No Signal, Jet Lag and Doncaster Rovers at Home

I have been away: three days in New York (so much seen, so much left to see) before joining an escorted “heritage of America Tour” that swooped through Philadelphia, Lancaster County, Gettysburg, Colonial Williamsburg and ended in Washington: a city of many monuments and, for me, little identity or soul.

          

 

Overall a great experience: meeting such friendly people and learning so much while travelling the miles and the years. Also frustrating. Because my nephew lives in New York, but without a mobile ‘phone signal – and after running up a twenty dollar ‘phone bill getting the wrong numbers _ I had no way to get to see him. My guess is he would still have got engaged even if he’d met up with us. (Congratulations Tom!)

But, after delays, long-time sitting in airports and plane seats, watching all three available TV episodes of the Vikings and winning two virtual poker tournaments – oh and a marvellous taxi driver who mentioned driving a visiting friend of Randy Lerner’s past the Aston Villa ground – we got home. Stayed awake until English bed time and went to sleep.

At some indecent early hour before the sun was up my ‘phone went off. A message from my brother which read:

“Won – lost – drew”

Needless to say I cursed the ‘phone and wonder – still – why the message didn’t drop in earlier.

Lost seems not to cover it –as we were, apparently truly hammered 4 – 0 at Rochdale, having previously beaten Preston N.E. 3 – 1 at home – the only home game I missed because of the trip.

Meanwhile in the cup formerly known as the League Cup (now the Capital One Cup) Shrewsbury won against Norwich City to earn a home tie against Chelsea and Liverpool and Middlesbrough were involved in a penalty shoot out that needed thirty spot kicks (imagine that) for Liverpool to go through. This took an additional nineteen minutes and is – it goes without saying – a new record number of penalties that, hopefully will not be broken for many a long year.

So I set out to drive to the game: still feels strange to be on this side of the road. It also felt like a long time since I have been to a game (that’s how good the holiday was!) Feeling also some trepidation: we have only won one game in nine this season so far – or three out of the past twenty seven – and the season is finely balanced. Local media talk is about James Baxendale – who once played for Doncaster Rovers and Andy Butler has returned to Walsall (from Sheffield United) on what is termed an “emergency loan”. I have no idea how this differs from any other loan, but it sounds rather desperate.

 

Warm day, no problems parking; stroll to the ground, into the Bonser Lounge. Met up with Andy and Cully. Out in the stadium my first impression was green, space , watching O’Donnell signing autographs for kids behind the practice goal and noise: that “overture and the crashing drums of The Who to welcome players onto the pitch.

Tom Bradshaw back from injury, Reece Flanagan, Grimes on the bench. And the kick off appeared a little chaotic, players not seeming sure who was going to take the kick making me think of schoolboy games when somebody says, at the last minute “Oh all right, you take it but give me the ball; OK?”

Poor first half; no routine, passes going astray, no rhythm and Saddlers players staying back, putting no pressure on the ball or the Donny defence. Bradshaw working hard, bravely and selflessly up front, but nobody behind him to pick up the scraps.

Then, almost as even the most hardened of us was ready for the half time whistle some good play down the left had Sawyers threading a ball to – impossibly – Baxendale when the tall Rovers defenders were expecting a cross (I guess) and little “Bax” fired a sweet shot into the corner of the net.

Second half was a different matter. Walsall in full flow. Players up for it and going forward relentlessly. Some hard and some harsh tackling from Doncaster, but following an injury to the first choice ‘keeper and Billy Clifford coming on for Flanagan, Forde found more space and had composure down the left, with fine support from Andy Taylor (an accomplished player who looks the least athletic of footballers I have seen for some years (don’t judge a book by it’s cover”). Fine, sharp passing brought Sawyers into the game. He looked up, spotted a run by Bradshaw, popped the ball into the space and – another goal for “Bradders”.

Later a free kick on the edge of the box had us wondering who would take it. A real tussle going on in the area, Baxendale upsetting the defenders, getting roughed up, Andy Butler going over and elbows flying about. My guess that Taylor would take the kick was completely wrong: Antony Forde stepped up, shot, the ball arced in, bounced of the inside of the post and into the net. Some credit has to go to Butler and Baxendale here for the distraction I think. But the ball was in the net – again!

This was the final result, although Bradshaw and Sawyers would be replaced by Grimes and Manset (some fine touches and strong play) and there was a general sigh of relief. Maybe this means we are back to business as we once knew it – that’ll be at the start of last season incidentally. But, just maybe, a lot of weight has been taken off the players shoulders now and we are at home again next Saturday.

A Game of a Different Name.

Strange when you wake up on the final day of an escorted tour. First you’ve been able to have a lie-in. There’s nothing to do after all until it’s time to leave for the airport (in our case Reagan, Washington, D.C. en route to Birmingham (the original one in England) via Newark outside New York). So, although you wake up at 6 a.m. local time (because that’s been the routine) you can lie in bed, have a late breakfast … and just, well fill up time really … until that mind-numbing slog to the airport, the glamour of aviation fuel in the nostrils, hen air conditioned boredom and cramp, constantly thinking you might be in the wrong place at the right time (or something like that).

It’s the U.S.A.. So there are a million and one TV channels to hop. Interminably long advert breaks give plenty of incentive – if any were needed – to “see what’s on the other side”.

NFL! What the Americans call football is American football to me. A cross between wrestling, pantomime, graceful athleticism, cheerleaders and rugby. It’s over-hyped, over analysed and done to death, with statistics panels and histories of previous games, tactics, player data and chatter, chatter, chatter.

Then I am surprised to find a soccer game. On NBC. In contrast it is so simply shown. A single camera angle covering almost all of the action, brief commentary, very few replays and slow-motion analysis that dogs the NFL channels (oh and the accompanying college grade games) …

I am hit by a revelation at that point. And stunned. Truly!

The gap plugged by the ESPN and NFL channels is exactly what English media have done to the “beautiful game”! Isn’t it?

Match of the Day, internationals: talking heads, media headlines, gossip, paraphernalia and personality worship trails a-plenty. I began by thinking criticism of the American system and am quickly brought to face the lengthy analysis of Saturday evening English TV.

Now, this blog may be in danger – or indeed be wholly composed of – of continuing that over- egging of an elementally-simple, beautiful game and so I may myself need to answer charges of hypocrisy at some stage.

So, having caught fifteen minutes or so of the Arsenal v man City game earlier on in the tour I settled down to watch this one. Leicester City against Manchester United. Leicester, unsurprisingly losing 3-1 when I decide to get breakfast. It’s still on when I get back to the room. It’s the whole game, live of course, not the edited highlights.

The football from both teams is so smooth, so fast, so fluent; the ball swept majestically from end to end, from wing to wing. Defence becomes attack with no need for complicated time-outs, team switches or huddles. It is such a simple game. (Earlier from the bus we had seen what was described as “Football Frisbee” being played in one of Washington’s parks. Imagine football with a Frisbee, not a ball and you have it.) But the play is also stylish: dribbling, passing, some fine interceptions and well-timed tackles, some with that physical edge I enjoy seeing.

 “Leicester losing at this point,” the commentator intones, But they are not intimidated, moving forward with both urgency and purpose. They were in the Championship last season and have a degree of robust play that is disturbing and unsettling the Man U. players. And United’s recent-arrival manager van Gaal, has changed the team about, selling some who may well have felt themselves established United players (Danny Wellbeck, now at Arsenal is a good example) and moved in his own players.

A loose, hopeful  ball is delivered down the United right, a challenge goes in from Vardy (the City player, previously with non-League Fleetwood Town). In my opinion Vardy committed a foul on Rafael da Silva, the United full back. Such shoulder charges are rarely seen in the Premier League. But no whistle. Vardy gets into the penalty area; the United full back comes back at him with a challenge and he goes to the ground:

Penalty!

Along with the United players I am surprised: If the first offence wasn’t given why is this one? But rules is rules … and, as a spectacle the game will be better if Leicester get another goal. Plus, of course, I must confess that United are far from being my favourite team.

Goal!!

Leicester then add pressure; an equaliser comes very quickly, from Esteban Cambiasso, after some poor defending on one hand and enterprising opportunism on the other. Then it’s another penalty for the Foxes – and Utd have Tyler Blackett sent off.

The final score ?

Leicester 5 man Utd. 3

… and an impressive game to boot!

Back at home the Leicester M.P. Keith Vaz will use the score line in a speech at the Labour Party Conference in Manchester, saying, with a twinkle in his eye:

“… and anyone who can get the numbers five three into a speech will get an extra thirty minutes from the Chair.”

I press the switch on the remote control box, attach myself to the luggage and the return begins.

Having kept myself away from Saddlers results I will soon find out how they got on in the three games I missed.

How Did That Happen?

Almost the first thing he tells me is that he’s a Liverpool supporter. We’ve just met – part of an escorted “Heritage of America “ tour group – for breakfast in a New York diner* where the waiters are out-of-work singer/dancers who belt out fully-amped over-loud renditions of Broadway hits. The word melody will not sit easily in this context, but they are enthusiastic – and, don’t get me wrong, I like the very idea of these people performing for an audience “between jobs” – but service is, inevitably slowed down. And it’s hellish difficult to hear what these people you’re going to be spending the next week and a bit with are actually saying.

“Yeah,” he groans, managing to get a word in between what I think I recognise as something from Wicked and a tortured Elvis Presley ballad, “… spoiled my night … only went on-line didn’t I … to find the scores …we lost to Aston Villa. I just can’t believe it. How did that happen? The Villa?”

Later on, in the cosmopolitan lobby of the hotel on the edge of Times Square I am talking with a coupe from Sutton Coldfield. Turns out he’s a Villa supporter and asks if I’ve heard any results.

“Just the one,” I tell him. “Your lot beat Liverpool one – nil last night.”

“You’re joking,” he replies, “It was at Liverpool!”

A few seconds to think about it; then:

“One- nil? Are you sure? How did that happen?”

*Ellen’s Starburst Diner

“It’s Sport, Jim, But Not as we Knew It …”

beeseeker

So, some moneybody said,

“How about we

Pay more for ’em,

Set no limits,

Pay ’em more;

Give ’em much more

Than an hour an’ a bit

Of a Saturday afternoon?

Put the celebrity shine on

Lads who once were welders,

Scoring for chicken ‘n beans?

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Colchester Utd (home)

I’m at the allotment, loaded up with runner beans, pears and sweet corn and heading towards the car, when a thought strikes me.

“Hey!” I say to Mike (he’s a Wolves supporter), our allotment neighbour, “the world’ll be a different place when we get back, we may passports to visit Scotland!”

“Yes,” he agrees, “And Walsall might have scored.”

We’re off to New York, joining a tour that eventually returns from Washington D.C. I am certainly looking forward to it; not least after hard-working-no-win-in-sight day at Bescot yesterday.

Playing Colchester, who just sacked their manager, Joe Dunn and his assistant Mark Kinsella (father of our latest prodigy full back Liam Kinsella), for poor performances were not happy to play the role of weak and feeble victims to our “fierce comeback after Tongue lashings following the defeat at Scunthorpe last week” (as per the local media).

There’s an “international break” with no Premier league or Championship games and a number of players are in the stand: Febian Brandy, Brian Flynn, Mark Kinsella and Ben Purkiss to name but a few.

We start quite well, but Colchester match our passion and pace. Some fine challenges and Walsall lose the ability to create space and pass. Our one strength and feature so far this season.

I understand that it is too, too easy to be an armchair manager, but, despite this I cannot understand why Manset, with his frame, strength and ability to hold the ball under pressure is playing somewhere behind a workaholic Tom Bradshaw. Surely the point of having “Big Man” Manset is to use him as a mobile target man? I don’t doubt he has the versatility to play other roles but see the target man role as key to us having a plan B strategy.

 

Some of the challenges are early-exchange assertive; some are blatantly criminal, including one that has Manset crashing onto the track/wall down below us. He is, at least dazed, while being treated (if the holding hands and shaking them our physio was doing can be labelled as treatment) for some moments. But brave or stupid, he’s back on and getting involved again – in mid field. No action from the referee, who, I don’t believe actually saw the challenge.

It is, of course wrong that I am left criticising refereeing decisions: I would love to be concentrating on the play and players, but little was happening.

There were good, solid games from Reece Flanagan (some fine, subtle and determined touches), Liam Kinsella and Kieron Morris. I love the idea that we’re investing successfully in bringing young players through, that I was watching three of them today … but not quite as much as I like seeing my team winning convincingly and that hasn’t happened for a long time. Tom Bradshaw still has that energetic, keen edge, running everywhere, chasing what seem to be lost causes and making something of them. But again getting poor service and needing to drift back too often to get any touches at all.

I am convinced we have the players but something needs to be altered. I like the fact that we have a management team that inspire loyalty and team spirit, but am disappointed that we seem to have just the one strategy. And that one has been sussed already.

Meanwhile Sainsbury’s School Games begin this weekend; meant to inspire they are based on opening-ceremony to closing-ceremony events like the Olympics and include Paralympic athletes. Credit to Sainsbury’s for sponsoring this event, best wishes to all taking part in Manchester.

The Tour of Britain Cycle Race also begins on Sunday. The first stage begins in Liverpool. The race finishes in London. Glad that we have a premier cycling event in Britain, but cannot help but smile at the inevitable comparisons I draw with the Tour de France, The Guiro (Italy) and la Vuelta (Spain). One day maybe, winning the British race will have similar cache, but not for some years and much promotion I fear

In political world news what the media is calling “pro-Russian separatists” are still ensconced and seem determined in the Ukraine. Russia itself seems to be supporting the so-called rebels more and more directly. A N.A.T.O. conference in Newport, wales has some agreement on what action to take and David Cameron is talking tough “ruling nothing out at this stage” … but winter and colder weather is creeping towards us and we get a lot of gas from Russia (along with most of Europe). Watch this space, I guess, to see whether the current ceasefire lasts … and even leads to peace.

Indeed, watch this space, because if all goes to plan we won’t be back until after the referendum in Scotland over independence. It seems ridiculous to me that only residents of Scotland will be voting when the result will affect all of the United Kingdom countries, but hey, what do I know.

I am already aggrieved that Scots and Welsh M.Ps. get to vote in the Houses of Parliament on English laws and decisions, while M.Ps. with English constituencies have no role to play in the Scots or Welsh Assemblies.

Can somebody explain to me how that is fair?

Meanwhile, of course Mike deserved some come-back to his cheeky (if witty) remark about the possibility that Walsall might have scored …

Best I could manage was to ask how long he thought we were going away for …

The Shirt and The Inhaler.

 Following the Scunthorpe away report https://saddlersfan.wordpress.com/2014/09/02/the-shirt-and-the-iron-scunthorpe-away/

I felt the need to post the poem The Shirt mentioned in the post. It will follow, if my keyboard skills allow.

In posting this (from a Google search I was instantly linked to a whole range of brilliant poems on sport. Where was this tracking when I needed it (often the

bemused cry from sports supporters I suspect- possibly even, dare I say it, under-pressure managers.

So I am also including a superb poem which gos to the heart of “proper sport” and beyond: Pheidippedes’ Daughter

The Shirt

Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong.

It’s the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back

like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm

seeping its curse onto my skin, the worst tattoo.

I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt,

smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent

with the sweat and stink of fear. It’s got my number.

I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son.

He did. I’ve wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid,

but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.

All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball

in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars

are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.

The wind’s a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song

about my Wag. It’s the bloody shirt!

He started to blub like a big girl’s blouse and

I felt a fleeting pity. Don’t cry,

I said, at the end of the day you’ll be back

on 100K a week and playing for City.

 

 

Against the careful, but appealing-to-me (I am the supporter of a lowly, but so-far financially managed within means* club) contrast this wonderful piece by the National Poet ofWales, Gillian Clarke. (it might help to know that Pheidippides was the soldier who ran the now-legendary distance from Marathon to Athens to carry the news that the battle had been won.

Pheidippedes’ Daughter (for Catrin)

Long silver girl who slipped easy and

early from the womb’s waters,

whose child-breath was a bird in a cage,

the inhaler in her fist her amulet,

grew tall, beautiful, caught her breath,

outran the hound, the hare, the myth,

the otter, salmon, swallow, hawk,

the river, the road, the track.

She texts again – this time Santiago.

She’s counting seven cities underfoot,

running the bloodlines of language, lineage,

for Ceridwen’s drop of gold, an ear of corn,

to leave the Battle of Marathon and run

through pain and joy with news

to the gates of a city,

to arrive at the finishing line, and say,

“Nenikékamen – We have won.”

Now this isn’t the usual fare for this blog, but I hope, if you find it you find something that you recognise (in yourself or in the world), that’ll touch your heart

and/or make you smile … one way or the other.

The Shirt and The Iron (Scunthorpe Away)

Last Wednesday of the month: poetry group at Great Wyrley Library. Last month we chose “sport” as the topic for this meeting. Do you know how difficult it is to find a reasonable poem about sport? (Seriously folks any suggestions welcome in the response box below. Would love to you’re your ideas.)

Someone else came up with “the Shirt” by Carole Ann Duffy  (current English poet laureate). I have heard this independent lady reading her poetry and, while it was being shared in the rather small confines of our library I could imagine bot her voice and face as she read it out. Bit of a cliché, but went to this Walsall supporter’s heart right away; the themes of high salary and some self-pitying celebrity player trying to make excuses for poor performances. The “anybody but me” syndrome” again.

We are playing Scunthorpe United today. Away. I’m going. Bright sunshine, high skies after some rainclouds earlier.

Cully’s driving. Navigating part-by-sat-nav part by experience. The sat nav (Tom-Tom I believe) sits in pride of place in the centre of the dashboard. The arrow stays still, the graphics move underneath it. “A bit like flying, instead of driving; don’t like it, “ he says.

Satisfyingly the machine gets it wrong from the off and I take out an unnecessary dog leg, smiling smugly (well inside anyway).

The journey is comfortable, enjoyable and full of conversation on initially  familiar roads and then motorways (with some almost inevitable summer roadworks limiting us to 50 m.p.h..

We see the high single legged floodlight pylons of Glanford Park while we are still on the approach. The ground is now at the back of an out-of-town shopping park with all the usual suspects including a McDonalds, a Ben and Jerry’s (playing music from the 1950s) and a franchise gastro-pub. It’s friendly in there. We order a meal and drinks, sit and continue the conversations. Then well fed, stroll to the ground.

Going through the turnstiles we are not given a ticket which I find interesting. It takes out the costs of printing and is eminently sensible in that respect of course … but is it legal?

 

The ground feels homely. It’s compact, built to the same spec all round and looks as if it was built to a plan that was stuck-to. No out-of-character additions. There’s a purpose built gallery in the roof of the left hand stand for cameras and media, there are flags flying from poles at the opposite end of the ground. That stand (we are behind a goal line) is standing-only. That’s also interesting, given the discussions going on to return parts of grounds to standing areas again (they were changed to all seater stadia by law following recommendations in the Taylor report after the Hillsborough disaster) .

We look dazed from the kick-off. The Iron playing fast, zippy football, passes accurate, either in front of the runner or into space which is soon taken up by an attacking player. We are not able to keep up, it seems. Our new look team. Without Kinsella who has been impressive, but fair enough, may need a break; without Grimes and Sawyers and James Chambers back into the middle of defence. Forde is on and Manset gets a debut. (seems he was playing the “long game” after his trial game against Leicester, going to some Turkish club and after a better deal (no blame attached there: football is a cruel kind of life and players need to make money as and when …). No deal was offered, so he came back to Walsall. James Chambers lasts all of ten minutes and Dean Holden comes on to replace him. It doesn’t get better. Scunthorpe (why are they nicknamed The Iron?) are like a tide washing towards our goal, wave after wave. Fortunately they don’t look like scoring. They too are on a winless run and may just be a little over anxious.

The half time entertainment is amusing: fans spin around to make themselves dizzy and are then to take a penalty against the home mascot (“Scunny Bunny”). Except they all fall over before they have finished spinning. The announcer on the pitch is enjoying himself anyway.

Of course I recognise some of the travelling fans now; we are some kind of pilgrims after all, trying to keep a kind of faith. Against all odds sometimes!

Second half is little different, except Scunthorpe are better motivated, more switched on. they haven’t won yet and sense things might be about to change. A first half dribble raid by Adelakum which ended in a scuffed shot is repeated. But this time the ball is in the net. A few moments later we concede a free kick. MacSheffrey’s long distance shot beats O’Donnell and they are two nil up.

Cue the charge. We establish some kind of order. Press forwards, more in hope at this stage but things begin to come together. Then, Tom Bradshaw, who must be difficult to play against, is through after willing running. It seems to be in stop-motion. I see him check the position of the keeper (Olejnic) and the ball dinks off his head and curls – towards – the net – over – the – line.

Goal! Well-deserved because the man has been chasing everything since kick off, big hearted and energetic. Good eye for the goal. Manset has shown touches of skill, but been a little off the pace. But he is big. He is strong and the defenders knew he was there. I would like to see him in the team again on Saturday (home against Colchester), just a little more bedded in.

It’s not enough. Baxendale making a big, bold challenge to keep the ball in provokes a bit of passion from Scunthorpe’s Bishop, who has niggled all game (but at least has some fire and passion about the game). The referee who has been poor all game, not stamping his authority, gives a goal kick when, in fact, the ball didn’t go out at all.

So, Scunthorpe’s winless run ends. Does ours continue or did it just get worse than that?