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.

Ricoh: Coventry Away

So we are into the next round of the F.A. Cup. Along with teams like Tottenham, Man United, Chelsea and even surprise Premier team-of-the-season (so far) Leicester City” in the hat”. And the draw – actually a massive anti-climax – is live on TV (I mean how exciting is it to watch grown men literally take shiny black, numbered balls out of a transparent bowl and gibber on inanely about them?) Please be careful how you answer that one.

And, though I’m hoping for a home draw (Tottenham would be memorable thank you: though they still have to beat Leicester in a replay) a big team away (Liverpool perhaps?) I am actually a bit deflated when we get pulled out to play either Huddersfield or Reading (the replay is one of a number that evolved from the weekend’s fixtures.).

But then I cheer up. We are still in it! We could go further and life is very positive at the moment.

Arrangements are made for the trip to Coventry’s Ricoh Arena (been there before for a stunning Bruce Springsteen concert) and we set off: instruction for the rendezvous with Chris tapped into the Sat-Nav and Jack chomping at the bit before we are three miles from departure point and filling up with fuel.

 

The car park is pre-booked: good thinking JB and we negotiate the traffic, miss a couple of turns, puddle about until we reach the man standing by the building. A different way back to he car park which we passed on the way in to the city centre. We cannot see the historic cathedral but it is, apparently just out of the window … somewhere.

Coming in we were all impressed by the way that traffic going in to the car park was being managed. Filling in, it appeared rom furthest away, packing the cars in very systematically. But now, with fifteen minutes to kick – off the drivers of cars are less patient – and – just – want – to – park —Goddammit!

A free-for-all develops, the few enthusiastic stewards unable to exert control and we jam our car into a nearest to the exit space. Pile out quickly. Move away. Not furtively, with confidence – and speed! Like a crack S.A.S. unit deploying from a below the radar helicopter insert (O.K. this is only in my mind right? I didn’t actually type and publish that bit did I? Whoops, too many hours on Call of Duty!)Nobody has told us we cannot park there – and remote, central door locking is brilliant for this, therefore it must be OK, right?

(Incidentally I am put in mind of the U.S. political parties: one says if it doesn’t say (in the Constitution that you cannot do a thing, then obviously you can; the other says the opposite). But by the time the thought has crystallised we are in the underpass and approaching the imposing stadium. Big, shining, white whale of a place that it is.

Actually now owned by a rugby club hailing from London (wasps) Coventry City F.C. are hanging on to games here by the skin of their proverbial teeth … and probably won’t be here for much longer anyway.

But having said that it is a monster of a ground to be visiting at league One level. Entrance is efficient, but, typically, once inside the reserved seat numbers mean nothing at all. So we wiggle our way down to the front, behind the goals. Well tiered seating, spacious and no girders to obstruct the view of the pitch. The floodlights are mounted along the inside edges of the roofing. The light they cast is magnificent and is reflected back off a lot of falling rain.

We’ve talked about concerts, the Cup draw, Alf Tupper (probably), David Bowie (who has died somewhat unexpectedly – to the public – of cancer) and chewing gum. The pitch looks massive from where we are, as wide as it is long. This is almost certainly our point of view, particularly as at home games we sit at the side of the pitch. There is a wide space too between the spectators and the playing surface and a bunch of volunteers (?) unenthusiastically waving Sky Blues flags on the pitch. That is how hard it is raining. Really!

The teams are announced. Our players must be tired: small squad, lot of games, injuries and niggles creeping in, taking toll.

And Coventry look fast and intelligent. They push and they are speedy. Maddison in mid-field complimenting former England player Joe Cole (carrying a bit of timber we note smugly) and teenage prodigy Armstrong on loan from Newcastle United up front. They are relentless and we look out-paced but dogged.

But we put some moves together, have a few raids (Mantom off-side unfortunately on one of our most promising). But the referee is intent, it seems on giving the home side every advantage, every free kick and opportunity. A Saddlers player makes a challenge the Coventry player goes down and gets a free kick.

And from one of these they score. We cannot see exactly how, but a looping free kick, driven low, probably off a head or two is in the back of our net … and we are under serous pressure. Sean O’Driscoll in a post-match interview will admit that we “didn’t know what to do”. But we did something: sawyers out on the wing to link up with Hendry, Evans back a little more, Bradshaw trying to get into the game, Lalkovic hustling …

… and, somehow we get to half time only one goal down.

At some point in time the driver gets a ‘text. There is a picture of the car in its unique parking place and a message that says the lights were left on. (Oh the registration plate is diplomatically pixelated, but it is so obviously “our” car.) Dilemma: is it a trick to lure us out so we can be nailed for our unusual parking? If nobody goes to turn the lights off will the battery be drained when we get back and we’ll be, gulp, stranded?

Manfully, Cully takes the responsibility and goes out, turns ‘em off and is back again. Efficiently and swiftly. No trick, just considerate parking marshalling. How wonderful. They had the phone number because the spot was pre-booked. Excellent service. Thank you people.

I have been and got coffees and it is getting cold (well, come on it is January!) and the second half kicks off. We look more composed now, pressing higher up and I am, once again amazed by the never-say-die attitude of these players. Battered? Yes? But still in it and making a fist of getting back into the game. Always possible when you are only a goal down.

“We only need one!” the guy next to me keeps saying, “just one!”

But, having seen some cracking football this season it is – sadly perhaps – inevitable that I (and others get frustrated, Sam Mantom’s passes are poor, Lalkovic is not getting involved enough, Evans is too slow …

Truth is maybe none of these is correct. Coventry are one place below us and paying at home and both determined and skilful. Our players may be tired. Out-fought even.

But, bless ‘em nobody told ‘em it was time to give up. As the second half develops there are substitutions: Forde on for Lalkovic and Demetriou on for the game Liam Kinsella. Later Evans makes way for Jordan Cook.

Are we fitter? We become more forceful as the game goes into the last fifteen minutes or so. Or are Coventry dropping back to defend the lead.

We try to get the winner, but as the final whistle goes all of our support hasn’t made it happen –and there are nearly fifteen hundred of us there!

 

If that is the case they made a mistake. Sawyers sweeps a pass out to Henry, who crosses into the box and – was it Sawyers or Bradshaw that had the final touch? Really difficult to tell from where we are. But it is definitely and equaliser and we Walsall fans are roused and cheering. There are, after all, nearly fifteen hundred of us there.

 

We try to get the winner!

But at the full time whistle we are sharing the points. We stay third in the table: Coventry fourth: a good psychological boost.

So we descend stairs and more stairs and exit the ground – relieved, proud and happy. Another game in which we might have gone under but that intangible spirit kept us going.

The car starts up first time (phew) and we are discussing how to get to Bury (away on Saturday). I make a note to check whether that poster I saw for an Ian Hunter concert is current and talk lapses to flood defence systems and listening to interviews – it is eventually cleared up: Bradshaw’s goal!