“That’s Quite a First Forty Five Minutes …”*

 

11^th August.

Upstairs room: home.

My brother is elsewhere, my usual partners in crime in the south west of England or beyond contact: so- a day on the allotment and listening to the radio (BBC WM commentary on Bristol Rovers v Birmingham City Capital One Cup game) with highlights from the Saddlers at Nottingham Forest and Wolves v Newport County games.

Highlights?

Three changes from the team that drew against Oldham in the season’s first game: Lalkovic in the team, Rico henry in the back three and Kieron Morris playing (Romaine sawyers, Andy Taylor and Jordan Cook stepping aside as it were).

Forest are one of the fancied-for-promotion sides in the Championship, but after eleven minutes Bradshaw has put us in front. Great news and before I can take it in he’s only gone and done it again. two nil up; fourteen minutes gone. Who would have thought it? By half time Forest are putting the pressure on; pulling a goal back. But it’s still sounding good!

Sunday’s tour of Buckingham palace was outstanding; side stepping massive queues and leisurely following and audio tour through geography, society and history. So many marvellous impressions of a brilliantly put together stroll through intense changes and modern royalty. I am impressed!

The journey back is through Chelsea (where is Chelsea Football Club?) past Lord’s cricket ground and a glimpse of Brentford’s football ground and the ridiculous pomp of that Wembley Arch – sorry, still can’t see the point of that.

Meanwhile, after the half time chattering with pundits and esteemed guests (mick Kearns always so refreshingly honest about Walsall, even denigrating players and performances at times. Not this time: he’s surprised, proud and, dammit downright impressed. Me too – even at this distance. The commentary game goes on, sounding frankly boring and I get the impression (perhaps a.k.a. bias) that the producers wished they’d plumped for the game at Notts Forest.

Chambers, usually solid and professional is injured, tries to carry on but has to be substituted. Romaine sawyers coming on in his place. This is definitely not a like-for-like substitution: we don’t have anybody like Chambers!

But – and I’ve seen the video Sawyers is starting the season on fire. An eye opener for me! He is ready to take a pop whenever the chance presents itself. Bradshaw fluffs a shot, the ball drops – a long way – for Sawyers and it’s in the net!

I’m sitting here, big smile on my face. And it gets bigger as time passes, passes, passes. Then, whoops Forest have made a substitution and the sub scores. Surely that’ll be it. The game is nearly finished. But – ouch with a capital Oh! That self-same sub scores an equaliser – and we’re bound to be heading for extra time. (it’s a very classy goal actually, spontaneously taken back heel: confident and cheeky … why is this guy only the substitute?)

But as I am beginning to think that BBC will switch to the Forest game for the inevitable extra time:

“there’s a moment of pure drama here. Walsall have been given a penalty … Tom Bradshaw to take it …”

His first ever professional hat trick. Scored the winner in the final seconds of time-added-on.

A stunning result!

I decide there and then to light up the fire-pit outside, sit and watch the sky for the Perseid meteor shower. Pleased and proud. That result shows spirit and attitude. It may not last for long, but I am pleased to be a Saddlers fan at this moment … and I haven’t been to a match yet!

• quote from BBC reporter at half time – and it wasn’t nearly over by then!

Lapsed Already …

Saturday! 8^th August!

Hampton by Hilton Hotel, Luton.

Really it seemed like such a good idea at the time: a tour of the Houses of Parliament (eight hundred years after King John “Lackland” signed the Magna Carta that, arguably, started this whole democracy thing going here). It seemed like a bargain when we actually booked it: tour of said Houses, overnight in a hotel, breakfast and evening meal thrown in –and coach from Walsall bus station (moreorless) …

But then it cruelly transpires that it’s the first day of the football season. Worse saddlers are at home for that first game … and it seems eminently winnable (as per usual of course): unsettled Oldham Athletic. The local papers have been full of “this-is-the-season” talk, of Dean Smith or one of the “talking head” players coming out with how ell pre-season training has gone and the new signings (three, count ‘em; three) will bring great benefits to the inevitable promotion push. Sorry, I am a staunch supporter: loyal beyond the call …

… and anyway, sticking doggedly to the decision to see the Homes of Democracy, Constitution and Majesty, resign myself to missing an opening victory.

So many coach tours leaving from Walsall: to the O2, to London shows, to this place or that; and so many passengers waiting. It made me positively cheerful on a warm morning. We waited in the Victoria gardens adjacent to the impressive Houses of parliament and while we were snacking on our packed lunch observed, right next to us the result of thievery: some poor woman becoming hysterical because she had felt a bump, just after she had bought a guide book, thought nothing of it but now her purse (£120 pounds sterling and credit cards have disappeared). Eventually after standing and ignoring the extremely upset woman two policemen were encouraged by a French tourist to “help her” (she had refused our offers of help).

 

The crowds and babel of chatter seemed so much more threatening after that and I was glad to get into the building. But the audio tour, though informative failed to inspire. This is the real home of Western democracy; though we may get the word from Ancient Greece what we have here is very different in its breadth and inclusion. The Magna Carta forced the monarchy to recognise and grant certain rights to the already powerful en of the times, but successively more and more of the people have been given rights. Though exactly how Cromwell’s Commonwealth failed to finish off the crown is beyond me. The geography of the place is easier in my mind now, the rooms somewhat familiar from TV views are small, if not cramped and undoubtedly full of gravitas. I cannot help thinking however that the performance of MPs in debates appears like a poorly managed classroom: loud and lacking in intelligence.

But the magnificent history of the institution is lacking and the commentary is spoken without passion and pride.

We leave via the cramped café and necessary liquid refreshment and end up in Dean’s Court: a quiet oasis behind Westminster cathedral. Dean’s Court reminding me of dean’s Court Road, one time home ground of Premiership new boys: Bournemouth who, in 2008 were hopelessly deep in financial problems – and toady, with backing from the obligatory money-bagged Russian are playing against the big dogs of the Premier League. Proving that dreams can become reality (though money helps the process) … and, of course everything is to be won or lost.

At nine, after a poor meal (poor choice, no service and health and safety colder than permissible (at an intelligent guess) I am back in the room to watch Channel 5’s Football league Show: the first ever. Promising to show highlights of every football league game so Walsall will be on there somewhere. I remember predicting a 4 – 1 win and I still, as the programme “kicks off” have not heard the score line. There is some comedy; in one game a courteous back pass to the goalkeeper goes unexpectedly into the net, so the hmmm offending team literally let the opposition walk the ball into their own net as recompense. Wolves win away from home with gaol from a diving header that the striker actually cannot reach so propels into the net with his hand: blatantly. The look of embarrassed surprise on his face when the goal is given is priceless. What should he do at this point? Tell the referee that he handled the ball?

But the Walsall game has few sparse seconds. Sawyers scores after eight minutes, then close to the end Oldham equalise. Next please …

Shame I could have spent longer in the bland (diplomat speak for boring) dining room/bar wondering what the 3-D displays in the glass cases were. Hatboxes of course. Luton … Luton Town: the Hatters. Luton was famous for the hat making industry before Vauxhall Motors took over the town. And the hotel stands on land – next to the railway – that once was covered with popular cars and white vans on their way to successful markets all over Europe. But that was then and this is now and some visionaries have designs on the land again.

 

Ironically I also notice that the location of the football ground is only just squeezed into the corner of the free hotel courtesy map and I wonder whether Walsall hotels have maps that show the location of Bescot. I certainly hope so: not being “on the map” is surely one of the ways to obscurity.

Buckingham Palace tomorrow; if I can get some sleep.

Fixtures ?

June 12th

St Johann im Wimberg, Upper Austria

Really it’s not complicated: just takes a lot of words to explain. That’s all. I’m staying in an apartment in a house, arranged by a friend in rural Upper Austria. The apartment –and the house – belong to a lady and I’m drinking a coffee with her – in the sunlit garden – while her son plays (a kind of football, but not) on the sloping grass when the “text message received” beeps disturb the peace. As ever my ‘phone is buried deep within my rucksack. Somewhere.

She’s been brilliant, my “landlady”. She says she’s not tired … but I suspect that is just the adrenaline that comes with the un-noticed excitement of looking after a “foreign” guest. When I have gone that’ll drain quickly, leaving a wtf couple of days. She is polite too:

“You should answer it …” she suggests.

I do.

It is a text from my mother:

“… thought you might like to know Walsall are away to Notts Forest first league cup match …”

I have had the use of the internet here (my generous host again), been watching films (Rock Hudson in Seconds for example), rock videos (not sure Toby Keith counts, but some of his too; I love his tongue-in-cheek style) ad checking the official Walsall web-site. Until now (in fact even now) there are no fixtures for next season listed. No  fixture list. And certainly nothing about transfers, new players …

So, how does my mother ..?

In the middle of all of this I’m trying to drink coffee remember, eat cake and manage some degree of fluency in German. As if being a Saddlers supporter isn’t complicated enough.

So … somewhere the fixtures are out I guess. And I feel that excitement: there will soon be anew season, we are still in every competition (every real fan will know how this feels I imagine) so there is – literally – everything to play for. Soon I will know when. And where.

But, hmmm.

The first game of the season? I start to get a little flustered: what date? Exactly?

Because, taking a gamble we are booked on a weekend in London (visiting the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace) … hopefully before the season proper begins. Or at least we could be playing our game that weekend away: hopefully somewhere too far away to be travellable (my spellchecker is going to kill me if I don’t stop inventing words!)

Boxing day? At home? Burton Albion? Away?

Sorry, what was that? Would I like more cake?

Warum nicht? Why not?

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.