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.

The Shirt and The Iron (Scunthorpe Away)

Last Wednesday of the month: poetry group at Great Wyrley Library. Last month we chose “sport” as the topic for this meeting. Do you know how difficult it is to find a reasonable poem about sport? (Seriously folks any suggestions welcome in the response box below. Would love to you’re your ideas.)

Someone else came up with “the Shirt” by Carole Ann Duffy  (current English poet laureate). I have heard this independent lady reading her poetry and, while it was being shared in the rather small confines of our library I could imagine bot her voice and face as she read it out. Bit of a cliché, but went to this Walsall supporter’s heart right away; the themes of high salary and some self-pitying celebrity player trying to make excuses for poor performances. The “anybody but me” syndrome” again.

We are playing Scunthorpe United today. Away. I’m going. Bright sunshine, high skies after some rainclouds earlier.

Cully’s driving. Navigating part-by-sat-nav part by experience. The sat nav (Tom-Tom I believe) sits in pride of place in the centre of the dashboard. The arrow stays still, the graphics move underneath it. “A bit like flying, instead of driving; don’t like it, “ he says.

Satisfyingly the machine gets it wrong from the off and I take out an unnecessary dog leg, smiling smugly (well inside anyway).

The journey is comfortable, enjoyable and full of conversation on initially  familiar roads and then motorways (with some almost inevitable summer roadworks limiting us to 50 m.p.h..

We see the high single legged floodlight pylons of Glanford Park while we are still on the approach. The ground is now at the back of an out-of-town shopping park with all the usual suspects including a McDonalds, a Ben and Jerry’s (playing music from the 1950s) and a franchise gastro-pub. It’s friendly in there. We order a meal and drinks, sit and continue the conversations. Then well fed, stroll to the ground.

Going through the turnstiles we are not given a ticket which I find interesting. It takes out the costs of printing and is eminently sensible in that respect of course … but is it legal?

 

The ground feels homely. It’s compact, built to the same spec all round and looks as if it was built to a plan that was stuck-to. No out-of-character additions. There’s a purpose built gallery in the roof of the left hand stand for cameras and media, there are flags flying from poles at the opposite end of the ground. That stand (we are behind a goal line) is standing-only. That’s also interesting, given the discussions going on to return parts of grounds to standing areas again (they were changed to all seater stadia by law following recommendations in the Taylor report after the Hillsborough disaster) .

We look dazed from the kick-off. The Iron playing fast, zippy football, passes accurate, either in front of the runner or into space which is soon taken up by an attacking player. We are not able to keep up, it seems. Our new look team. Without Kinsella who has been impressive, but fair enough, may need a break; without Grimes and Sawyers and James Chambers back into the middle of defence. Forde is on and Manset gets a debut. (seems he was playing the “long game” after his trial game against Leicester, going to some Turkish club and after a better deal (no blame attached there: football is a cruel kind of life and players need to make money as and when …). No deal was offered, so he came back to Walsall. James Chambers lasts all of ten minutes and Dean Holden comes on to replace him. It doesn’t get better. Scunthorpe (why are they nicknamed The Iron?) are like a tide washing towards our goal, wave after wave. Fortunately they don’t look like scoring. They too are on a winless run and may just be a little over anxious.

The half time entertainment is amusing: fans spin around to make themselves dizzy and are then to take a penalty against the home mascot (“Scunny Bunny”). Except they all fall over before they have finished spinning. The announcer on the pitch is enjoying himself anyway.

Of course I recognise some of the travelling fans now; we are some kind of pilgrims after all, trying to keep a kind of faith. Against all odds sometimes!

Second half is little different, except Scunthorpe are better motivated, more switched on. they haven’t won yet and sense things might be about to change. A first half dribble raid by Adelakum which ended in a scuffed shot is repeated. But this time the ball is in the net. A few moments later we concede a free kick. MacSheffrey’s long distance shot beats O’Donnell and they are two nil up.

Cue the charge. We establish some kind of order. Press forwards, more in hope at this stage but things begin to come together. Then, Tom Bradshaw, who must be difficult to play against, is through after willing running. It seems to be in stop-motion. I see him check the position of the keeper (Olejnic) and the ball dinks off his head and curls – towards – the net – over – the – line.

Goal! Well-deserved because the man has been chasing everything since kick off, big hearted and energetic. Good eye for the goal. Manset has shown touches of skill, but been a little off the pace. But he is big. He is strong and the defenders knew he was there. I would like to see him in the team again on Saturday (home against Colchester), just a little more bedded in.

It’s not enough. Baxendale making a big, bold challenge to keep the ball in provokes a bit of passion from Scunthorpe’s Bishop, who has niggled all game (but at least has some fire and passion about the game). The referee who has been poor all game, not stamping his authority, gives a goal kick when, in fact, the ball didn’t go out at all.

So, Scunthorpe’s winless run ends. Does ours continue or did it just get worse than that?