Another Striker? Barnsley at Home

Thursday night I get in, pick up the Express and Star from the porch. Glance at the back page: it’s the Walsall edition so usually the biggest headline is a Saddlers one. And I need a double take.

Sean O’Driscoll has only been and got a striker in!

Has he been reading this blog? Or what?

There was some scuttlebutt about maybe possibly thinking about seeing what might happen if we played another striker up with Tom Bradshaw …

But this is definitely the best news.

He’s with Championship Huddersfield at the moment, but not getting enough first team games. So he was at Wigan on loan; now he’s come to Bescot. He has energy and a super scoring record. An out and out striker!

Oh and did I mention that the striker is Jordy Hiwula. The same Jordy Hiwula that came to us on loan last season … and scored just four minutes after his first start?

So, he’ll know the set-up if not the new manager. Knows the players; knows the dressing room.

Got to be good!

Because, after all, we didn’t lose against Scunthorpe. We managed to sneak into third place because results elsewhere went for us … and now we have another striker!

A big part of me is shrieking “about bluddy time!” but all of me is thinking it’s time to kick on!

I ‘phone the club on Thursday, trying to get my Savoy Lounge Pass, but, unfortunately (stupidly) I do not have my credit card so cannot pay for it, so cannot reserve it. I am in a bit of a quandary because the limit is a hundred and fifty and after that sales stop. Great, because we will have room to breathe. Not great because I haven’t got mine yet. Oh and there is nothing to stop them tinkering with that number at a later point is there?

Believe me when I say I am the punctual one> so, unsurprisingly I get to my brother’s about the time I said I would. But it is ridiculously early. So we drift to the parking space and have time to sit in the car, watch others park (which can be entertaining) and talk of families (and arrange a Mothers’ day celebration between us). Then stroll to the ground.

He is thinking of getting a season ticket or next season. Joining the queue to find out about my savoy Lounge Pass I see many others snapping them up. But wander into the savoy Lounge. The Tottenham v Arsenal game is on the big TVs. They are respectively second and third in the Premier League and the game kicked off early (TV coverage). The result is a hopeful one for Leicester City (who are surprise leaders of their league so far) because it is a score draw.

Cully and Andy are there. We smile, chatter about the hype, misinformation and obsession with the Brexit campaign: politicians for you!

But the team news is that Hiwula will not be starting the game! I am truly shocked; anticipation and excitement drains away. What the … ?

We are bidding, Andy suggests to become the team that has the most on-loan players that never uses them!

So far this season we have, indeed, used the fewest players (21) of any team in any of the top four leagues.

But, to consider, deliberate, get and not use a striker?

Into our seats; a group representing the sponsors are cheerful and there is some friendly banter: beards, aunties and agility in there somewhere. It is a fine thing about the seats we have and the type of people who come to the games that we can so quickly build up a good relationship with others (these guys from In Touch With Walsall), the scout from Ipswich …

Barnsley are the in-form team at the moment. Sean O’Driscoll rates them and has said so publicly. Now I am not so sure if this is a good thing, but every manager has their own style, and I have to think he knows how to do the psychological part of his job.

But once the kick-off is over we can see we are in for a game And then again, we seem a little short of ideas; too many clever, short passes and long, hopeful balls in the general direction of the ever-willing, but not superhuman, Tom Bradshaw.

Long story short: we go goal down, find some spirit somewhere and get an equaliser. Then spend some time bossing the game. A comedy moment when the referee is injured and seeks medical attention. The players mill about, energy drinks and a conversation between Sam Mantom and a couple of the Tykes.

There’s a good crowd here from Oop North. Which goes wild when they nick a deserved second goal.

Walsall fans, rather harshly but nonetheless saying it as they se it begin a chant of

“He’s Sean O’Driscoll;

He hasn’t a clue.”

Prompting substitutions: Lalkovic on for a below-par Kieron Morris and Hiwula on for Romaine Sawyers. Bradshaw is suddenly limping, cannot carry on and Jordan Cook is brought on.

Barnsley get a third, but frankly I cannot remember at which stage of the game-of-subs.

Cook over-extends himself, stretching for a high ball and collapses.

Hiwula is full of running, but does not have the time to make an impact.

The drive home is rather subdued.

Did we just blow our chances of automatic promotion?

Finally: The Finale.

There’s really only one way to start this one: final match of the season: Bristol City, run away champions (and the team that spoiled our Wembley party!) at their home ground. Was I too slow to get tickets sorted out (that would be unusual), not really bothered or happy not to be there As it turned out definitely the latter!

There was whole match commentary on BBC WM. I made do with listening to that. Sounded as if we were playing well. Certainly when we went one nil up (Jordy Hiwula). Pulled back to one all, then two one down, but at half time back level: another Jordy Hiwula goal. I am – pleasantly surprised, this is something I didn’t, truly expect. But I am prepared, in the way I suppose all fans will be, to accept the fantastic change in form and focus that has us toe-to-toe with the runaway (and deservedly so) champions of our league. At the ir ground!

I make up reasons: we have been playing markedly better recently haven’t we? And, maybe Bristol City are just going through the jolly old motions: it is the last game of the season and they can’t be too concerned, maybe they’re just enjoying the afternoon eh?

Abso- blinking – lutely not! Because after half time we collapse: utter, abject and terrifyingly … what? Frustrating? Yes! Embarrassing? Yes! Both and more.

O.K., O.K. champions in a different class and all that, but 8 – 2?

Wolves fan on Facebook posting

“Notice the cricket’s started early in Bristol then?”

I’m thinking

“Well, if you can’t stand a joke you shouldn’t have bought another season ticket!” and smiling, a little grimly to myself.

The Football league has apparently come up with a new deal that will have games (not Premiership ones) on Channel Five. Seems it’ll mean lower league clubs get more money. Heard something about the Football Association also getting money which might mean genuine grass-roots football gets a bit more cash – and much needed too. Kicking a ball about is simple, good exercise at the very least. It gets more complicated when tribal loyalties are flexed, but that’s not always bad.

Of course as the football season comes to a close we are into the cricket season beginning.

Elsewhere – and, honestly I delayed posting this until there was something else I could more happily put out there – there is a new Royal Princess: Charlotte, born to Kate and William, who bless ‘em have done so much to re-popularise the monarchy and bring it up to date. Best wishes to the family. On a more mercenary level it will do a lot to bring money into the country: the whole souvenir and tourist business set to be boosted. My wife and I have booked a close season (I hope, but know it’s cutting it fine) tour of Buckingham palace and the Houses of parliament.

Speaking of which, the latest political news is that the Conservative party have won an outright majority in our general elections (so much for my prediction powers then) and Ed Miliband, Nick Clegg and Nigel Farage, leaders respectively of labour, liberal Democrats and United Kingdom Independence Party have all resigned. North of the border the Scottish Nationalist Party have won all but three seats in the House of Commons. Exciting times ahead perhaps, even if only in the sense of that Chinese (“May you live in interesting times,”) curse.

Back if ever so briefly to football: Coventry City and Crewe escaped relegation to League Two and Shrewsbury and Burton Albion are being promoted: fairly accessible local games to travel to next season (already the optimism is appearing!).

Wolves fan on Facebook posting (about the Bristol result):

“Notice the cricket’s started early in Bristol then?”

I’m thinking

“Well, if you can’t stand a joke you shouldn’t have bought another season ticket!” and smiling, a little grimly to myself.

 

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.