The Sweet and the Terribly Bitter

Wednesday, 1st July, 2015

Home.

England Women’s team playing in Canada in the world Cup finals tournament. Got through the qualifying rounds. Playing apparently with skill and determination.

Playing Canada, the host nation in the quarter finals and, maybe I’m just a little bit (only a little bit? Editor) but I decided to watch it live on TV. Beginning at midnight.

Well, you know how it is? You can watch the kick off can’t you? If it’s rubbish – or we’re losing (see that? Identifying with the team already?) – you can easily switch off and hit the hay. Can’t you?

In this case: no!

First and most importantly there is a refreshing honesty and delight-in-sport with these ladies. They are old-fashioned enthusiastic, desperate to win and there is none of the media B.S. that so often, if not always surrounds the professional men’s international circus. The interviews are straightforward. Straight talking.

And once the first ball is kicked there is the commitment, there is pride, no lack of effort and passion.  From both teams. Challenging, physical and fair. TV commentators remark that this is the largest crowd for an international involving a Canadian team on home soil – ever! The home team well – and noisily supported. But there are shots of England fans, even fans of both teams standing together.

It is clearly hot in there (Vancouver, B.C.) too. But it is hot for both teams, remember that!

Playing a returned-from-injury and very-busy centre forward in Jodie Taylor, manager Mark Sampson could not have dreamed of the beginning goal. Taylor, who put pressure on the home defence throughout the game was there to pounce on a mistake by Canadian centre half and drill the ball convincingly into the net. Lucy Bronze some minutes later pumped a set-piece header over the goalie’s hand and under the cross bar. Two –nil. No going to bed now then.

 

From then on, while England had penetrating raids they stayed in control of a game despite a concerted effort by Canada in the second half which saw them drag  a goal back.

But, being successful in a football competition aside what struck me most was the wonderful sense of achievement shown by all involved. This is real sport. Not the mercenary, results driven hacking sham pantomime that is served up all too regularly by the Premiership. Where the levels of skill are undoubtedly high, but entertainment is overcome by nerves and the often wrongly used term “professionalism” when what is displayed is the very opposite.

This fine news must be brought down to earth by the atrocities of what I can only describe as a craven, cowardly attack by a rifleman on a beach in Tunisia. Apparently a supporter of Islamic State he opened fire on innocent holiday makers as they relaxed on a sun-soaked beach. I am at a loss to understand the reasoning of these extremist fanatics, to get to grips with what they actually want out of these dreadful events.

This is another senseless attack against the major part of society, which is happy to live and let live: people on holiday with families and friends. People who have worked long and hard to win a little piece of away-from-it-all.

My thoughts are with the families of those affected and also with those who survived the horror. Though I would wish it otherwise I am sure the feelings will last for a long time.

Not least in the list of murdered (give me another word for it if you can) people were three fellow-Walsall supporters: three generations of local people. It is heartening that the official Walsall web-site has responded, that others in the universal  “football family” regardless of club loyalties have opened their hearts to the family and that, as is properly and currently fashionable a “memorial (shirts, scarves and paraphernalia) is laid outside the club shop. Respect.

I did not know these people, although we have, almost certainly, sat near to each other I have no doubt over the years: at this ground or another (certainly we were all at Wembley together!) but that is not the point. This is such a sad, sad day: for the world.

Bristol City (home)

I am just setting this down (or a first draft* of it anyway) after watching an absorbing second half of extra time in this year’s F.A. Cup semi-final between Arsenal and Wigan Athletic. Wigan, last year’s winners are in the Championship this year and lost in the penalty shoot-out.

I arrived at the banks’ Stadium with plenty of time to spare. Time to collect a ticket ordered and efficiently saved by the friendly box office team (thanks to each and all), time to get in and find a seat, take of my coat and ponder the Hillsborough disaster (25 years ago on Tuesday to be date-specific).

How would you cope with going to another football match if you had lost friends or relatives at that game? If you had been in the stadium, in that fateful Leppings Lane End yourself? I thought about this for a good twenty minutes (an, truth to tell, I am still considering it as I type). The terrible, terrible pressure and events inside the ground while it was going on. The attempts to save people, lifting them up to the higher terraces, passing children up the fence, straddling the fence to reach down …

All bad enough.

But the facts which have since emerged are, if it is possible, shades worse.

The attempts to blame (no other word will fit the facts now coming to light for me) innocent people who had gone to watch a game. To, at best, suggest they were bent on trouble, had done something wrong, tried to get in without tickets, were drunk, were badly behaved hooligans.

The changing of evidences given, the manipulation of times and timelines …

Said simply at the beginning of a minute’s silence (a mark of deep respect) at today’s game in the following words:

“Twenty five years ago, ninety six Liverpool fans went to a game and didn’t make it home afterwards …”

Poignant words, saying it like it was. I am not sure whether this was a scripted piece and the same words read out at every ground … but it was completely silent inside the stadium. I could hear the lorries growling their ways up and down the nearby M6. It seems these days I am more affected by these memorial silences. Perhaps it is a sign of maturity/old age, but in joining in with the “respectful silence” I was engaged with it. Those poor people, those poor families and friends – then and now. So may lives ended (shocking thing that: ended!) so many lives changed: immediately then and still now.

Ended by the referee’s whistle and the game began. Bristol City, in some danger of relegation had bought a big host of fans. Crowded in and noisy behind the goals. Some good banter across the length of the pitch.

Bristol City song: “More fans than you’ve got,

                                We’ve got more fans than you’ve got.”

Walsall reply; “More points than you’ve got …”

Sharp start from both teams in the bright sunshine. We’re a passing team playing shapes and passes like the Premiership clubs do and I love to watch the skill; the way Walsall players know where another one is going to be. It hasn’t always been that way. I am pleased that it is now. We’re even having some decent shots at goal.

Bristol City are struggling to stay in League One. But they struggle purposefully. They close down, harry and while we look confident they slowly but surely peg us back. Still fine passing but a long way from their goals. And, once or twice the defence looks under pressure and I’m thinking those “if only” thoughts.

“If only we had a way of scoring from our possession … if only we had a striker (be damned to the who-to-leave-out quandary) … if only we could give the defence some breathing space by netting early on …”

There’s some kind of nonsense across on the left wing. Ngoo, on loan from Liverpool, is fouled (apparently) and the big centre half who did it ends up on the floor. hold your breath. Is it a red card? Ngoo looks furious. but the referee is lenient and simply gives him a yellow card. the referee lets quite a few things go actually (dives (and there are a lot of those from Bristol City) and fouls) but it adds a bit of old-fashioned needle to the game.

And while I’m thinking Andy Taylor, befuddled by a stray ball in the box, tries to turn and clear (at least that’s what I think he was doing) and trips up a Bristol City striker. Did I mention it was in the penalty area. Sam Baldock stepped up and scored and their fans were delighted – and noisy. Who can blame ‘em. Getting themselves out of trouble, setting themselves up for another crack at us next season to, I shouldn’t wonder.

It’s a woeful traipse into the lounge. Nobody’s asking for season tickets any more.

Second half? How many times have we seen this? We’ve gone behind so we step up the pace, the aggression, the momentum.  Ngoo goes down in the box … penalty. Who is going to take it? Our usual Mr Football penalty taker is suspended, remember?

Ngoo had a crack at one way back and missed. Sam Mantom, like a twenty first century Alf Tupper places the ball on the spot. We’re happy with that. He’s got a powerful shot, scored some useful ones from outside the box. Steps up, places the ball (not power-blasting it) and the goalkeeper has time to make the save look effortless.

Heads go down.

Brandy is everywhere, Baxendale looks sharp, but cannot get forwards, Sawyers is his usual irritatingly talented but casual self.

McQuilkin comes on, plays with ferocity and determination and it’s furious, furious, furious. Another long last minute.

Nothing will of nothing come and Cully’s been saying “pointless” all game. A good prediction. We are! And, almost certainly out of the play-off stakes now.

BBC radio WM informs me on the way back in the car that we have now won fourteen games, drawn fourteen and – you’ve guessed it – lost fourteen. Consistent or what.

Elsewhere, Wolves have beaten Crewe (away) to clinch promotion. Good luck the them, Kenny Jackett has turned the club around (no easy task).

*Actually I let most of it stand as I typed it: a few typos to tweak and punctuation errors. Oh and I did just say something good about Wolverhampton Wanderers and let it stay in.

Photos courtesy of Bristol Post.