Not With A Bang – Colchester (home)

Not with  a bang but with a whimper; now where have I heard that before? And heard it so many times about a range of different things. Shakespeare maybe, some anti-hero in a nuvclear holocaust film/

It’s no good I have to Google it (other search engines are of course available) and it turns out it’s the end of a poem by T.S. Eliot. And it is so, so,  so astonishingly appropriate to the game today. So, actually is the beginning of the poem (reproduced later).

However – to begin at the beginning (well earlier, at any rate). We successfully and efficiently moved  our daughter’s furniture yesterday. I tell you having a horse box really helps: it can carry a heavy load and the wide side ramp for up and offloading is worth an extra pair of hands (although those would not have gone amiss).

So a good night’s sleep, some grass cutting  this morning then a quick sandwich and off to the Premier Inn, Walsall. I had arranged to take a friend of ours, a visiting teacher from Sicily, two of her colleagues and four pupils from the school in Bagheria to the game this afternoon. My thanks to the box-office staff for helping with the arrangements and to the commercial manager, Karen Donohue for the super welcome – and to Swifty for – well, for being Swifty (that’s always enough!).

But it depended on time-keeping. My brother had to be there on time, to help with transport (an Alfa Romeo, no less) and the school party had to be there (they were out on Cannock Chase this morning on group activities) and I was hoping they would be back in time.

It didn’t help that I ran out of credit on my pay-as-you-go mobile phone. But I got a phone call from Maria. They were on the bus heading back from Cannock Chase. Didn’t sound, at the time, very hopeful. But within five minutes the minibuses were coming round the island and into the car-park. I spoke to a lady – she is not my friend, but I recognise her from Facebook – and to my new Turkish friends. These international projects are so good at getting ordinary people (and children) to meet each other face to face. How very valuable!

One of the minibus drivers came over> seems he went to school with our youngest daughter. Said he recognised me – hey! Did I really look this old when our kids were at school? We chatted. I also met the English teacher who is coordinating the project and congratulated her on the whole thing. It is, I know, no small matter to organise such events.

My brother arrived. Into the cars and to the ground. Collected the tickets. Didn’t think I had time to pick up the free tickets, which as a season ticket holder I am entitled to for the up and coming UEFA under-19 internationals. Into the ground.  A big crowd from Colchester. A long way to travel for the last, largely insignificant game of the season so all credit to ‘em. The children seemed fine – and quite excited to be sitting on the pitch side wall, watching the pre match training. I kept my eye out for Karen. Spotted her and we exchanged a few words. I have met her before, but not been introduced and she was perfect. Adaptable, intelligent and able to think on her feet. I had asked if the club might find some kind of “goody bag” for each of the children – and she came up trumps! Sponsor’s “stress-balls”, piggy banks and a pack of playing cards all in a “Saddlers carrier bag”.

(This is a good time to separate out the two aspects of Walsall. The commercial side which today worked so well. A request – out of the blue – responded to in such a positive fashion. These children will go back to Sicily with such good impressions of the club – and, because they are so young, of the game. The playing side –  today a different story.)

Swifty came across. He posed for, and with the youngsters. Good work Swifty. The most action we saw all game. The party were delighted.

Not a good view from where we were sitting: upright girders in the way. But no great loss today. Dean Smith was playing a side with no loan players in it. Not sure why. The players we have not seen recently were lacking in match practice and team understanding. The players we wanted to see would have added some flair and class. Which goes to show what good signings they were – and how much we needed them. Close season to work on that one needed.

I did say to Maria (the teacher/friend) that everyone in the crowd finds it so hard to understand: every one of us could do so much better than those wearing the shirts, shorts and boots. How come they are not sitting in the seats watching while we show them how it should be done.

“It is the job of the coach, “ she reminded me.

I had to tell her that we all thought we could do his job better too.

We smiled at that.

The team just never got going. Simple as.

OK so it is the last game of the season, but I was hoping for a bit of fire, a bit of pride. To send us all home happy and looking forward to next season. Instead a lacklustre performance. Even by recent standards. Maybe this was one game too many.

Either way Colchester won one – nil. The goal, something of a freak when James Chambers clearance rebounded into the net off Craig Eastmond. Their fans at least were happy.

Towards the end the almost-inevitably too-formal request for fans to keep off the pitch when the game ended. The players would leave the arena, then return to show their appreciation for our support. Also inevitably, given the performance the shout from the fan in the stand

“What? Think anybody’s going to left here do you?”

And: “If it means we don’t have to see this lot again, let’s get on the pitch now.”

All very droll of course.

But the early “pitch-invasion (if two drunken yobs can actually invade anything) was roundly boo-ed and properly so.

We left and very quickly before the final whistle, got on the road and back to the hotel, staying for a drink with our guests. They can go home and tell their friends they have been to an English football game, showing their souvenirs and photos taken with our mascot, genuinely touched by the real community nature of our little club – if not the skills shown on the field of play  today.

The beginning of that T.S. Eliot poem?

I

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw.

Alas! Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion.

 

 

image: bescotbanter

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.