns to cries of announce, one shirtless fan punches the air and then crashes his fist off the hoarding. Seconds after the restart they are presented with a sure chance to reclaim parity, but fluff their lines once more.<br />
<br />
In on goal the home fans collectively hold their breath, until the shot has cleared the crossbar. “Weyyyyyy” they jeer, a nearby houses kitchen window only saved by the high mesh net, there to do exactly that, in times of such wayward marksmanship.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RZfQqIKja-QThlKIaHQlfU7D5ltmwVVdUmHEIlQS2rj6Irw0rupE6-yLMKdM5oduCzRIVVus1Timzr6wLiCYC4J-vjD6uolyNVq6cPiTAtnYd7S8s_JPHTSZ6L96gT5yrxjgYEndNLc/s1600/69267332_2398665046908142_4407682759858847744_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-RZfQqIKja-QThlKIaHQlfU7D5ltmwVVdUmHEIlQS2rj6Irw0rupE6-yLMKdM5oduCzRIVVus1Timzr6wLiCYC4J-vjD6uolyNVq6cPiTAtnYd7S8s_JPHTSZ6L96gT5yrxjgYEndNLc/s400/69267332_2398665046908142_4407682759858847744_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>It’s the latest chant doing the rounds, the one that I automatically associate with Liverpool, but that has been appropriated by countless sets of supporters all over the world I’m sure, that now spills out of the home end. Another “weyyyyy” goes up at the sight of the latest wild long range BRT shot, but instead of focusing on the pitch, Tom is gawking once again, this time at a mother dishing out the treats to her two small kids.<br />
<br />
Admittedly I have to concur with his astute observations, yes Cadburys Fingers during a heatwave was a rookie mistake, “I bet those chocolate fingers are a bit soft”, but there is a half decent football match going on. His smug level is through the roof when both children end up looking like they have each applied full face chocolate make up, their hands and about everywhere from their forehead down is now brown.<br />
<br />
The half comes to an end with not quite a flourish of chances, more a smattering and in keeping with the narrative so far, nothing comes of them. WFC are first up, the attempt at a flicked finish on the edge of the six yard box, does not quite have the power required to threaten and then BRT, who have probably had the lion's share of possession since the goal, find themselves in the box again, but the shot is limp and they very nearly go in at the break further behind, however WFC can’t make the most of BRT’s mix up in defence.<br />
<br />
“Great take, great control” says the BRT commentator through gritted teeth. The cross field pass to the WFC number 7 on the far side of the pitch is plucked from the sky with aplomb. Continuing his run, he winds around the BRT defense like a slalom skier, with only the keeper to beat, his shot is just lacking and he puts it wide.<br />
<br />
It’s a rather low key change of ends, the migration of the two sets of supporters, and the potential for aggro, goes off without incident. On the pitch, the person responsible for pulling my 50/50 ticket out the hat, is a man who has just completed “sixty eight marathons in seven days” running all the way from “Istanbul to Worthing”. Before securing me my first win of the season, he does the draw for a “signed ball”, which is won by “Ed Norton”.<br />
<br />
“Start as you mean to go on” says Tom, laughing at his own joke. I of course and no thanks to the bearded bionic man below, will not be taking the “£85” prize home with me today.<br />
<br />
The home fans more than fill their new spot for the new half, their selection of flags and banners has gone up in no time and the drum is front and centre to welcome the players. With just as much gusto as before, the PA lets out his war cry “come on you reds” and the Away Boys are in fine voice as the game resumes, “what do we think of Bognor? Shit”.<br />
<br />
It wasn't exactly an auspicious ending to the first half for the Rocks and their start to the second is just about as convincing. Giving the ball way, WFC are quick to counter, the last ditch defending sees <br />
the forward bundled over inches outside the box, it was all that could really be done to prevent going further behind. The free kick is over, but BRT look rattled, the home team are getting into their stride and the fans can sense it, and only get louder from here on “I'd rather be a Rebel than a Rock”.<br />
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“This is poor” says the BRT commentator close to a melt down, almost out of his seat he watches WFC swing in a deep cross that only needs the faintest of touches, but his team get a reprieve, as no one is there to meet it. BRT are under the cosh, they’re being forced right back, the home team pepper the box with cross after cross and this onslaught only riles the WFC fans up further, “can you hear the Bognor sing, we can’t hear a fucking thing”.<br />
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WFC go close again to doubling their lead, “If that was in, game over” laments the man in front of me, shouting ever louder into his hands free kit, this time a player on the line is on hand to clear.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dWFnnI9p3r-PUuKV8FApxACxjBjS0DIkuxs1llL6SY-bdGI-FQ86aThc6xb7gT_BH7euWLwj4fi81imhUh2aV5S9svWvHVTyRSZTSj54yvxfjTYBkYxyTZxzm5h9DMD4xudECCnFSAs/s1600/69247998_2398665260241454_521959691786387456_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dWFnnI9p3r-PUuKV8FApxACxjBjS0DIkuxs1llL6SY-bdGI-FQ86aThc6xb7gT_BH7euWLwj4fi81imhUh2aV5S9svWvHVTyRSZTSj54yvxfjTYBkYxyTZxzm5h9DMD4xudECCnFSAs/s400/69247998_2398665260241454_521959691786387456_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>It’s not a bout of butter fingers this time, but another BRT error that ultimately sees them fall further behind. What some might call a ‘hospital pass’ across the back line is latched onto. The player with the ball travels further and further into the area, his teammates call for him to pass, but he just keeps on going. At one point it looks like the chance has gone, only for him to roll it home past the hapless BRT keeper, sending the home end into raptures.<br />
“We want 6” demands someone in the main stand, they want to see them from down the coast well and truly put to the sword. The scorer races away with his index finger pushed againt his lips shushing the BRT fans and The Away Boys encourage each other to “go fucking mental” and the scenes under the low slung flat roof terrace are akin to a mosh pit.<br />
<br />
Tom is concerning himself with the big stuff once again, wondering why the match is being played with a “yellow ball” as well as the welfare of the man in charge, “the ref needs some sun cream, he’s getting pinker and pinker”.<br />
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On twenty three minutes the game is all but over, the BRT commentator has his head in his hands, the home end might have just peaked, “Worthing” they roar, WFC have just added to their tally, now three goals to the good. BRT look like a very different team to the one who started so brightly and are close to getting humiliated if they are not careful. Three could easily become five.<br />
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Such is the level of the traveling teams second half performance, not to take anything from the home side, they have looked like they have had a real fire in their bellies since the restart, it takes BRT almost twenty five minutes to fashion their first chance of the half. A low snap shot is kept out well by the WFC keeper who has had next to nothing to do.<br />
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A second effort in less than a minute behind, but is not the start of some great BRT resurgence, more perhaps just the case of WFC taking their foot of the gas. The fans behind the goal mind do anything of the kind, “la, la, la, la Worthing” they sing, before reiterating the fact, in case anyone had forgotten, “we hate Bognor”.<br />
<br />
Sitting behind the BRT commentator has opened a small window into a world I know very little about. One somewhat takes for granted the silver tongued wordsmiths, who guide us, with varying results though whatever televised match you may be watching. As with life, there are various styles, the fact filled monologues of Motson, the boundless energy of seemingly any Latin American, but one thing they all share is a certain high standard, consummate professionalism, one thing you don't expect are outbursts and personal opinions.<br />
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I am therefore a little shocked when following a mistake by the BRT keeper, his attempt to control a pass back sees the ball roll under his foot and in an attempt to reach it, there is a coming together and a fleeting melee breaks out, to see the BRT commentator who until then had been animated but PG rated, leap to his feet, and fire off a tirade in the direction of the WFC player tangling with his, “fucking wanker”.<br />
<br />
The almost Paul Robinson faux pax is not the end of the BRT keepers somewhat erratic behaviour, “he’s getting a bit flappy” comments Tom, his latest attempt to punch the ball clear is far from decisive. “He saved a shot, he saved a shot” sing the home end driven on by the tireless work of the drummer, poking fun at one player who is already having a it of a bad day and really could do without it.<br />
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In their number 5, “marvelous Marvin” as he was earlier dubbed, WFC have a player who is apparently blessed with an unlimited supply of stamina, an eye for goal which he has already proved and the ability to be in the right place at the right time, all the time. Popping up all over the place, winning back the ball or latching onto loose passes, he is becoming quite a considerable thorn in the BRT side.<br />
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When the BRT fans who have been a bit dormant are stirred, making an appeal for a penalty which is waved away, this sudden up turn in noise is quickly pounced upon, “your support is fucking shit”. The announcement of the attendance, something I wouldn't normally acknowledge, but today I keenly listen out for, considering there's a prize a stake, is “1,684” meaning I won’t be bagging that prize either.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5FBMNZ_jNYWq6oDZfLZ6RpsrSBxD1rB0i7k4_vTBaPKBSQDnkdduEyWXVusNKqkuZBZHZ_n96M-mcWqpwLD1G7heU7XmkcGq1CHB7L6_z78UwlToI-v3y7V5y3RQu6CegVsxhQra4Lk/s1600/69405399_2398664270241553_7817255325316153344_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5FBMNZ_jNYWq6oDZfLZ6RpsrSBxD1rB0i7k4_vTBaPKBSQDnkdduEyWXVusNKqkuZBZHZ_n96M-mcWqpwLD1G7heU7XmkcGq1CHB7L6_z78UwlToI-v3y7V5y3RQu6CegVsxhQra4Lk/s400/69405399_2398664270241553_7817255325316153344_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>My cogitating about what the person who has just fired up their nearby BBQ might be having is only fleeting. “Marvelous Marvin” is back at it, this time in the BRT box, but he just can't sort his feet out, and the ball is poked clear for a corner. The ease in which he got into a shooting position, is summed up perfectly by the now far less sweary commentator, “like a knife through hot butter”.<br />
<br />
Despite the conditions, I’m close to melting in the shade with a cold drink, the home fans have been relentless, “oh when the reds go marching in”. More pressure on the BRT back line brings about another chance, a hurried pass is swept up in a flash, and the player with the ball can see the headlines before he’s even scored. Shaping up to shoot, he’s already imagining all the pats on the back and offers to buy him a drink, but his shot is way off target, forcing him to raise an apologetic hand to a teammate in a far better position.<br />
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Into the final ten and BRT heads are almost on their chests, the jeers from the home fans as they rack up only their third chance of the half, is almost cruel. Well ahead and the result all but confirmed, “marvelous Marvin” has played his last part, his substitution much to Tom’s dismay, “fives off” he gasps, “oh Marvin”.<br />
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Not only is he gutted at the departure of one of the stand out players of the day, but he’s also growing more and more concerned about the state of the referee who he points out is now the “same colour as the Worthing shirt. Get him some after sun”.<br />
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With the five minutes of the half remaining, Tom then turns to me all Jose Mourinho, just like he would to his team on the bench, five minutes away from a victory, but falling short of shaking my hand, he looked me dead in the eye, “no way back for Bognor”.<br />
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His team might be languishing, but this has far from affected the BRT commentators enthusiasm, “back into the danger zone” he yelps, when the visitors have one of their all too rare forays into the WFC box, however the looping half volley at Tom puts it is “crap” and just about “sums their day up”.<br />
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Every pass to the BRT keeper is greeted with derision, he certainly looks like he might have another mistake in him, Tom convinced he’s wearing “two left boots”. That might be the case, but it's one of them that keeps WFC from making it four. The forward points to where he wants the ball, and gets it. He shoots first time, only for the BRT keeper to keep him out, blocking with his feet.<br />
<br />
Three Little Birds is blasted out again and such is one man's determination to get his head on a clearance, he completely forgets he’s on the stairs of the main stand, and not terrafirma and almost crashes down them in his attempt to nut the ball back onto the pitch. He neither fell or missed the opportunity to receive a warm “weyyy” from the crowd and looks chuffed.<br />
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“Fucking hope not” replies a steward when he’s asked if he thinks there is going to be a “pitch invasion”. The home end is close to erupting, they are the loudest they have been all day by far, “whooooooo, ohhhhhhhh”. The same steward pointing out the home end is “bit different to last week” after their somewhat sobering defeat.<br />
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Both sets of players approach their respective supporters come the final whistle, the difference in mood is striking. The BRT players applaud the effort of those that have traveled, however either side of the hoardings be it on the pitch or the terrace, is pretty lifeless.<br />
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The WFC players on the other hand are full of swagger, full of all the bravado that comes with a resounding derby day victory. The Away Boys are now like that upbeat Spotify playlist you made yourself to get through the commute to work or to get you up for the gym. Song after song, “red army, red army” and my personal favourite an adaptation of a Celtic chant, but with an obvious change, “come on you boys in red”. Very much without the ads, there are no interruptions, just banging tunes one after another. The drummer at one point so vigorous in his pounding, the white fluffy tip of his drumstick flies off onto the pitch and has to be recovered.<br />
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We’ve said it before, we’re never going to tell anyone there is a right way or a wrong way to support your club, you do what suits you, however the way the Away Boys went about it today, the energy, the man in the violet jacket in the throngs of the terrace using two beer bottles as effectively maracas, is the kind of support that I want to be around, the kind that stands the hairs on the back of my neck. The drum, despite what the BRT fans might think, all the flags, is captivating.<br />
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In their recent past at least WFC are a club whose history is forged around tragedy, a car crash that left a former player confined to a wheelchair. Investing his compensation money into the club, not on a whim or as a vanity project, but as a long term project to not only save his local team from extinction, but also to give the local community something to be proud of, something to unify behind. A connection that perhaps had previously been lacking.<br />
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Talking to Pete Stone the club's Executive Chairman about the clubs ethos he explained their mantra, their core value “ambition without ego”, which was was more than apparent from the moment we arrived.<br />
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