Shrewsbury Home.

Thursday; penultimate day in this trip to Upper Austria. Great fun! Coffee and cake at so many houses. (and such fine cake!) A beer, schnapps, hospitality. I am caked out and eat a marvellously friendly evening meal with friends old and new. Relaxed. More cake. Rum.

Crash into a now familiar bed, setting the alarm on my mobile phone. Last day tomorrow. Get some sleep. I am asleep, if it’s possible, before my head hits the pillows.

I am awoken by the beeping. My brain is awake, but my thoughts are clear, rebelliously so :”It cannot possibly be six a.m.!”

My fingers, paying attention to neither have switched off the alarm. Automatically. My eyes are informing my brain that it is still dark, cannot be six a.m.

I am warm, the duvet is my new best friend. I conclude that the alarm is broken. Decide to let my body clock wake me up … it hasn’t failed me yet: I am usually awake before the alarm anyway. I settle down, begin to doze …

BEE-eep Bee – Eep!

WHAT!? I’ve switched you off once! I spring to the ‘phone, check the alarm really is off, switch it on and off again – to be sure (why do we do that?), then try again. But, too late my mind has taken over. I have had a couple of hours of sleep and I am starting to work out what I will need for tomorrow. The bloody machine beeps again…

… My mind is engaged and I realise that it’s not the alarm, it’s a text signal. I am getting texts! At nearly two in the morning (Austrian time). An emergency?

I open the texts. My brother … some garbage (sorry bro, really) about meeting “fri afternoon”. What?

He knows I am in Austria. Doesn’t he ?

I reply, my fingers punching the tiny keys:

“I am asleep in Austria. Get the Shrewsbury tickets and let me sleep!”

But I am not asleep. I spend the next forty five minutes or so planning the day tomorrow, writing lists and instructions. Then getting up and editing them. I am Mr Control Freak sometimes.

Then I fall asleep again. Properly … and at the proper time the alarm brings me back.

Later I am sitting ,feeling very tired in the airport. Two black insignia less helicopters, definitely military – hover around, parallel to the ground. Like one is keeping guard over the other. Waspish movements, then one by one they settle on the tarmac. Russian invasion? I am thinking comically.

But the chunky guys who get out have U.S shoulder flashes and thick soled boots. Ray ban shades. Black Hawks.

 

Other passengers take surreptitious photos. I think about it, but my body won’t listen any more, it just wants to rest.

My brother has the Shrewsbury tickets. He picks me up. We head to the game. Don’t look at the seat numbers … I am heading for my season ticket seat. We can move if –if – it’s overcrowded.

Last season Shrewsbury brought a lot of fans. West Midland Police used a mobile fence to keep supporters apart after the game. Big, metal contraption. I had to tell them I needed to get to Shrewsbury in order to get through it.

This Saturday, two coaches maybe. We went there earlier in the season; good crisp game after an inadvertent guided tour, and won, reasonably easily (1-0).

Before the kick-off I am pleasantly surprised to see the young mascots of the teams kicking the ball to each other. So friendly and a welcome sight.

Kick off. I do not mean to be mean, but Shrewsbury do not look strong. We are passing all around them very confidently. Make no mistake we are good at passing – we just seem to find it difficult to pass the ball into the net often enough.

Then we do!

Craig Westcarr, who scored our two goals against Bradford had more than enough time, space and downright composure to trap the ball, feint a pass to an overlapping player, pivot and drive the ball into the net (OK, slight deflection) but it feels like the start of a big score. Five minutes gone.

Should know better, shouldn’t I?

Mainly doldrums-stuff for the rest of the first half. But we’re winning aren’t we, keeping possession, keeping, pretty please, a clean sheet and OK we’ve seen another Westcarr shot, a Sawyers header and a Taylor free-kick go close.

The Shrewsbury fans are not happy with the ref, though this can be sublimation and really they are not happy with their team. Rather dangerously the come out with the traditional

“You’re not fit to referee” song.

He tries hard to get things going in the second half: sending a Shrews player off for leaving his boot in when James Chambers tackled him. Not exactly raising his popularity with the away fans then.

A game of football between three kids: aged I would guess between four and seven catches my attention. In the home fans end behind the goal. Played with a piece of screwed up paper. The big one keeps getting the hump and picking the “ball” up … the younger players are better than he is and he doesn’t like it.

But Craig Westcarr is fouled. Seventy minutes or so gone. He goes down. Playing the “old soldier” and getting attention*. One of The Shrewsbury players says something that he doesn’t like. There’s a miracle recovery! He springs to his feet and he’s forehead to nose in an instant. None of us have ever seen him move so fast!

Ref has no option: straight red card!

Our top scorer banned for the next three games. Brilliant move “Westie”.

Ten v. ten and some meatier football until the whistle. We’ve won. We kept a clean sheet, but, driving home, discussing Mother’s day (Tomorrow) it feels as if we only drew.

Port vale away next week and there is still a chance my season ticket will get me into Championship matches next season.

A very slim chance I will grant you that.

• Apparently, I find out later the unpunished foul caused an injury that required seven stitches.

(Leyton) Orient … Home

22^nd March, 2014

Started off the day with a shopping trip. Sainsbury’s. To pick up a few things that will help me next week in Austria. I am going to take something I will call an “English Easter” to a school in Upper Austria. Long story behind it breaks down into my work in two previous European Union funded education projects and a lasting friendship with a teacher there. She became a head. Her sister works in another school and asked if I would do something similar at her school. There is something I find relaxing about the scenery and people there. Pace of life is steady; people take an interest in you and the children are keen to learn … and – at least – pretend to understand my rarely spoken German.

Now I am not famous for going back to places. Cromer and St Johann/St Peter and Walsall Football Club being the notable exceptions.

There is, of course, some trepidation in me. I will be travelling alone. A flight from Birmingham to Frankfurt and on to Linz. A small airport in Upper Austria about which the locals say staff know your name if you use the place twice. Don’t laugh, it may well be true. The arrangements are over. I have some Power Point presentations on a memory stick and I am ready to give it a go. “To keep your heart young and fit, “ it was said once on BBC Radio 4 you should do something each day that scares you. Maybe this will qualify. New school. Teachers I do not know (yet) and flying.

No replies to my texts asking if my brother would be going to the game today and while, coincidentally bumped-into-and-talking with another former European-schools project partner (mid-aisle, Sainsbury’s) Cully rings.

We arrange for him to pick me up and we’ll go get a beer. Then another call. My brother. Sorry, can’t go, but will get the tickets for next Saturday (home versus Shrewsbury).

Cully needs to borrow a coat, he’s driven across the sleet and hail storms on Cannock Chase and thinks he won’t be warm enough. No worries. He happily borrows my “avalanche coat” – the one with a transmitter that’s activated by (I am not quite sure, but) avalanches, being buried perhaps, so that tracking teams can find, can find, can find – well the coat obviously … hopefully with me inside it, warm, unbroken and laughing off the battering.

A pint at the Wheatsheaf, Great Wyrley: scene of many over-the-years pre and post-match beers. We talk about comics, football, how would you design a house from scratch (well – go on – how would you?), lighting fires, evolution, did I mention football ?

Good companionable talk and then climbing into the car and zipping to the game. The weather is so changeable: by the time we can see the field the skies are blue and the playing surface looks marvellously green: credit to the ground staff. A mutual friend, Gerry is there.

Leyton Orient. Where do clubs get their names from? Why Orient? Best guess is that it is in the East End of London. I know that the stadium is not so far from the enormous Olympic Park that was constructed on contaminate, completely undeveloped ground for the 2012 games. West Ham will be buying the rebuilt ground where the stadium is although there was some typically-bullish talk about Leyton Orient taking it on. In the end, and sensibly, they just couldn’t afford the financial commitment. Also intriguing is that, early on in the First World War over forty players and staff from the club joined a local regiment. There was – kind-of – farewell parade which followed the last game of the season (20,000 people attended the match).

As of twenty-first century now, they are well placed to be in the play-offs, might even sneak automatic promotion –and they are playing at Bescot today.

We kick off and it’s straight down to impressive business. Busy, probing. My eye is taken by Lalkovic and Brandy, but Sam Mantom is back from a three game suspension. We take the upper hand quickly. Sawyers looking relaxed, Westcarr, as usual at the moment, seems a little off the pace. We mount attack after attack and, as is often the case we are wondering aloud how they can be in such a good table-topping position … and we are not! I guess every supporter of every team knows this feeling.

We are kicking towards our own fans, full back Andy Taylor getting forward often and effectively. We’re overloading their right back, pushing up. Passing well, finding players. Neat, tidy. More shots than usual … Lalkovic, Brandy, Sawyers and our earlier talk in the pub about being “found-out” as a one-strategy team seems like wasted words. The Orient defence are under pressure. The ball screws in to the middle from a corner. It seems like slow motion: the ball spinning slowly almost still on the spot and everyone, everyone just gawping at it. Then Paul Downing is there and batters it into the net! Time catches up with itself and we are on our feet, cheering, predicting three – nil wins and composing imaginary text messages to those who are not here.

Inside for a beer at half time, still the persistence to look at season tickets continues. The stewards I am sure are only doing what they are supposed to do, but I cannot understand it.

 

Back out for the second half and, somewhere below us pitch-side there is a small drama as a spectator seems to collapse. I was watching the game, so do not know whether he tripped on the stairs or had a seizure or similar in his seat. The medical team and stewards are there very quickly and he is escorted in to the lounge area. I hope he was and is all right. Well done to the stewards and staff.

But Orient are a different proposition in the second half. Their manager, Paul Slade has said something to them in the dressing room that has wound them up and they tear into us. Once again we lack the penetration – Brandy excepted – to break away and make it count.

And under the pressure a low-danger going nowhere shot is deflected off Paul Downing into the Walsall net past Richard O’Donnell who is diving the wrong way (to cover the original shot)!

Furious energy from both teams then, seeking the winner, but a draw it is at the end. Unsatisfactory in the scheme of things for both teams – moreso for us I fear.

We are playing at Bradford on Tuesday night. I will be ensconced in Austria, hoping to get a text that says we are back on the victory trail again, but certainly not missing the match.

Shrewsbury at home ?

Now there’s a prospect!