That Is The Question … Bradford Away

Bradford is a place of many memories for me.

Our good friend and fellow Saddlers supporter, Stuart (a.k.a. “Snowy”) was at university there. At a conference up there Saddlers Widow and I saw our first I-Max film, the documentary “Yellowstone” (I had done some background work relating to it) that inspired us to actually travel to the States for the first, but definitely not the last, time. We were once on a Walsall coach trip there for a game – back in the days of prevalent football hooliganism – and escorted this bitterly cold December (possibly November) evening to a safe parking spot outside the police station, then walked by police to the then-very-different ground.

After the game we got back to the coaches to find that one had had bricks thrown through the front window. It was completely smashed. The attitude of the local police was of complete disinterest. So the driver stoically knocked out the rest of the glass and we set off for Walsall. Our coach driving just ahead in some probably highly irrelevant attempt to part the air. So we ripped letters from the ubiquitous newspapers and held them to the back window

“Ice Cold Drinks Available” being the one example that’s ticks in our minds. How we laughed as we watched the huddled up passengers.

Then, more poignantly Cully and I were there for a Saturday game. 1985. Nothing unusual, sitting in the wooden benches, walking on the wooden planked floors of the terraces, or visiting the toilets beneath the seats. Bits and pieces dropped by spectators would drop through the holes in the tiered flooring and collect on this ground. On this day I particularly remember discussing with Cully just how much junk there was: newspaper, tickets, crisp packets, chip wrappers, cardboard cups. All just left. How casually we wondered what it would be like if a cigarette end were dropped down, ignited the … Because these were the 1980s. Smoking was known as unhealthy, but remained fashionable and there was no ban on smoking in public places as there is now.

Then, inevitably I guess, we moved on to discuss more important matters (beer, women, films, concerts). And, just a few weeks later I got home from a home match to find my wife worried by reports and film on the TV of a fire in a stand at a (then) third division ground. She thought maybe it was Walsall (all grounds – when did we start calling them stadiums? – looking pretty much the same in those 1980s days. It was Bradford. Fifty six people died in the fire, which spread and destroyed the whole stand in less than ten minutes. A real pity.  People who had gone to see football, indeed to celebrate Bradford’s promotion season.

That was 1985, football grounds are such different places to be now, although Valley Parade is in its traditional setting, largely re-built but still surrounded by houses. Rather than the current trend to put grounds in out of town shopping centres (Reading is a super example of this). And there is something of the familiar and reminiscent about this. But the ground is improved, better safety standards we would hope. Although, once inside the toilets leave something to be desired.

We recall these things as we drive up the M1. Dismiss talk of promotion via the play-offs. Why talk about it, we can still be promoted automatically. Cross the bridges when we get to ‘em we sagely decide.

Bradford looks bleak. Once a town of thriving woollen mills some of the tall characteristic chimneys remain. The street we park in is cobbled: big proper cobbles too. It is a cul-de-sac and at the end of it, is the Job Centre. Appropriate? Back on the corner with the Main Street is the Bradford Arms. This is the pub nominated for away fans by the police, apparently. We go in for a beer. It is decently old fashioned. Small? Tiny, rather.  But I get the beers in (Tetley’s Bitter, a Carling and a Coors Light) and we sit under the big screen. The Derby Sheffield Wednesday game is on. But no commentary. Instead piped music blares out of the speakers set on the coach backs in the corner. Including a lengthy version of Purple Rain by Prince, American singer/musician who died this week. Sad indeed.

But the music has no real depth or tone; it is tinny and loud.

Until that is a whole shed load of Walsall fans enter. Unceremoniously as is normal. And start some serious drinking and er … what might be described as singing. But seriously good natured. The songs are non-stop, some old favourites (Alan Buckley gets a name call, as does Ray Graydon – and even the I.R.A). Then, patriotically there are renditions of Rule Britannia, God save the Queen (whose 90^th birthday was celebrated roundly last week) and a version of Happy Birthday …

One of the participants was costumed as a Crusader-version of St George. So I can now say I have had a beer with the patron saint of my own country.

And, so down the streets to an almost-hidden Valley parade, clinging on to the side of what is indeed a steep valley; so that when you are on the level of away supporters entry gates the town towers above you. Into the ground. It is tight at this end. A lower egg box section, staggered stairs to a better-view floor. Where we settle, right at the front.  Bars set at eye-level, meant to keep us safe. However a serious piece of angle iron, about eight feet long is completely loose. If dislodged could fall on to the seats below and … Recalling the what-if discussions in 1985 I report this to one of the stewards. Will she actually pass the message on? Honestly? I would love to say yes, but that wasn’t the impression I got.

The team are warming up. Tom Bradshaw not starting again. Rico Henry as winger, Taylor as left back. Matt Pennington has been recalled by Everton (playing man United in an F.A. Cup semi final today) so James O’Connor back at centre half.

There is very little to say about the actual play. We were poor, bossed out of it. Simple as …

Lucky to get in at nil nil after a fraught forty five minutes. Sure somebody would get it right in the half time talk, sure our fitness would get us through.

But no, no and no.

One nil down, then very quickly two. By the end big old-style, bustling centre forward James Hanson has a hat-trick and Bradford are four nil to the good. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly Burton have beaten Colchester three nil. So behind now on both points and goal difference.

We are downcast. Jon Witney is stirring in his after-match comments. How appropriate on Shakespeare’s birth and death day.

“It was not good enough,” said Whitney afterwards. “I am not going to stand here and insult the fans’ intelligence. “I have asked the players to have a look at themselves. I’m not going to stand there and lose my head like the old Jon would have done years back. “I want to look at it logically. I want the players to go home and ask themselves, did you really, really do enough to challenge Bradford? “Did you do enough to want to get promoted to the Championship? Were you willing to put your head on the line because sometimes that is what you have to do in football. “It’s not always about playing pretty football. We have to match them physically and we didn’t do it second half and then we lose heavily.

Now we wait – the short wait – until Tuesday’s home game against Shrewsbury. We hope the words stir something up! We need to see a stunning performance. The team need to come back from a “reet spanking”! by a strong Bradford team.

We discuss, as fans will, changes we would make to the line-up. But realise the manager has an unenviable job … but wouldn’t we each like to be giving it a go?

Whether Witney will be manager long term is a matter for the board, who have been supportive this season. If so, inevitably he will be on a steep learning curve. With players almost or already out of contract, who will be playing for us at the start of the next campaign. And, in the Championship?

Back at home: there is a fantastically varied programme on BBC 2 with snippets of Shakespeare interspersed with details of his life. So many famous actors and up and coming ones too. Dealt with seriously with moments of comedy and music. Wonderful to see even royalty getting involved: our very own Prince Charles in a Hamlet sketch.

“To be or not to be …”  where oh where to put the emphasis? (This should be the question the coaching team at Walsall are setting their minds to.

As I tap this out, TV is showing the London Marathon. Somewhere out in space Tim Peak, strapped to a treadmill is doing his own marathon.

Nineteen … and Twenty! Oldham at home.

Funny how your mind works. Standing on the raised decking at Landywood Railway Station (en route for London) I notice the little unmanaged patches of “benign wilderness beside and alongside the track and platforms. But also the rubbish that accrues there, dropped mainly by passengers and “swept” by the wind into neat little piles. It reminds me (as I watch a pair of courting goldfinches) of a time when Cully and I were at an away match, and he pointed out similar, but larger, stacks of chip papers, crisp packets, old tickets and posters underneath the seating areas. A time, coincidentally when football grandstands and seating were largely of wooden construction – and painted. He said something about a fire risk and we went on watching the game.

This weekend is actually the thirtieth anniversary (if that is an appropriate word to use) of the Bradford Fire Disaster (when that same stadium did actually catch fire, fencing and unmanned, locked exit gates prevented safe exit for the fans and fifty six lives were lost.

But we’re on the train, passing what is now Morrison’s supermarket but was once Fellows Park: former home ground of Walsall. Past Bescot Stadium. Change at New Street and into reserved seats for the comfortable ride to the capital.

Oyster cards and tube to Gloucester Road to meet, for the first time in a long time, Cornelia.

After a coffee  we decide to walk the sights, eventually reaching (via a wandering snail route that took in Harrods’, Knightsbridge, Green Park, the Wellington Arch,  Downing Street (massive security in evidence there), the Cenotaph, St James’ park (the BIrdkeeper’s Cottage traditional garden and pelicans), Buckingham Palace,  Horse Guard’s Parade, Westminster Hall, the Houses of Parliament, that impressive statue of Boudicca and the Thames Embankment).

 

Too soon we are struggling with rush hour commuters on the busy, impersonal underground again and bidding Cornelia a fond farewell. We make our connections all the way back to Landywood, sharing this train with what I guess is a typical Friday night mixture of types.

Saturday morning and I turn on the TV and there on the screen are the places we walked around yesterday: the Cenotaph. The Queen is laying a wreath and there are processions of soldiers and veterans commemorating the Gallipoli campaign of the First World War. The campaign which ended the dominance in that area of the Ottoman (Turkish) Empire and, arguably set up the Middle East in almost its current form (Israel/Palestine being the notable exception). So that’s what all of the cameras were setting up for: that and Sunday’s London Marathon.

Saturday morning: our last home game of the season (and only Bristol City away to go) for the first team. For this fixture last year another teacher and her “team” are coming to the game (see https://saddlersfan.wordpress.com/2014/05/04/not-with-a-bang-colchester-home/) but today is today: Oldham, managed by Dean Holden who earlier this season was one of our player coaches are the visitors.

It is warmer than predicted and we are having showers, but I get parked up and make that familiar walk. Cully and Andy are already seated and the scout from Wigan is back. May be a bit worrying. We have decent players who are soon to be out of contract (Tom Bradshaw, Richard O’Donnell and Kieron Morris).  Wigan might just manage to hang on in the Championship, they have Wolves at home today.

By the looks of it, this is Oldham’s last away game: that tradition of “fancy-dress-for-the-last-away game” has pirates, Where’s Wally characters, clowns, Bedouins and ghosts in the away stand. Credit to these supporters: sticking by their team to the end. Faith doesn’t come into it sometimes, you just grit your teeth and get on the bus!

Before kick-off (and this is happening at all League and Premiership games this weekend, there is a respectful minutes silence in memory of those killed in the Bradford Fire. Nobody expects to go into a football ground and not get home. Oldham fans properly join in – as they should.

But their team lack ideas, while we have seemed like a different team recently. We are far more positive, playing into and keeping the ball in the attacking end of the field. A new system?  Certainly Kieron Morris has made a difference.

O’Donnell is on the bench today, reserve keeper Craig McGillivray getting a well-deserved debut.

We look purposeful. Bradshaw who has publicly revised his goals-for-the-season tally to twenty, is on the prowl. He has bulked up and retains pace and is skilful when he has the ball. But we are not pumping long balls up for him to chase. We place passes, long and short, make ground steadily. Hiwula and Morris playing well, linking up well. At left back we are playing Mal Benning. He’s fast, and always looking to go forward, but can be quite manic at times.

After eighteen minutes we break out of defence, good understanding in midfield, ball out to Hiwula and a long, confident ball into the path of Super Tom, who, clinically measures the gentle pass into the net. His nineteenth goal!

“Pay no attention to him, “ I tell the scout, wishing I had Jedi powers, “he’s just been lucky nineteen times!”

Still on the attack (Oldham are doing little to prevent it) Benning zooms forward, exchanges neat passes with Bradshaw and is tackled in the box. Looks fairly innocuous but, surprise, surprise the referee points at the spot. Penalty? We confer, deciding that this is the first penalty we have had at Bescot this season.

Bradshaw has the ball in his hands before the whistle has dropped form the ref’s lips. He’s after that twentieth!

Short run up: goal. This is Tom Bradshaw, was there ever a question?

He is subbed in the second half and we control the game, seeing out the time.

At the final whistle fans ignore the P.A. request to stay off the grass … but I am heading for the car.

Sunday morning: a gentle lie in and watching the superb BBC coverage of the London Marathon. Every participant is  a hero, running for charities and causes and there is Jane Sutton, mother of local teenage hero (in every sense of the word) Stephen Sutton (see https://saddlersfan.wordpress.com/2014/06/15/youre-only-supposed-to-blow-the-bly-doors-off/).  Like her son a resourceful and inspiring role model. Mentally I wish her luck. Blind Dave Heeley, from the Black Country, not content with running the gruelling Marathon des Sables in the Sahara Desert is also in the 38,000 runners somewhere.

The wheelchair racers likewise are inspirational, but credit to all the runners, whatever their times, whether or not they complete the course and whatever wacky get-ups they choose to carry on their frames.