Just the Ticket? Port vale Away.

Back in 1971, a friend and I stared at some strapping, side-burned man in a too-tight jacket having his photo taken on the pitch at Fellows park (Walsall’s previous home ground). He was physically impressive and had an air of real thuggish menace about him.

“He’s havin’ his photo taken,” my mate explained, “’cos he’s been banned from the ground and all the entrances need to know what he looks like …”

That massive hulking figure was none other than Bernie “the Bolt” Wright. A giant, uncompromising old-fashioned centre forward who terrorised defences with his ask-no-mercy, expect-no-mercy brand of play. He moved on to Everton, was involved in a very unsavoury incident there when he floored a coach but left a mark as he created an impression on the Everton fans, who, Wikipedia has it, remember him for using his head to accidentally break the toe of Sheffield Utd defender Eddie Colquhon during an attempted diving header.

He came back to Saddlers, played with us for a further four years and ended his league career at Port Vale. This weekend’s last-scheduled game of the season.

Travelling to away games, concerts or work back in those days we imbued him with supernatural powers – if there was thunder we’d say it was Bernie’s temper. Either that or Keith Moon playing Heaven’s drums.

Saturday and I’m driving back from my mother’s. She wasn’t in and it was unseasonably hot. I was thinking of getting out the fire-pit and sitting outside later in the evening with a beer. But the sky grew dark – and memories of associating thunder with Bernie came flooding back.

Here was a behemoth who plied his trade at both grounds. Was the long lasting thunder – and seriously heavy downpour some kind of omen? For whom?

I’d reminded my brother that I had the tickets for the Vale game … and that it was a 12.30 kick off. Arranged to get him at ten o’clockish. A steady drive I’m thinking; I can find the Vale ground with my eyes closed (actually incorrect and rather risky). But then – help – I could only find one ticket for the match – an all-ticket occasion, local derby!

Then it dawned on me – he had bought the tickets and kept his own. Panic over – at least for the moment.

Saddlers Widow had baked some lemon meringue pies – courtesy of passing through Bakewell on the route home from Sheffield United – https://saddlersfan.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/sheffield-united-away – for each and every one of us (that’ll be seven then).

The M6 is apparently closed so we slip along the A34, miss the Longton turning and end up going the long way round via the A500. Stuck in traffic, there will be three thousand three hundred Walsall fans on the roads, rails and pavements. We dodge in and out of the rabbit warren side streets and end up with a near perfect spot on top of the hill. Long, warm walk down the Hamil Road, carrying the pies in a carrier bag. Half way down, compulsively checking I realize that I no longer have my ticket.

Rude words!

I send my brother onwards and go and check the car. Phew! There it is, down the side of the hand-brake! The rest of the “team” are inside, the pavements are crowded, flashing lights, police motor bikes, searched before we go in: fortunately there is no problem with the bag of desserts; though we have to take off our hats and have them rousted.

Once inside we have to queue to get through to a wonderfully crowded away end. Behind the goals. Seats are scarce but Cully has some saved for us: good spot. Quick nods and we stand and watch. It is noisy: the Saddlers fans are giving it the twelfth man business!

 

We know what we have to do; win by two clear goals at a team with one of the best home records this season … and a mean defence too. Then we depend on Doncaster beating Burton Albion, who start the day three points ahead of us.

There is tremendous energy about those pre-kick off moments: the pitch, the skies hot and clear. Just around the corner from “our end” are the Port Vale “choir”; strange that the two opposing fans are so close together: this is not normal … but, seriously? The Walsall fans are there to support their team, egg ‘em on, drive the team on. And the songs and encouragement is spinal Tap eleven. There are beach balls, inflatable crocodiles, killer whales, balloons, and bananas bobbling about. People in fancy dress. Big smiles, handshakes, and a will to win!

…oh and a killer Lemmy track to get the blood stirred up (Lemmy Kilminster born in Stoke on Trent: citizen of rock and roll excesses, bless ‘im).

We kick off defending “our “ end. Because that is the second part of the job: don’t concede goals!

Oh and did I mention we had to win by two goals?

Former Walsall full back ben Purkiss is pushing up forwards. He’s against the flying-all-season Rico henry, so is, we guess trying to deny him room to run. God luck with that then. Lalkovic is really fired up, he is so passionate and inclined to get carried away, but is a good ball carrier – and unpredictable. Perhaps we need that today?

Non-stop noise – and people all around with smart phones to get the news from Doncaster.

Vale are a physical team, bit rough in some of the challenges. We have the players to go toe-to-toe with this, but, when one of our runners is fouled we all want a free kick. The referee waves play on. We have the ball, the advantage – and Downing is running in to put the ball. Into. The. Net.

The away end, crammed and crowded goes bouncing crazy. One nil up? So early! Wonderful. Just what the doctor ordered! And Downing? Pushing up so far forwards?

Well, don’t knock it, if it works.

Soon we are pushing up again. Using the wings – and Forde is a revelation – again. Chambers using his energy and experience. Everybody standing up – off the pitch as well as on it. Another sweeping attack and the ball is in the net again. Tom Bradshaw has got his twentieth goal of the season! Tanking through in a way that Bernie Wright would have recognised.

That’s the two goals then! What’s next?

Because if, just if, Doncaster could get that one simple, single goal, this could be a real party!

Just more and more pressure from a team that is in full flow, showing togetherness, skill and determination. A great final game of the season, now if Doncaster could just …

We have the ball in the Vale net again; this time it is Forde. Three goals! I am sure everybody is thinking this – or maybe just me – this is truly miraculous; it means we can give a goal away – as we often do – and still have the necessary two goals in the bag.

Half time. I slump into the seat. All that standing up! I need a rest. What a remarkable turn around since that day up at Bradford: real character from Whitney and the team. Respect. Still nil-nil oop north. But at least Burton aren’t winning – and anything can happen – so quickly in a game of football.

At half time there is a procession of teams around the ground. I guess these are the Port Vale under elevens, under thirteens and so on. It would swell the gate to have their parents here. And, credit to the Walsall fans: we give them a round of applause as they pass by. A cynical part of my brain, meanwhile is thinking: good commercial move, the team has nothing to play for, so get a few more bums on seats by parading the teams and their parents, friends et cetera make up the numbers. Like I said, the cynical side …

In fact, lemon meringue pies consumed and approved, we are on our feet again, the second half has kicked off and some guy in front of us looks up from his phone and announces that Doncaster have scored. Well, it seems they had the ball in the net – but the ref disallowed it.

 

Port Vale at this point seem to be rather going through the motions. They were canny enough in the first half but they have little to play for, probably didn’t bother with full training this week and may be off to catch planes to holiday destinations before the sun sets over the Potteries canal bridges.

 

And we go four nil up. Sloppy clearance lands for Antony Forde, who races forwards, skillful ball control and belts it into the net.

Just. Need. That. Goal. Atdoncaster!  There are substitutions: Sam Mantom comes on. He hasn’t been on long when the ball drops for him and he rifles it straight into the net.

This is amazing stuff.

Come on Doncaster!

But we get to hear that Doncaster are down to ten men. Not sure if somebody has been sent off – but they have used all their subs. Maybe Burton’ll score an own goal?

Then, strangely Doncaster are down to nine men. Nigel Clough’s bully boy tactics? Intimidate the opposition? Whatever it is, it is working for them

We are five nil up – but points behind.

Still, this has been an exhilarating season – and it doesn’t finish at the final whistle.

Automatic promotion? No. But the play offs are now next for us now. We play Barnsley away next Saturday, then at home the following Thursday.

Port Vale generously allow the Walsall team and management to come over and celebrate the last game of the league season (play offs are a separate entity). While this is happening, most of the home fans join in the applause, but a few spoil it with rude behaviour. Including one “hero” who, probably drunk and a bit, launches himself over the wall, tries to barge through the police lines and ends up, red-faced and restrained by the boys (and girls)in blue. Good job!

We squeeze out and travel along gently friendly roads. Still a chance of getting up then.

There is no point at all, though it is doubtless being done on coaches, paths and in cars, wondering where we could have nabbed those extra few points (for me, ironically the game at Burton) that would have us promoted already.

It is enough on this bright, warm day to have seen such a display: dominant, aggressive, skillful and entertaining.

Credit to Burton Albion: promotion wasn’t won by a single game, but by a gradual aggregation of points, goals, knock-backs and hard work. A small club, with a tiny budget, doing well through dogged determination and pride, against the odds. Respect is earned; you have mine.

But super credit to our players, to all of those who have worked in the back-rooms, pits and engine-rooms; to those I have been on the road with – and …

…we are still in it: still shouting, still up for it.

Dare to believe, indeed!

Ice Cold in Donny: Doncaster Away.

I’m driving over to Rugeley: rendezvous point for our trip to Tuesday’s Doncaster League One game. It’s light and skies are blue and cheerful. The latter possibly, probably even, brought on by the fact that I have had a fine day at work – and that my football team are doing extremely well … and that we kept the team – mostly together – during the transfer window of January. Mostly? Well James Baxendale has moved on to League Two Mansfield after a successful short spell on loan there.

I can remember his grandmother being extremely pleased when he was offered a contract by Dean Smith, she felt he would come on, be looked after and prosper. Unfortunately these things don’t always go as we see them. He was overshadowed by other players brought in and spent some time in the reserves; never quite reaching that breakthrough point. I wish him well at Mansfield Town (it’s not like we have to play them this season is it?

That game at Reading is water well gone under the bridges now: it was good to be there … and The Royals were definitely the better team. Everybody is going to meet a team that’ll set ‘em back on their bums once in a while. Happily this game did not affect our promotion prospects … and on the way north to Doncaster we tell each other exactly these things.

We also talk about the sperm whales that have stranded themselves (or become beached) on the East Coast of England, the outbreak of another mosquito-borne virus in South and Central America (named the Zika virus after the forests in Uganda where it was first encountered). It is on the rise and in the media: causing an outbreak of birth defects apparently.

Refugees are still fleeing war torn Syria and British Prime Minister David Cameron is trying to seal a deal that will enable our government not to pay benefits to EU residents until they have paid into our welfare system for some time and, essentially earned some payback. The rights and wrongs are daily discussions and will lead up to the referendum on whether Britain should remain in the European Union.

Otherwise there is a review of the latest Leonardo DiCaprio film, The Revenant, based on a true story of a fur trapper in North America and, as is mentioned … “everything’s trying to kill him: the white men he meets, the animals, the natives, the countryside, the weather …”

By this time we are peeling off the M1 onto the M1 and can see the stadium lights in the near distance. Keepmoat Stadium, built as part of the regeneration of Doncaster sits in the middle of – another – out of town shopping and commercial estate. It looks impressive, feels new and is home to rugby league, football league and Doncaster Belles Ladies F.C.

It feels isolated; not part of the community in the way grounds like Crewe Alexandria’s stadium do (be there shortly too). But we spy out our parking options (limited) and cheekily creep past security onto the park next to the stadium. Bale out sharpish (though the child-proof lock on the back door frustrates a speedy SAS style hit-the-ground-running evacuation.

We stroll around feeling a biting wind and eventually find the ticket office (kind of hidden away in the Doncaster Academy doors). Buy the single ticket we need and enter the ground.

 Somebody gets the beers in (I offered but Jack was insistent) and I get a pint of Rovers bitter (it includes a date but I cannot remember it, presumably something to do with Doncaster Rovers history?). But, just what I needed on such a cold night: ice cold beer!

But I notice the sign over the bar that says :”The Lucky Pint”, the sign at the opposite side is “The Harry Gregg Stand” (former Man United star and, I now think son of er Doncaster perhaps?)

We end up with a great view of the pitch, standing right at the every back wall of the stand: the wind swoops in is collected by the roof and funnelled straight towards the spot where we stand. In the floodlights the drops of heavy rain are gusted back and forth and the cloths over the empty seats at the side wriggle in the strong wind. Snow is forecast for later, but this rain is cold enough.

Doncaster are good, they sweep forward, switch, are full of pace and with some neat moves and skilful players. We are rocking unsteadily, but defend steadfastly and with no little luck on our side ( a Paul Downing hand to ball or ball to hand moment could have been a penalty )… and then what?

 

We are playing with reserve goalkeeper Craig McGillivray. He is different in nature to Etheridge: steadier, less dramatic, more inclined to stay on his line … but a more accurate kicker of the ball. And he is doing a fair job, called into action time after time – and up to the task.

We manage to get in at half time without conceding – but also without scoring; Bradshaw has been doing his solid job up front, but with few real opportunities. Our shooting looks more on target, which has to be good.

After a coffee and Bovril break we notice the wind has dropped, the rain stopped and it feels warmer.

We kick off, the saddlers now kicking towards the three hundred and some travelling fans. We are more aggressive this half, move the ball faster. Downing has a header that comes back off the bar, Lalkovic one saved, easily enough by the keeper. But, breaking from the middle of the pitch Sam Mantom hustles and is hustled, keeps his feet, accelerates away, into and beyond a challenge, looks up and puts all of his pent up frustration into a shot that rockets from his boot into the net. The benefits of going in at half time at nil nil eh?

Belief floods into the few saddlers fans … drains from the Rovers fans. We step up, and there is a piece of sublime magical invention from Sawyers, who takes a pass from a short corner, dribbles past and unexpecting defender, leaves him for dead, crosses low and hard across the box and Andy Taylor rockets a second goal.

 

Play continues: Doncaster somewhat demoralised but time drags and the y recover and grab a goal, then move up and we manage to se it out.

What a pleasing result, what an amazing performance.

Millwall at home on Saturday, but we are already talking about getting a train to Crewe.

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.

Che Sera, Sera … We’re Going To Wembley

Three forty five. Pee. Emm. Friday.

I’m coming down the stairs, two at a time. My big orange anorak in my arms. Smile on my face. Signed timesheets in my fist.

“Hey,” she says looking up at me, “don’t tell me you’re going home already!”

“OK,” I reply, “I’m not telling you.”

Like most of the others, she will be here for some hours yet. A meeting, progress and target data, seemingly endless planning for jumping through next week’s hoops.

I haven’t been near my mobile phone all day, but as I edge into the last school-run traffic of the week – some courteous drivers out there, today, thank you – it rings.

My brother. He who had my season ticket and said he would be in the queue for nine o’clock this morning. What queue/ the one for Walsall’s first-ever Wembley appearance of course! I guess he’s ringing me to tell me mission completed: the Wembley tickets safely in his grasp. That he’s at home. When do I want to collect them?

NO! he’s still in the queue, estimating a couple of hours before he gets to the front. Been there since ten thirty this morning! Trying not to sound miserable … he does.

“D’you want me to come and take over?”

“If you could …”

Takes me forty or so minutes. Facebook is full of up-dates: the first people started the queue at three a.m!

I hop over the security fencing, people all around are quiet, resigned, full of Saddlers humour:

“Who would have thought this many people would want tickets for the Doncaster game tomorrow eh?”

On Ashley Grimes first goal (against Gillingham earlier this week); “they say there’s a new souvenir shirt on sale in the club shop. Says on it; “Ashley Grimes … I was there when he scored!”

This self-mocking is a happy characteristic, it seems, of many Walsall supporters; easy, casual and tongue in cheek; just in case we get to taking ourselves too seriously.

“Is this the queue for Elton John tickets?”

“My mate said that show’ll  be the first time a queen has been to Walsall …”

We have a game at home (Rochdale) on Tuesday night, then on Saturday, again at home against Port Vale. Saturday is Valentine’s day. “Is it?” somebody isn’t sure.

“Yes,” chips in somebody else, “I’ll have to do something about that then.”

“What? Like buy yourself a Valentine’s card?”

Repartee. Nobody taking offence. But perhaps you have to be English to get it.

I haven’t got any money, no credit card, so I have to borrow my brother’s. He tells me his P.I.N. I keep saying it to myself, so as not to forget it. Then the train spotters around me (yes, really) start talking locomotive numbers and I become confused.

   

During the day, the queue started in the car park, went in through the away supporters entrance, down the pitch side track, out of the exit and to the ticket offices. The security man tells me he’s been on duty since six this morning. There are four ticket windows in operation. The ladies behind the windows, clearly tiring, are nonetheless doing a sterling job. They have to check season ticket details, find the correct seats, take financial details and wait for the tickets to be printed – away from the desks. Another lady is ferrying the tickets from the printer to the windows.

Behind window 1 the lady signals and says to the security guard:

“No more here for a while!” Then moves away.

Stan, long-time fan and club legend, apparently he hasn’t missed a game: home or away since 1970-something, has an armful of season tickets. Every season ticket is allowed to purchase up to six tickets today; general sales commence later. He has to reel off names and addresses from a list on a multi-folded paper. There had been grumbles: tickets should be per person, not per season ticket, it’s not fair. But this is allocations. If the initial allocation sells out, the club simply asks for more (s I understand it).

The chief of security comes forwards:

“Why are we one down?” he asks over my shoulder, nodding to the vacant chair behind Window 1.

“She’s gone for a cigarette.”

“What!” he says.

“Really? There’s a three hour queue and somebody’s got to take time out for a fag?”

I can understand he is irritable. But I haven’t been there all day, I am getting civilly served and will soon be on the way home. I also understand that every now and again it is wise to take a breather (if not a cigarette) or mistakes will be made.

My niece is heading for South Africa tomorrow. My brother needs his card back, so I drop it off on the way home. Then I’m home and drinking tea.

Not as soon as I’d imagined when I joined the traffic in Burton some two and a half hours earlier.

But we have got the tickets.

A big, much deserved thanks to my brother for standing in the queue for five-and-a-bit hours, to the people in the queue for their company and humour – and to the staff in the ticket office and security team for their endeavours.

Oh and an interesting aside from the Express and Star last night. Every club bar one (Huddersfield perhaps) that Andy Butler has played for has got to Wembley the year after he left. Why did we have to keep him so long? As somebody (was it me?) asked in the queue that is already fading into memory.

Saturday. Five forty five p.m.

After a walk over Cannock Chase and an afternoon up at the allotment I listen to local radio to find that Walsall have won two – nil up at Doncaster (coincidentally where said Andy Butler is now plying his trade). Ashley Grimes a scorer? No: goals from Jordan Cook (in the first three minutes) and twenty year old loanee Jordy Hiwula in the second half.