Villa for Sale or Rent: Swindon at Home

Don’t doubt this club’s commitment – and plain common sense – to putting everything (well almost!) behind this marvellous push for promotion. Something I would often write, more in jest (or false optimism; which is the same thing surely?) than in hope:

“Promotion in our time…” is a looming reality. We just have to match whatever Burton Albion do, or better – oh and win our game in hand.

But commitment? No sooner had the ink dried on the pages of the Express and Star than the club announced a “Friend for a Fiver” game. Any season ticket holder could use up the E voucher in their season ticket and get a ticket for the said fiver to Tuesday evening’s home game against mid-table Swindon. Mid-table? No problem for the mighty Saddlers surely? And then there’s the cunning but well intentioned rabble-rousing (except we aren’t rabble are we?) from man-in-charge Jon Witney, in the press. Disguised as a too-early team news release he praises the Walsall crowd(who cheered –almost to a man, woman, child and dog)the team on to the win on Saturday.

Witney’s message is that “since you were so good on Saturday I pick you for the next game.”

Clever, shrewd, empowering – and meant to bring a few extras in to the game.

Incidentally we are consistently one of the last teams to announce, publicly, the starting line-up for any game. This from my social media vulture and sometime soul mate Jack. He who agonises every game day because the team hasn’t been announced (on Twitter or wherever) and then rages because it has and it doesn’t quite match …

But, news from elsewhere in the local football world. A few minutes up the M6 Aston Villa have – finally – been relegated. Losing to Manchester United was the final nail in their Premier League coffin. They have been imploding quietly for some time. But now?

Two directors resigned from the recently appointed football committee (there’s stickability for you then!) and the board have apparently decided to close down the Upper Tier of the Trinity Road stand, five hundred people employed there will, it is said need to lose their jobs …

So, just maybe some of the beetroot and blue-scarved ones’ll give up the ghost and convert to Saddlerism. Frankly I don’t care who comes to the Bescot at the moment as long as they don’t cause trouble, give us some positive vibe and pay some filthy lucre into the war chest.

But, I still owe my brother for the Port Vale ticket he got me so, after quick phone call, set out on Monday to snaffle the five pound ticket. Not expecting a queue: well you don’t do you? And, sure enough there was a bit of a queue – at least ten buyers ahead of me. The guy in front had a bag under his arm as if he had packed for a day waiting. Turned out he has diabetes and that was his bloods kit, insulin et cetera – just in case. We got to chatting; West Brom (that fabulous Paul Merson goal), Follows park ( the memorable low- level gents toilet with no roof (no really!)) and, eventually – how on earth could we possibly get out of , er … going up this season. Both of us, obviously veteran Walsall junkies. Experienced in all kinds of avoidance strategies: losing a cup game, not quite getting relegated for example. Pulling irons out fires; then sinking a beer or two.

Big, frustrating queues on the way home on Tuesday and I’d had hardly a drink all day. So dehydrated, but expectant. Strong coffee at bro’s house, the sun beating into our eyeballs on the way to the game. I’ll probably remember that I need sunglasses and do something about it around about September!

Parked up. Into the Savoy Lounge. Meting up with Cully, Andy, matt and Mike. The aforementioned social media furious one at home ill and suffering. None of us think that’ll prevent him getting the up-dates on Twitter.

 

A pint of cool lager and, body fluids reaching some kind of equilibrium we take our seats. Yessss! The crowd is definitely up for it: loud, proud and, as usual could do with a few more bodies. But don’t doubt the spirit please>

Nor the players. Brave decision by the coaches to put main man (in theyes of many) Tom Bradshaw on the bench and start the team that eventually stopped Southend. And they are forward going. Hiwula looking really fresh and full of running. Lalkovic and Henry still seeming a little disjointed on the left but Demetriou and Forde doing well down the right.

But Swindon are not cowed. Indeed they seem to be finding spaces and getting through to have some, admittedly feeble or ill-directed, shots. Walsall, on the other hand are impatient – in a good way. Getting somewhere near and letting one go! Bomb! Bomb! Boom! Quite different from our usual pedantic don’t shoot until you can pass into the net kind of style. It’s impressive but, sadly no more effective. At half time we are nil – nil. Still not losing –and I am looking for any positives.

Arch rivals Burton are at home to league One leaders Wigan this evening. We are quietly hoping that Wigan do a job on ‘em, wreck their confidence and steal all three points. Yes, all right our destiny is in our own hands, but a little Wigan intervention wouldn’t go amiss would it?

 

Despite the weather forecast of closer-later it is still rather warm. There is talk of telegraph poles, Lawrence of Arabia, families, trying to plan a weekend away – but not knowing the fixtures – only four games left (barring play offs of course) and work.

Second half kicks off. Impetus with us; Swindon breaking skilfully now and then. I am suddenly, instinctively tense: they are breaking through the middle, having a shot. It is deflected away. But only to a running-on midfielder, Michael Doughty, who coolly slots the ball home.

How many times has this happened?

But, then again, how many times have we broken back – and made it all right?

There are substitutions. Demetriou, suffering after a knock, off and Liam Kinsella on. Lalkovic and Forde off: Bradshaw and Kieron Morris on. He’s only been on the pitch a couple of minutes, young Kieron when he picks up the ball, drops a shoulder, runs into the penalty area and swings a good boot through the ball – and we are in it again. But that is as good as it will get. Rumours around are that Burton have also come back from one nil down – another game that will end up as a draw: curses!

Needless to say, there’s a group of us heading up to Bradford on Saturday!

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.

En Route to Brazil.

There’s a part of me that thinks this post ought to be about a couple of “warm-up” friendlies England have had en route to Brazil and the World Cup finals. But, to be totally honest, while I want us to do well, I feel genuinely – sadly – far removed from the players, team and their progress. I am enthusiastic about football, but the connection between me and the England team becomes more tenuous by the year. Disenchanted and becoming more so.

Roy Hodgson has my respect. I think he is an excellent coach. Like his public persona, his quiet determination, his self-deprecatory attitude, the sharpness with which he deals with some of the inane and ill-considered juvenile questions put to him by the likes of Adrian Chiles (ITV).

But the games – as games – were wholesome, but largely uninspiring. A reasonable enough 3- 0 win against Peru at Wembley.  2-2 draw at Wembley against Peru, an unconvincing 2 -2 draw against Ecuador in Miami, fairly swiftly followed by a 0 – 0 draw in a Miami game interrupted by an electrical storm. Good refereeing to take the players off during what appeared to be a Biblical scale thunderstorm: everything’s bigger in the States, right? (I didn’t watch the rest of the game (live on TV here at something approaching midnight.)

 

But a new complexion has been put on our opening game by happenings at the local reading group. First Wednesday of every month we get together at the local (Great Wyrley) library to discuss a chosen book. This time it was Beneath the Blood by Val McDermid (which got a lowly three out of ten marks from me: overly complicated plot, too many obvious red herrings – is that possible? – and writing devoid of detail). But the library is running a world cup themed competition. Choose a book on a sporting theme (I chose one about Bradley Wiggins) and you get a sealed bag with a book featuring one of the nations taking part in the World Cup finals. Me? Wouldn’t you know it; got Italy.

Meanwhile BBC properly extensively covered the commemorations and celebrations of the seventieth anniversary of the D-Day landings with a lengthy report and interviews from the French coast. All very stirring stuff: so important that we remember this occasion, the braveries and sacrifices and the fact that days and destinies were changed from and on that day. The production was  accredit to the BBC. There were markedly different-in-style speeches from Barak Obama and Prince William. The first reminiscent of a Shakespearean actor, delivering well practised words and raising the voice, pausing for effect and engaging the audience in an almost rabble-rousing style (except that the “rabble” were veterans and families and politicians.  Prince William, English, modest and under-stated, quiet and firm, resolved and gentle. He laid a simple Royal British Legion poppy wreath.

Both speeches had dignity and integrity: just opposite sides of the Atlantic coin.

But amongst the world-leader pieces: the Queen visiting a cemetery, President Putin, Angela Merkel being welcomed to the scene were interviews with veterans. It seems that this will be the last of these events for the Normandy Veterans association. It is, sadly, the way of things: they are getting older, fewer and less able to stand up to the demands of travel. This has to be a shame, with no blame attached to the men who actually ran up the beaches, piloted the aircraft, crewed the ships (and all of those behind-the-scenes, behind-the-day wizards). Can we do nothing to keep the obvious spirit burning? There is one example, much vaunted by the media, of a man from a residential  home going A.W.O.L. from the home to attend the ceremonies. Heart-warming in one sense, though certainly not for the staff at the home I imagine. And in their interviews, these men were cogent, coherent, modesty incarnate and young-of-mind. There is such candid, disarming honesty in their recollections, which are not “big-picture” revelations (the fate of the free world, duty and for the good of the nation) but about an infantryman who, in being seasick on the way to the beaches, lost his dentures, that one man had never, in all of his years attending this event met any of his colleagues. The veteran who charmingly began to “chat up” the interviewer (and her rendered unable to interrupt to make the all-important switch back th the studio. But, unusually the accents were very local, not only Midland but Staffordshire and the Black Country.

And the one who mentioned Walsall Football Club. He lives not far from Bescot, he said, where they play now, but this soing back to the old place … Fellows Park. We all stood up in them days. And at half time, I looked around and a bloke behind me pointed at me and says “I know you!”

“Yes, says I and I know you an’ all” he was from the same mess on the ship I was on going to the beaches.”

Ending the interview, his friend said “ I dunno what we did …. We’re like some kind of heroes. I suppose we might have been.”

And it brought a lump to my throat, that modesty.

So, really:

England or Italy in that first game ?

Got to be England eh?

After all, those were warm-up games weren’t they ?

 

Images: Hodgson: thesun.co.uk

Cahill goal celebrations: mirror.co.uk

Normandy veterans (one of many I could have chosen!): independent.co.uk