Playing Catch-Up In The Four Zone
By Martin Blanc
Here's what I want to know: referees, yeah? They must be pretty used to
abusive chants to do with their masturbatory practices, some even proud of
the wrath their Little-Hitler routines provoke. So why don't people chant:
"The referee's a dead man" or "We know where you/we know where you/we know
where you live"? Might I suggest it to the Rookery for future reference?
Perhaps these numbers might have conveyed to Mr Styles the level of his
failures.
One-nil to the referee maybe, but unfortunately the referee isn't in the
promotion hunt. We were, and yes, still are this morning. But after
exhibiting our torturously familiar frailties for Blackburn's closer
inspection (a few very Welsh moments from Page before his departure, and
some more of Cox's as well) and this time surviving to emerge on level
terms, we were on the ascendancy, it felt, as we entered the fortieth
minute. Prior to that, Baardsen's best save had come from the post, off
which the ball rebounded after a probably preventable shot from inside the
box. After it, he - along with what was left of the rest of the team - shone
with a raging fire they haven't shown all winter. But I'm getting ahead of
myself.
Now, considering our opponents are managed by the dirtiest bastard in
football since Norman Hunter was released from Borstal, it was particularly galling to
watch him jumping up and down at the touchline, ordering about the latest of
the Jack Walker Trust Fund's investments (Mr Styles). Galling too that the
scummy antics of the team he's in charge of went almost without exception
unpunished. It was a very dark night: our home-made entertainment in the
first twenty minutes of the second half even consisted of hoping that he
might do a Jock Stein right there in front of the East Stand. On this, as
with so much else, we went home disappointed.
The key moments: Robbo got Page in the shit in the first place with an
underweighted toe-poke, but was also clearing up after himself when Page's
challenge on the diving Bent occurred. No red card. Styles picked Helguson
from the mob who protested, and then he had to go, for the mild four-footed
challenge that followed just before half-time. Maybe a key moment too was
Nielsen missing the lovely through-ball he received in the third minute,
because we'd still have had a ninety-minute game at one-nil up.
How we chuckled as the second half began to unfold. Sometimes you can't see
the difference on a pitch between ten and eleven-man teams. Nine shows. Just
standing there about to kick off, it shows. We had to cede their half of the
pitch to them straight away. It's to our enormous credit that we managed the
attacks, the moves, the long shots we did. It's to our credit we made
Blackburn wait as long as they had to for a goal. It's to our credit we sang
and mocked and pumped up the players and the night as a whole. It's to our
credit we didn't storm the pitch.
It's to our probably lasting disgrace and damage that our two experienced
defenders, one of whom really needs a rest and the other of whom is now
going to get one anyway, haven't been able to access their professional
grit, motivation, self-belief for too long now.
So while the night ended with a mood of terror, of being scared to drive
over the speed limit even by a fraction, in case Mr Styles was watching (no,
really...), the season rolls on with us clutching onto our play-off place.
It will end with victory for one or other of the two sides to this club's
collective on-field personality. Are we Millionaires, or are we The Weakest
Link?
