The Last Defender

So I have an appointment at the GPs on Friday: a flaccid lump on my elbow diagnosed as “bursitis” hasn’t cleared itself up and it needs to be drained and have a steroid injection. I am slightly nervous but have sensibly organised for my erstwhile brother to drive to the Ian Hunter concert.

The doctor – professionally and properly ignores my feeble attempts at flippancy – and gets the job done. He seems a little surprised that I am a) going to sit while he carries out the procedure and b) that I am happy to watch. He winds a tight bandage around the joint and I am driven home, then picked up and we are on our way to The Copper Rooms (a.k.a. the Student’s Union block at Warwick University. To save a little time, we don’t want to be late we use the M6 Toll Road, getting there in plenty of time: me tucking in to chicken sandwiches as the rain sodden miles pass.

Fine concert: packed, standing only audience, minimal fuss about the décor – low ceilings, slightly raised stage, darkness and bare stage, few lights and the bands (support band David R. Black impressive with the few songs they performed). Hunter never could particularly hold a tune, but his lyrics bite and he is in a good mood, though his voice is, even for him, a little strained.

Next morning and I am driving To the F.A. Cup tie at Championship Reading. Toll road again: scandalous? We decide that the worst possible result would be a draw – because this would mean a replay – and we have enough games and, arguably not enough players to go around. We have overcome other Championship sides and could do so again today, if …

We are soon passing what remains if Didcot Power station and discuss the merits and technicalities (and spiritual aspects) of cooling towers and the economics of energy production. We decide to go past Reading and come back on ourselves; the ground is apparently the far side of the town and we want to miss town traffic. But the ground is on some retail park (B and Q, Ikea, Acme Junk shops, blah blah blah) and there is a whole mess of islands and traffic flow lights. We park uphill of a big-puddled car park and stroll to the ground, which stands atop a rise. From one point of view there is a wind generator sprouting from it. It is also, incidentally the home ground of the London Irish Rugby Union Club.

On the way we pass an overturned portaloo. In good mood we laugh: surely an omen of the best sort. It reminds us, for some reason of the saga of Walsall fans back in the hooligan days of football fandom, who apparently got to Reading, seized a programme seller, nicked all of the programmes and left the lad upside down in a nearby hedge. the whole coachload were promptly rounded up by the local police, taken into the confines of the  then-home ground, Elm park, given a strict lecture about expected behaviour and left – inside the ground having paid no entrance moneys.

 

The present home ground, the Madeski Stadium, must be built on a former rubbish tip and the road and pavement surfaces are coming up, coming apart or simply treacherous. And periscoping out of the ground are vent pipes, presumably to leak out fumes and methane from underground conniptions. But no getting away from it: this is an impressive ground: made for the future with money the club perhaps does not have: ambition and risk in a single site. We walk around three sides of it to get to the away end, where two of our tickets are electronically scanned and passed and the third is rejected. It would happen to belong to the one of us who had just said how polite the ticket sales people were – to find out that the stewards were anything but.

The away end is definitely fan friendly: there are TVs showing Walsall goals from last season, a server selling burgers wearing a red tee shirt with Bescot Crescent printed on it and plenty of room to stand, enjoy a pie, beer or, in my case a coffee. We had eaten salmon sandwiches in the car park – I took salmon sandwiches to the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff when we beat Reading in a play-offs final to get promotion – hmmm, what year was that now?

     Kind of weird that anyone would want to swap children, but if you do, there are opportunities at Reading it seems.

 

We climb the stairs and enter the seating area: it is quite wonderful: well tiered seating, great, unobstructed view of the field, single all-round roof that covers all of the seats and floodlights set into the edges of this. The sky we can see has  a few wisps of white cloud, and, could easily be a summer sky … it is 12 degrees here after all.

The usual and enjoyable singing banter: we have sixteen hundred fans there: strategically the noisy ones are under the lowest roof where the acoustics will swell the sound.

Same team as last game. But from the kick off we are made aware that this is definitely a higher league team. They are faster, fitter, bigger and topple over with amazing regularity and drama – even when only merely touched by a Walsall player. Sadly professional.

We, on the other hand, playing those neat little passing moves struggle to get any momentum, though for a while we dominate possession. Demetriou will run forever, but is doing so toady for little purpose. Likewise Rico henry; a great player with the ball, effortless control in stick situations normally … but today getting crowded out.

We go a goal down. Then another, Reading using the wings well and having forwards up and active.

We have Tom Bradshaw. Starved of the ball and having to drop back further and further.

I am now incensed of course! I am in that near-berserker rage: never mind what we thought in the calm cabin of the car: I want to take this game here and now and either win it or force the draw and … er … go to  a replay?

Hell yes! Whatever it takes!

But it will not be. We finally crumble and lose four nil. Driving back, after negotiating the crammed, jammed and nobody giving way islands ( the people going west were all parked in car parks to the east and vice versa it appears!) we are organising the trip to Doncaster on Tuesday night. We are, once again, calm and rational, wanting only to get back to winning promotion – automatically if possible. Results in league one have gone our way: the other “contenders” losing and putting us in a strong position to move on.

#	Team	GP	W	D	L	GF	GA	GD	PTS
1	Burton Albion	28	18	3	7	37	23	14	57
2	Gillingham	29	16	6	7	55	36	19	54
3	Walsall	27	15	8	4	45	26	19	53
4	Wigan Athletic	29	14	10	5	48	29	19	52
5	Coventry	29	13	9	7	48	32	16	48

But can we do it?

Maybe we have lost some momentum? Some motivation? I don’t doubt that the players we have are putting everything in to every moment but around about now those players are responding to Sean O’Driscoll, no longer running on what Dean Smith and Richard O’Kelly had … and, though I like what O’Driscoll brings (more tactical nous and better interviews for example) he doesn’t seem to think we need another striker/ another up-front outlet. And that is a little worrying.

We have picked up a loanee: Middlesbrough’s   Morris (of England under 19s and with previous loan experience at Burton Albion and York) is a midfielder. He may be needed to preplace George Evans who has, ironically moved on to – who else but Reading. Both are Cup-tied so neither could play today.

Also of concern is the fact that towards the end of the game Neil Etheridge was stretchered off*. That could be a big blow!

But by the time we set off to Doncaster (weather permitting the game to be played) we will know if O’Driscoll managed to keep the squad together. None of them particularly shone in today’s rout, though there were a couple of sublime moments from Sawyers: the first when he slipped easily past a Reading full-back and left him for dead down the wing, the second a break on goal, the glimpse to see where the goalie was and then the shot … which beat the keeper and came back of the angle of post and cross bar.

Elsewhere an iconic vehicle, Land Rover’s Defender is going out of production: the last one rolling off the closing down production lines this very week. Amazingly this vehicle has been in production since 1948 and 75% of them remain in use as I write.

The very last defender indeed … and Stuart Pearce one time “Psycho” full back is joining a team in Gloucester: best wishes to this fifty seven year old warrior!

• the injury was actually a couple of gashes that required a total of twelve stitches: wish you well Neil.