“A Big Ask!”:Play Off Semi-Final, second leg … Barnsley at home

Been so busy gardening, trying to tidy up the back garden, maybe as a subliminal way to distance myself from the disappointing display up at Barnsley last week. I give great credit to the Barnsley team, but it has been rare this season to see such a collapse – even against a superior team. And, make no bones about it: Barnsley out played us in every department.

But, as the day of the second leg dawned I set about tasks with a will: hanging baskets, strimming, moving pots …

Inside my head I was telling myself that we didn’t need to score four goals. We only needed to score three. That would take it into extra time – then we could get the fourth – winning goal. If we could score an early goal; say within the first twelve minutes we would then have seventy eight minutes stretching before us: one goal every thirty nine minutes.

Oh, and, of course, not give one away.

How hard could it be?

My brother dropped in to pick me up – and we were cocooned in traffic for the final three and a bit miles. Police had closed the West Bromwich Road for some reason … and we later found out that there was a convoy of travellers “being escorted” through the region. The whole Sky TV paraphernalia and outside broadcast circus was in place. Vans, cables, barriers and baloney. So a long walk round, past the very happy-before-kick-off (and why not?) Barnsley fans. A lot of coaches: fine away support unsurprisingly in good voice and gooder spirits.

And, inside the ground they are packed into the away end and I am momentarily envious. They have the upper hand (three goals ahead!), this is – at worst – a matter of not conceding goals. They are in confident mood. Indeed, they are the form team in League One, having overcome problems before Christmas – on a roll now – and only ninety minutes away from Wembley. Bit greedy, they’ve been once already in the Johnstone’s (dare I mention it?) Paint Trophy.

And into the ground via the Savoy Lounge. Cully and Andy had had to work hard to protect my reserved seat. And the camera, with that miserable looking camera-man who scowled at me last time he was here, were in a slightly different position – so it actually was my season ticket seat.

Kick off – and Barnsley pushed straight up. We got stuck in too. Three goals to get, heads down, let’s get about it.

But Barnsley had lost none of their edge. They were prepared to attack: our attempts to play just three at the back looked, at times dangerous. But O’Connor was giving nothing away; a real rock alongside Downing and Andy Taylor. Rough and tumble. Rico Henry is such a star: versatile, skilful and waspish when he loses the ball. Playing this evening up the left wing; opposite Jason Demetriou.

Tom Bradshaw and Jordy Hiwula are paired together up front. It might work, but we have to get the ball to them – and the two very capable Barnsley centre halves are a classy partnership, with an excellent goalie behind them.

Barnsley miss, or are denied a couple of early chances. We go close a couple of times, but seem to lack a self-belief which has been present until these play offs. But there is no lack of effort. From either team.

Then the worst thing happens. They, pressing forward in numbers, get the ball into the net. I am convinced that it was actually off-side But the referee gives it. And now the pressure is on!

Barnsley, having proved their superiority, settle back.

We have to push up a little more recklessly t this point. Leaving us vulnerable.

But what else to do?

Then a little bit of character comes back. A bit of backbone. We are losing, but stand up and get stuck in again.

But, sure enough we concede another goal. Five goals behind!

It would have been the first time any team has come back from three goals behind in a play-off semi-final … but five?

Jordan Cook comes on. He is all action, busy and calm enough to open up his body and place a brilliantly cool shot past the Barnsley keeper. But I think we all know: too little, too late.

Rico Henry makes an uncharacteristic blunder at the back – and Barnsley are three one up on the night.

It has been a super season, but this is bitterly disappointing.

There can be debate about the role of the play offs. It certainly makes money, extends TV coverage and has more teams involved in promotion struggles up to the very end-plus-some of the season.

In the old days, Walsall, finishing third, would have simply been promoted after an intense league campaign.

Who will be in the team when the friendlies begin? We have seen some extremely talented players. Sawyers, classy on his day; Henry, surely destined for the Premiership at some stage. Bradshaw, off to join the Welsh squad warming up for the European Championships in a couple of weeks. Not all of those called up will be in the final squad, but his twenty goals this season must stand him in good stead.

We’ve had three managers; easy to forget that somehow, a few blips, some storming away games – and, this being football and, more specifically Walsall, there have been some slip-ups.

But, having said all of that – for my brother and I – enough is enough. We leave, dejected, before the final whistle and are back at the car before all the celebrations (last game at Bescot for a while) are complete.

Barnsley go to Wembley, we go to find a pub and sink a few beers.

Next season will be around soon enough and, hey we are still in every competition – until we are not!

Charge! Charge? Barnsley Away: Play-offs Semi-Final.

So …

Play-off it is.

We are away at Barnsley on Saturday … and there is a miserly allocation of two thousand tickets. Oakwell, home of Barnsley F.C is a twenty three thousand plus ground, at least six thousand spaces in the away end. So it’s around and about to collect season tickets and scurrying in to the queue for when the sale begins at ten on Tuesday morning.

But the tickets haven’t arrived. Cleverly there’s a second window open for those wanting tickets for the second leg the following Thursday (shucks, my German class – again!).

I stay put … and eventually, after we have cheered every white van that even looks as if it might be delivering tickets and joking about how, since it’s a Yorkshire club they probably sent ‘em down by pigeon .. they are on sale. There’s light rain, my brother isn’t answering any of his ‘phones.

And I have talked with new friends. All amazed by the wonderful game at Vale, not least by the number of shots peppered in from range: accurate, powerful and often.

“What we’ve been askin’ for all season,” as one bloke puts it.

I get the tickets, home and away – then check – was it the right number.

Saturday morning comes around and Saddlers’ Widow has spotted some wooden pallets, just right for jobs up at the allotment, so we take a saw and dismantle them and ferry them home and up to the plot. Then bacon sandwiches and off to Rugeley.

Into the back of Andy’s car, with Jack and Chris. By now this is a familiar route. A38 to Derby, then M1 with 50 m.p.h. speed limits. Talk inside the car is of exploding Agas, a trip to Barcelona, student pranks, the conservation status of great crested newts and, inevitably, the game at Port Vale. Warm roads and steady speed driving and we are negotiating the streets of Barnsley in plenty of time. The decision is to park on the away supporters’ car park: a piece of sloping waste ground between the ground and the Barnsley Metrodome. Unknown to us the cars will be packed in nose to tail, some six deep, making leaving a game of patience.

We get into the ground, find the Beer Bar, but, standing by the windows with a sweeping view of the director’s car park and the training pitches and across to the horizon, are told we cannot loiter here.

So we shuffle out into the caverns below the terraces. So many signs, in the event of a fire, refreshments, ladies (nobody has enough to buy one of these since we spent it all on getting here!) and, to pass the time Cully stacks plastic beer bottles, and makes sculptures of the pie trays and forks. It annoys some, but amuses others, including one youth who is subtly trying to blow the tower down. So subtle that he is unsuccessful.

Out into the sunshine, sitting high: good view. The crowd is massive, over 19,000, with almost three thousand Saddlers’ fans in good voice. Roused by the form since we were hammered by Bradford. Further encouraged by the fact that, according to the social media savvy in our group, former Walsall players Andy Butler, Richard O’Donnell and James Baxendale are here. Indeed I spot Butler, sporting a piratical beard after kick off.

But the game explodes into life. We look unsettled, pushed out of our passing game (unless that was the game plan). Fast enough, willing enough but not up to the physicality of the game Barnsley are playing. And it is nerve wracking. Barnsley have the ball in the net twice but both are disallowed. Maybe luck is with us; you need luck sometimes.

We have a couple of attacks, a free kick from Forde just over and wide.

Then we are one nil down. A shot from Hammill, maybe going wide is deflected into the net off Demetriou. Half time.

I am not unhappy at this point. We are struggling, but only one goal behind.

Soon we are two behind; Barnsley breaking quickly and well, catching our defenders up the pitch. The ball is swept forwards, big man Sam Winnall gets a shot away and it is deflected over Neil Etheridge by O’Connor.

Two –nil? Yeah, I’ll even take that. There is plenty of time in the tank, after all – and we are always good to sneak a goal in the last ten minutes or so.

Just as I am stupidly thinking this, that man Winnall is on another run, brushing off challenges and slotting a cool shot into our net. The fight goes out of the players. They huff and puff, but to no avail.

We are a helluva along time getting off the car park; each one of us disappointed. Whitney is quoted as saying about game management, sticking to a plan. Maybe we have heard it all before. This man is undoubtedly an inspirational speaker, truly motivating. But my grandmother might have said “fine words don’t butter parsnips.” What was the game plan? Did the players understand it?

The one reservation I have about Whitney as manager is that he doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of strategy, looking at other teams and adapting our style. Barnsley played us in a similar way to that of Bradford. Big man up front, running at us, harrying – and, again we buckled.

Here’s hoping for some stunning home display on Thursday. The fat lady might just be loosening her tonsils, but it ain’t – quite – over yet.

Drama of a different nature at Man United’s last home game. The ground was evacuated after a “bomb-type” device was found in one of the toilets.

It had been accidentally left there by a training company using the venue during the week. The game will be replayed, but my guess is there will be a fair number of United fans , who travel from all over the world, unable to make the journey a second time.

Just the Ticket? Port vale Away.

Back in 1971, a friend and I stared at some strapping, side-burned man in a too-tight jacket having his photo taken on the pitch at Fellows park (Walsall’s previous home ground). He was physically impressive and had an air of real thuggish menace about him.

“He’s havin’ his photo taken,” my mate explained, “’cos he’s been banned from the ground and all the entrances need to know what he looks like …”

That massive hulking figure was none other than Bernie “the Bolt” Wright. A giant, uncompromising old-fashioned centre forward who terrorised defences with his ask-no-mercy, expect-no-mercy brand of play. He moved on to Everton, was involved in a very unsavoury incident there when he floored a coach but left a mark as he created an impression on the Everton fans, who, Wikipedia has it, remember him for using his head to accidentally break the toe of Sheffield Utd defender Eddie Colquhon during an attempted diving header.

He came back to Saddlers, played with us for a further four years and ended his league career at Port Vale. This weekend’s last-scheduled game of the season.

Travelling to away games, concerts or work back in those days we imbued him with supernatural powers – if there was thunder we’d say it was Bernie’s temper. Either that or Keith Moon playing Heaven’s drums.

Saturday and I’m driving back from my mother’s. She wasn’t in and it was unseasonably hot. I was thinking of getting out the fire-pit and sitting outside later in the evening with a beer. But the sky grew dark – and memories of associating thunder with Bernie came flooding back.

Here was a behemoth who plied his trade at both grounds. Was the long lasting thunder – and seriously heavy downpour some kind of omen? For whom?

I’d reminded my brother that I had the tickets for the Vale game … and that it was a 12.30 kick off. Arranged to get him at ten o’clockish. A steady drive I’m thinking; I can find the Vale ground with my eyes closed (actually incorrect and rather risky). But then – help – I could only find one ticket for the match – an all-ticket occasion, local derby!

Then it dawned on me – he had bought the tickets and kept his own. Panic over – at least for the moment.

Saddlers Widow had baked some lemon meringue pies – courtesy of passing through Bakewell on the route home from Sheffield United – https://saddlersfan.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/sheffield-united-away – for each and every one of us (that’ll be seven then).

The M6 is apparently closed so we slip along the A34, miss the Longton turning and end up going the long way round via the A500. Stuck in traffic, there will be three thousand three hundred Walsall fans on the roads, rails and pavements. We dodge in and out of the rabbit warren side streets and end up with a near perfect spot on top of the hill. Long, warm walk down the Hamil Road, carrying the pies in a carrier bag. Half way down, compulsively checking I realize that I no longer have my ticket.

Rude words!

I send my brother onwards and go and check the car. Phew! There it is, down the side of the hand-brake! The rest of the “team” are inside, the pavements are crowded, flashing lights, police motor bikes, searched before we go in: fortunately there is no problem with the bag of desserts; though we have to take off our hats and have them rousted.

Once inside we have to queue to get through to a wonderfully crowded away end. Behind the goals. Seats are scarce but Cully has some saved for us: good spot. Quick nods and we stand and watch. It is noisy: the Saddlers fans are giving it the twelfth man business!

 

We know what we have to do; win by two clear goals at a team with one of the best home records this season … and a mean defence too. Then we depend on Doncaster beating Burton Albion, who start the day three points ahead of us.

There is tremendous energy about those pre-kick off moments: the pitch, the skies hot and clear. Just around the corner from “our end” are the Port Vale “choir”; strange that the two opposing fans are so close together: this is not normal … but, seriously? The Walsall fans are there to support their team, egg ‘em on, drive the team on. And the songs and encouragement is spinal Tap eleven. There are beach balls, inflatable crocodiles, killer whales, balloons, and bananas bobbling about. People in fancy dress. Big smiles, handshakes, and a will to win!

…oh and a killer Lemmy track to get the blood stirred up (Lemmy Kilminster born in Stoke on Trent: citizen of rock and roll excesses, bless ‘im).

We kick off defending “our “ end. Because that is the second part of the job: don’t concede goals!

Oh and did I mention we had to win by two goals?

Former Walsall full back ben Purkiss is pushing up forwards. He’s against the flying-all-season Rico henry, so is, we guess trying to deny him room to run. God luck with that then. Lalkovic is really fired up, he is so passionate and inclined to get carried away, but is a good ball carrier – and unpredictable. Perhaps we need that today?

Non-stop noise – and people all around with smart phones to get the news from Doncaster.

Vale are a physical team, bit rough in some of the challenges. We have the players to go toe-to-toe with this, but, when one of our runners is fouled we all want a free kick. The referee waves play on. We have the ball, the advantage – and Downing is running in to put the ball. Into. The. Net.

The away end, crammed and crowded goes bouncing crazy. One nil up? So early! Wonderful. Just what the doctor ordered! And Downing? Pushing up so far forwards?

Well, don’t knock it, if it works.

Soon we are pushing up again. Using the wings – and Forde is a revelation – again. Chambers using his energy and experience. Everybody standing up – off the pitch as well as on it. Another sweeping attack and the ball is in the net again. Tom Bradshaw has got his twentieth goal of the season! Tanking through in a way that Bernie Wright would have recognised.

That’s the two goals then! What’s next?

Because if, just if, Doncaster could get that one simple, single goal, this could be a real party!

Just more and more pressure from a team that is in full flow, showing togetherness, skill and determination. A great final game of the season, now if Doncaster could just …

We have the ball in the Vale net again; this time it is Forde. Three goals! I am sure everybody is thinking this – or maybe just me – this is truly miraculous; it means we can give a goal away – as we often do – and still have the necessary two goals in the bag.

Half time. I slump into the seat. All that standing up! I need a rest. What a remarkable turn around since that day up at Bradford: real character from Whitney and the team. Respect. Still nil-nil oop north. But at least Burton aren’t winning – and anything can happen – so quickly in a game of football.

At half time there is a procession of teams around the ground. I guess these are the Port Vale under elevens, under thirteens and so on. It would swell the gate to have their parents here. And, credit to the Walsall fans: we give them a round of applause as they pass by. A cynical part of my brain, meanwhile is thinking: good commercial move, the team has nothing to play for, so get a few more bums on seats by parading the teams and their parents, friends et cetera make up the numbers. Like I said, the cynical side …

In fact, lemon meringue pies consumed and approved, we are on our feet again, the second half has kicked off and some guy in front of us looks up from his phone and announces that Doncaster have scored. Well, it seems they had the ball in the net – but the ref disallowed it.

 

Port Vale at this point seem to be rather going through the motions. They were canny enough in the first half but they have little to play for, probably didn’t bother with full training this week and may be off to catch planes to holiday destinations before the sun sets over the Potteries canal bridges.

 

And we go four nil up. Sloppy clearance lands for Antony Forde, who races forwards, skillful ball control and belts it into the net.

Just. Need. That. Goal. Atdoncaster!  There are substitutions: Sam Mantom comes on. He hasn’t been on long when the ball drops for him and he rifles it straight into the net.

This is amazing stuff.

Come on Doncaster!

But we get to hear that Doncaster are down to ten men. Not sure if somebody has been sent off – but they have used all their subs. Maybe Burton’ll score an own goal?

Then, strangely Doncaster are down to nine men. Nigel Clough’s bully boy tactics? Intimidate the opposition? Whatever it is, it is working for them

We are five nil up – but points behind.

Still, this has been an exhilarating season – and it doesn’t finish at the final whistle.

Automatic promotion? No. But the play offs are now next for us now. We play Barnsley away next Saturday, then at home the following Thursday.

Port Vale generously allow the Walsall team and management to come over and celebrate the last game of the league season (play offs are a separate entity). While this is happening, most of the home fans join in the applause, but a few spoil it with rude behaviour. Including one “hero” who, probably drunk and a bit, launches himself over the wall, tries to barge through the police lines and ends up, red-faced and restrained by the boys (and girls)in blue. Good job!

We squeeze out and travel along gently friendly roads. Still a chance of getting up then.

There is no point at all, though it is doubtless being done on coaches, paths and in cars, wondering where we could have nabbed those extra few points (for me, ironically the game at Burton) that would have us promoted already.

It is enough on this bright, warm day to have seen such a display: dominant, aggressive, skillful and entertaining.

Credit to Burton Albion: promotion wasn’t won by a single game, but by a gradual aggregation of points, goals, knock-backs and hard work. A small club, with a tiny budget, doing well through dogged determination and pride, against the odds. Respect is earned; you have mine.

But super credit to our players, to all of those who have worked in the back-rooms, pits and engine-rooms; to those I have been on the road with – and …

…we are still in it: still shouting, still up for it.

Dare to believe, indeed!

Springing Eternal: Fleetwood at home.

Saturday, 1^st May.

The very first Staffordshire Day. We are hailed, in local promotional stuff as the “creative county”, but nobody was creating much of a hoo-hah for this day. Something big going on in Stoke – which, at one point wanted to leave Staffordshire and become a unitary authority. Something happening at Rudyard Lake, A video message from Robbie Williams (born and raised in Burslem) …

Anything else?

Oh yeah a couple of minutes on the local news TV channel.

Reginald Mitchell anyone? Josiah Wedgwood, Cannock Chase? Staffordshire Moorlands? the highest pub in England (Flash)?The Staffordshire Hoard?

Tamworth, once capital of Mercia? Lichfield?

Nah … nobody seemed too bothered to be honest.

Shame, we need a bit of self-promotion, putting on the said map. But we have lots of houses flying Black Country flags – as if we haven’t got a bona fide Staffordshire one!

Weather poor: some thunder – and me hoping to influence the Burton Albion score by avoiding all contact with commentaries and results. I managed it too, but the Brewers still snatched a last minute winner to beat Gillingham 2 – 1.

Meaning we need to win our next two games to get automatic promotion!

And did I mention Burton have to lose – and the goal difference must swing in our favour by some five goals.

So, setting out for the 12.15 kick off we all know what we need to do today. Lose and we are in the play offs. Win and we take it to the last league match at Port Vale! Get some goals in the bag and we’re putting pressure on the team up the A38!

Now the game was rearranged to fit in with Live Sky TV so the whole circus is across the car park: cables, outside broadcast vans – and a diversion around the safety fencing. Large boas of cables run alongside the stadium walls and once inside – how could I forget – there is a camera scaffolding next to our delegated seats.

But first a sausage bap and a pint of Stella in the lounge; link up with Cully and Andy: both fed up with the razzamatazz about Leicester City – almost but not yet – winning the premier league title. Me? I’m happy that a different team will be in the spotlight – not a fashionable team. And a manager, Claudio Ranieri, with charm and enthusiasm – and quiet, sparkling passion.

We stroll out, squeeze along the narrow channel behind the last row of seats to our seats, scowl at the camera and unsettle a couple nearby. They may not have the right seats? Correct: the lady is sitting in my actual seat; but the seats are not so precious so we smile and make them welcome. Their first visit to Walsall, they are down from Paisley in Scotland: football fans who, last time they were down this way, went to a Wolves game. I tell them this is bound to be a far better experience. They are St Mirren fans – and we exchange a bit of banter.

We kick off – and two minutes later fast raiding full back- come-winger Jason Demetriou slings the ball across and Tom Bradshaw turns it first time into the net.

We are stunned: two minutes barely gone and we are one goal up!

If we can win three nil, then beat Port Vale by one goal and Burton lose by a goal at Doncaster – we are promoted automatically … oh the permutations!

But we are hardly a free scoring team at this stage, so sit back and watch.

But we are cracking shots in! Winning corners – and Romaine Sawyers is in the box for one, having a good push-shove go with a defender, before peeling away, leaving Paul Downing to side foot a cool one into the net. Eighteen minutes gone.

On the side line Fleetwood manager is going through a whole aerobics work-out, signalling, bending, living the game ball by ball: more effort from him in his skin tight trackie bottoms than from his players who are being out run and out thought in front of his eyes.

Fleetwood is a seaside town, a few miles north of Blackpool. In the league they are also neighbours: Fleetwood, two points clear of Blackpool, but both struggling to avoid the drop. As we watch, it is easy to see why.

One advantage of having the telly cameras here is that, after each goal a replay is shown on the score board screen. Thank goodness we are winning then.

At half time we retire inside. All being well we may not be back again this season, although we have our passes and season tickets ready for next season. But which teams will we be playing?

We are a decent little club honest and hard working. Held back by a small budget, but fired up with confidence and able to take teams on at this level. A season in the championship will ,doubtless see us struggle to win. But if we could just hang on, get the better of a few teams, spring a few surprises – what we could d o in a second season.

And how attractive we might be for players to come to – on free transfers, on loan.

Hold o n; stop dreaming. One game at a time. There is work to do here. here and now.

But this is an excellent team performance, only young Kieron Morris looking out of it; perhaps because he is being played inside rather than on the wing. Ford and Demetriou meshing nicely. On the other wing Henry and Lalkovic too.

Sawyers is having an effective game – and he links well, running into space and, from outside the penalty box whacks a low shot into the inside of the net, just inside the post. Three nil.

There are a few Fleetwood fans here and about six thousand Saddlers fans, getting behind this magical performance. We dare to dream: three nil: a near perfect score. All that has to happen now is we win by a goal at Port Vale and Burton Albion lose their final away game at Doncaster – and we are up; promoted automatically without the need for the play-off tensions and dramas.

There is the standard announcement about not invading the pitch at the end of the game … the players want to show their appreciation but will not be doing that if fans encroach on the playing area…

And then, dammit, Fleetwood have the nerve to score. Quite how the ball gets into the net, nobody, least of all any Walsall player seems to know. Etheridge looks shocked …

But we had gone off the boil, unusually.

And, at the final whistle a few enthusiastic fans dodge the stewards most are sensible enough to stay off the pitch and, of course, the players come out and pose for selfies, sign autographs.

I head out via the Savoy Lounge … but decide to wait for ten minutes or so for a sudden downpour to pass. I am not sure how long the players stay out on the pitch in this.

Then I am soon scooting home in my car. The drama continues …

Meanwhile Leicester City become champions by default: Tottenham only drawing against Chelsea means they cannot catch up on points by the end of the season.

Leicester deserve respect, of course. Five thousand to one outsiders to win the League back when the season started they have shown marvellous spirit and team work. Please let some of that rub off on us (as I dare say supporters of all teams are whispering just as I am).

Pride? Restored? Shrewsbury at Home.

Still smarting from the thrashing we had up at Bradford I am driving home on Tuesday evening. Unlike the previous week when I was hungry and frustrated by traffic and – let’s face it – just plain late and generally behind a tight schedule …

Where was I?

Oh yes, unlike last week, this time I am foddered, not dehydrated – as I worked out how the damned coffee machine worked – and very early. Just setting out ten minutes earlier and the traffic is slim. All the way home. Along the A5. The road works. The Roman road. The one that leads from London to Holyhead. The traditional route, before the upstart M54 interrupted, from my house to Shrewsbury – or, as you will, Shrewsbury to Walsall (give or take a mile or two).

Shrewsbury, tonight’s visitors. Shrewsbury: the next banana skin? Shrewsbury, still struggling against relegation – and likely to be fired up and scrapping for every morsel on that pitch tonight!

And looming on the horizon, like a plague of Old testament proportion there is, most definitely a storm. In my poet’s mind it is coming from Shrewsbury: a storm that will test our mettle and go a long way to sorting stuff out. For example; do we have the necessary cojones to get over the Bradford fiasco? Will we still be in with any chance of automatic promotion when the dust settles?

But it won’t be actual dust. It will be hail!

I eat, saddle up mentally and drive beneath glowering skies – no precipitation yet – to my usual parking nest. My parking is clumsy – I am, let’s face it, more famous for abandoning cars than parking them. One wheel is on the kerb, three not. But I am not blocking anyone’s access – and I should be in good shape to make a speedy get away.

From here it is a fifteen minute walk to the entrance of the savoy Lounge (if that). I am just three minutes into that walk when the very heavens open. Lightning crackles and thunder rolls long and hard across the skies. There is a plane on final approach to Birmingham International. Bet they got a good view of that one!

But most of the downfall is not simple rain. It is hail – coming down in bullets! That over-tall privet hedge provides some shelter, but I skip and cringe across the car park – a good few visitors from Shrewsbury, all sheltering in the lee of the stadium (what there is of it), some smoking.

All of us nervous. A lot to play for this evening!

I catch up with the day’s news on the big screen in the Lounge. Read that the Hillsborough Inquiry jury has come up with a landslide number of verdicts around the main one of “unlawful killing.” Damning!

 

Then I notice Cully, Andy and Jack. I am still thinking of the Hillsborough disaster, the stories in the media at the time, the wonderful long, long, proud fight put up by the families against massive institutions (press, police and general public perceptions in the days when to be a football fan was to some degree to be an enemy of society).

We do discuss the findings; in no doubt that there were mistakes made, but unsure where this will lead. That ordinary coppers were as sickened as we were, then and now and tried to help but were held back obeying orders. Mostly we are disgusted that this didn’t all come out in the police investigations carried by our very own West Midlands Police Force. That this was, almost certainly covered up*.

But talk soon turns, as it must to this game; to the Bank Holiday Monday mid day kick off, by which time Burton Albion will have played against Gillingham – and we’ll have a better idea of what we need to get done. And our final scheduled game of the season at Port Vale (I have my ticket already!) This is also a mid-day ish kick off.

Then we creep out to take our seats. There is still hail on the pitch, filling up little depressions in the playing surface – and cold!

Kick off and we escape a couple of times; poor back passes. And we go on the attack. This is a side of attacking players, but still we spend an awful lot of time in our own half. Sawyers is back on form. He is out on the left wing, picks out Kieron Morris running through the middle, a couple of strides and he pulls the trigger on a shot across the keeper. Goal!

Relief!

We need a few more, so set about it, but Shrewsbury manager makes a tactical substitution that closes up the defence.

But not enough to stop a long run from Rico Henry going on and on and on. Past defender after defender. Eventually he tries a shot which is deflected off one defender, then comes back off another and beats the Swiss goalie who flaps at it.

Second half kicks off and Shrewsbury with absolutely nothing to lose but face step up and drive us back. Just one point would keep them in this league; they just need to get one goal back to be in it again.

Inevitably (this is Bescot after all and we are definitely not Bradford!) they get the goal.

But final result is a two one win. Enough to get the points. To prove the point that we are psychologically strong enough. Our problem is not of spirit, but simply the inability to make the most of our fluid play. In short, dammit we cannot score gaols. Yet we are in a great position and there is till a chance!

Bring on the Cod Army!

 

• What follows is a reasonable summary taken from Wikipedia. Needless to say there are so many, many more harrowing details; including attempted demonization of loyal football supporters and the anguish of loved ones. My respect goes to all of the people involved, not all of them seeking justice survived to see today’s momentous rulings.

The Hillsborough disaster was a human crush that caused the deaths of 96 people and injured 766 others at a football match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest at Hillsborough Stadium, Sheffield, England, on 15 April 1989. The match was the 1988–89 FA Cup semi-final, with Hillsborough, home ground of Sheffield Wednesday, selected as a neutral venue. The crush occurred in pens in the Leppings Lane stand, allocated to Liverpool fans. Steel fencing between the spectators and the playing field prevented victims from escaping the overcrowded western stand. At the time, such fencing was commonly used in English football stadiums to prevent friendly and hostile pitch invasions. The interim report in the 1989–90 official inquiry into the disaster by Lord Taylor concluded that “the main reason for the disaster was the failure of police control.”^[1] In 2016, a new inquiry returned a verdict that the victims were unlawfully killed as a result of an inadequate response by emergency services.^[2]

Entry to the Leppings Lane stand was possible only via one of seven turnstiles, a restriction that led to dangerous overcrowding outside the ground before kick-off. In an attempt to ease pressure outside the ground, Police Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield, the senior police officer responsible for policing the match, ordered an exit gate to be opened. The opened exit gate led to a tunnel marked “Standing”, which led directly to the two already overcrowded enclosures. In previous years the tunnel had been closed off by police when the two central pens were full; however, on this occasion the tunnel was unmanned. The findings of the final report resulted in the elimination of standing terraces at all major football stadiums in England, Wales and Scotland. It remains the worst stadium-related disaster in the history of English sport, and one of the world’s worst football disasters.

That Is The Question … Bradford Away

Bradford is a place of many memories for me.

Our good friend and fellow Saddlers supporter, Stuart (a.k.a. “Snowy”) was at university there. At a conference up there Saddlers Widow and I saw our first I-Max film, the documentary “Yellowstone” (I had done some background work relating to it) that inspired us to actually travel to the States for the first, but definitely not the last, time. We were once on a Walsall coach trip there for a game – back in the days of prevalent football hooliganism – and escorted this bitterly cold December (possibly November) evening to a safe parking spot outside the police station, then walked by police to the then-very-different ground.

After the game we got back to the coaches to find that one had had bricks thrown through the front window. It was completely smashed. The attitude of the local police was of complete disinterest. So the driver stoically knocked out the rest of the glass and we set off for Walsall. Our coach driving just ahead in some probably highly irrelevant attempt to part the air. So we ripped letters from the ubiquitous newspapers and held them to the back window

“Ice Cold Drinks Available” being the one example that’s ticks in our minds. How we laughed as we watched the huddled up passengers.

Then, more poignantly Cully and I were there for a Saturday game. 1985. Nothing unusual, sitting in the wooden benches, walking on the wooden planked floors of the terraces, or visiting the toilets beneath the seats. Bits and pieces dropped by spectators would drop through the holes in the tiered flooring and collect on this ground. On this day I particularly remember discussing with Cully just how much junk there was: newspaper, tickets, crisp packets, chip wrappers, cardboard cups. All just left. How casually we wondered what it would be like if a cigarette end were dropped down, ignited the … Because these were the 1980s. Smoking was known as unhealthy, but remained fashionable and there was no ban on smoking in public places as there is now.

Then, inevitably I guess, we moved on to discuss more important matters (beer, women, films, concerts). And, just a few weeks later I got home from a home match to find my wife worried by reports and film on the TV of a fire in a stand at a (then) third division ground. She thought maybe it was Walsall (all grounds – when did we start calling them stadiums? – looking pretty much the same in those 1980s days. It was Bradford. Fifty six people died in the fire, which spread and destroyed the whole stand in less than ten minutes. A real pity.  People who had gone to see football, indeed to celebrate Bradford’s promotion season.

That was 1985, football grounds are such different places to be now, although Valley Parade is in its traditional setting, largely re-built but still surrounded by houses. Rather than the current trend to put grounds in out of town shopping centres (Reading is a super example of this). And there is something of the familiar and reminiscent about this. But the ground is improved, better safety standards we would hope. Although, once inside the toilets leave something to be desired.

We recall these things as we drive up the M1. Dismiss talk of promotion via the play-offs. Why talk about it, we can still be promoted automatically. Cross the bridges when we get to ‘em we sagely decide.

Bradford looks bleak. Once a town of thriving woollen mills some of the tall characteristic chimneys remain. The street we park in is cobbled: big proper cobbles too. It is a cul-de-sac and at the end of it, is the Job Centre. Appropriate? Back on the corner with the Main Street is the Bradford Arms. This is the pub nominated for away fans by the police, apparently. We go in for a beer. It is decently old fashioned. Small? Tiny, rather.  But I get the beers in (Tetley’s Bitter, a Carling and a Coors Light) and we sit under the big screen. The Derby Sheffield Wednesday game is on. But no commentary. Instead piped music blares out of the speakers set on the coach backs in the corner. Including a lengthy version of Purple Rain by Prince, American singer/musician who died this week. Sad indeed.

But the music has no real depth or tone; it is tinny and loud.

Until that is a whole shed load of Walsall fans enter. Unceremoniously as is normal. And start some serious drinking and er … what might be described as singing. But seriously good natured. The songs are non-stop, some old favourites (Alan Buckley gets a name call, as does Ray Graydon – and even the I.R.A). Then, patriotically there are renditions of Rule Britannia, God save the Queen (whose 90^th birthday was celebrated roundly last week) and a version of Happy Birthday …

One of the participants was costumed as a Crusader-version of St George. So I can now say I have had a beer with the patron saint of my own country.

And, so down the streets to an almost-hidden Valley parade, clinging on to the side of what is indeed a steep valley; so that when you are on the level of away supporters entry gates the town towers above you. Into the ground. It is tight at this end. A lower egg box section, staggered stairs to a better-view floor. Where we settle, right at the front.  Bars set at eye-level, meant to keep us safe. However a serious piece of angle iron, about eight feet long is completely loose. If dislodged could fall on to the seats below and … Recalling the what-if discussions in 1985 I report this to one of the stewards. Will she actually pass the message on? Honestly? I would love to say yes, but that wasn’t the impression I got.

The team are warming up. Tom Bradshaw not starting again. Rico Henry as winger, Taylor as left back. Matt Pennington has been recalled by Everton (playing man United in an F.A. Cup semi final today) so James O’Connor back at centre half.

There is very little to say about the actual play. We were poor, bossed out of it. Simple as …

Lucky to get in at nil nil after a fraught forty five minutes. Sure somebody would get it right in the half time talk, sure our fitness would get us through.

But no, no and no.

One nil down, then very quickly two. By the end big old-style, bustling centre forward James Hanson has a hat-trick and Bradford are four nil to the good. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly Burton have beaten Colchester three nil. So behind now on both points and goal difference.

We are downcast. Jon Witney is stirring in his after-match comments. How appropriate on Shakespeare’s birth and death day.

“It was not good enough,” said Whitney afterwards. “I am not going to stand here and insult the fans’ intelligence. “I have asked the players to have a look at themselves. I’m not going to stand there and lose my head like the old Jon would have done years back. “I want to look at it logically. I want the players to go home and ask themselves, did you really, really do enough to challenge Bradford? “Did you do enough to want to get promoted to the Championship? Were you willing to put your head on the line because sometimes that is what you have to do in football. “It’s not always about playing pretty football. We have to match them physically and we didn’t do it second half and then we lose heavily.

Now we wait – the short wait – until Tuesday’s home game against Shrewsbury. We hope the words stir something up! We need to see a stunning performance. The team need to come back from a “reet spanking”! by a strong Bradford team.

We discuss, as fans will, changes we would make to the line-up. But realise the manager has an unenviable job … but wouldn’t we each like to be giving it a go?

Whether Witney will be manager long term is a matter for the board, who have been supportive this season. If so, inevitably he will be on a steep learning curve. With players almost or already out of contract, who will be playing for us at the start of the next campaign. And, in the Championship?

Back at home: there is a fantastically varied programme on BBC 2 with snippets of Shakespeare interspersed with details of his life. So many famous actors and up and coming ones too. Dealt with seriously with moments of comedy and music. Wonderful to see even royalty getting involved: our very own Prince Charles in a Hamlet sketch.

“To be or not to be …”  where oh where to put the emphasis? (This should be the question the coaching team at Walsall are setting their minds to.

As I tap this out, TV is showing the London Marathon. Somewhere out in space Tim Peak, strapped to a treadmill is doing his own marathon.

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!

The Difference a Few Days Make:Gillingham Away/Southend at Home.

Part One: Before Kick-Off

It’s Saturday morning.

Unusually when my mobile ‘phone rings I am still asleep. It’s nearly 10 a.m. we were at our youngest daughters yesterday. Amongst other things (motorbike tyres, Lidl, getting the horses in and eating we watched The Warriors film ( a version of the return journey of ancient Greek general Xenophon/the Odyssey I think) and Captain America, The Winter Soldier. I’ve always been a sucker for the wonderful myths and legends from ancient Greece – and marvel Comic stories.

 

Coming into vague consciousness to answer the call – and recognising how to operate the damned thing – I hope I exhibit more of Captain America than the Hulk. Though Saddlers Widow smiles at both suggestions when I mention it (just in passing you understand?).

Last Friday (seems so long ago now) I was all fired up: ready to travel to Oldham (I did) and far away Gillingham for what became the epic fifth position-in-the-table (them) versus sixth (us) game.

But, things and a small dip in faith kept me away. Coward-like I bunkered down at home and found the live BBC Radio WM commentary.

So glad I did, but a little ashamed I didn’t actually make the journey. There are no wasted journeys so far this season: we sounded back in form and came out two-one winners. Playing without Tom Bradshaw goals went to Milan Lalkovic and Jordy Hiwula. Rocketing us back to a deserved third place. The top two teams get automatic promotion at the end of the season. Third, fourth, fifth and sixth go into the play offs, the eventual winner of a Wembley final going up to the Championship. OK. I am biased, but we deserve one of the automatic spots! And by Wednesday morning we are in better shape to get it!

So my brother is ringing about going to the game (did Captain America have a brother? I wonder once my brain is organising itself). And he will pick me up at around one-thirty.

The next big match – today’s game against Southend – is getting closer!

Part Two: After The Game.

We decide, on the way to the match that we will get tickets for the last match of the season: Port Vale away. Try to get them before kick-off to deny any last minute changes-of-heart. So he joins the queue for tickets and I head into the savoy Lounge. Only six games left: four at home, two away (Bradford in a week’s time and the final scheduled game at Vale).

On the big screens in the lounge Sunderland are soundly beating Norwich (3 – 0 final score) and I meet up with Andy and Cully. Former Walsall (Leeds and England) player Allan “Sniffer” Clarke had been somewhere nearby – part of a host of former players who paraded at half time. In support, among other things of the Team Margot Foundation, an organisation which campaigns to encourage people to register as bone marrow donors. Margot? A fourteen month old child who died needing just that, having a rare form of leukaemia. In the midst of the fury and intensity of a football match we need reminding, sometimes about real priorities. If you want more details try http://www.teammargot.com

We start to organise a trip to the Bradford game then troop out to our seats. A total crowd of five thousand three hundred and some supporters here. Expectant. But no Tom Bradshaw in the team, not even on the bench. We won without him on Tuesday – and a rest will probably do him a power of good.

From the start we are the superior team. Southend put up a good resistance, but we break through, break them down, put them under pressure. Chance after chance comes our way: we work the spaces, work the passes, alternate. Get shots in: from long range and close in. Their goalkeeper,  Bentley, wearing road-mender orange shirt and shorts did well to save from Sam Mantom, Sawyers, Forde and Demetriou in fast, early exchanges.  And, as usual we are looking good, but, frustratingly,  manage not to score. To their credit this is due to good defending from the visitors – and a little luck along the way.

I am, frankly happy not to be losing: over the seasons I have been to too many games where we over commit going forwards and give away a sloppy goal.

Second half and the frustration begins to show. Hiwula up front Is running well, Rico Henry, playing left back looks a little ragged, Sam Mantom not quite as decisive. But it is noticeable that we are playing further forwards. Sawyers tries his clever tricks and flicks (that have him nominated as one of the League One players of the Season apparently). To no avail. The crowd start to get restless. The minutes are ticking away. Sixty, seventy …

We are winning corners, free kicks, but Southend are stubborn. Southend make the breakaway and have the ball in our net, but the referee disallows it for off-side. Phew!

With two minutes left – and people around me thinking it would end up a goalless draw Forde takes a corner, the ball is clipped into the box and …

Walsall players raise their arms: the ball crossed the line! Didn’t it? There is a moment’s pause. The assistant referee had his flag up immediately. He must have seen it, mustn’t he? What did I see, a Southend defender bending and heading the ball out for the corner. The rush to take the corner. Kieron Morris strutting into the box, Hiwula looking busy centre goal. I was watching for Pennington who had made some useful dead ball runs. The ball coming over. A scramble – all goals don’t have to be tidy, remember – and the ball coming back off the underside of the crossbar. Players turning immediately away, celebrating … because …

After a nervous moment or two – and the assistant referee still signalling for a goal the ref blows his whistle, signals a Saddlers goal and the noise is both wonderful and a relief. Relief! Some fans scramble excitedly onto the field. Then vanish p.d.q. Was it Hiwula who got that final touch? Nobody seems absolutely sure. But we have to hold on for an extra five minutes additional time. A few seconds before we, in the crowd, were wishing for more time to score. Now it is exactly the opposite!

We do hang on; play smart, keep the ball. True, goalkeeper Etheridge has been in fine form all game keeps out a determined last few minutes of raids – and …

Second placed Burton have only managed a draw. We are in third place, but now – if we win our game in hand – will go above them: equal on points, better goal difference. And the future is in our own hands again.

The Swindon match on Tuesday is going to be another tense affair. But exciting tense!

Perspective: Oldham Away.

A few days and a few beers later …

Some perspective has returned: the loss at Sheffield was not the end of the world, actually just another game in what is turning out to be a very enjoyable season. And we were there to see it, like so many other games this season. But time draws on – and there are, inevitably fewer games left and a kind of madness/clarity descends.

Our next game at Oldham is reachable. Saturday. While the next Tuesday evening game at Gillingham no longer feels quite so tempting.

So I am texting: my brother unable to make the journey proper pressures of work and time). But Andy is up for it: my message somewhat timely and succeeds in tempting him.

So we set off with him taking turn at being chauffeur and navigator.

Saddlers Widow’s words ringing in my ear (“Take a water proof coat, the weather will get wet!”) I dump my ages-old green and black very-basic ski-ing anorak into the back seat of the BMW.

Rain? Sees unlikely as we head north, to the M6 and up the motorway. Queues, speed limits but we have set out with what we –always – hope is plenty of time.

Off and around Manchester; industry and it’s remnants crowd around: Lancashire, perhaps stereotypically famous for cotton mills. But looming over the road and pressing up the skies is the enormous Stockport viaduct. Apparently this mighty visionary structure is made up of eleven million (count ‘em!) bricks and was completed in 1840. Crossing the River Mersey valley it has twenty on arches and still carries the West Coast railway. Things were built big and meant to last back in Victorian times. The factories, warehouses and mills have gone now, fallen into rack and ruin or converted into shopping malls or similar. But their ghosts are here for anyone who knew about them.

Are schoolchildren still actually reminded of this heritage these days we wonder idly. This is a time in which locality seems to mean less and less. The world shrinking and identity being less linked to places. It is not surprising given the wonders of technology and the amount of spare/available time (blogs are a fine example I guess) but is also a shame. The best of both worlds would be better; but how to achieve balance?

We stop for lunch at a canal-side hostelry, The Boat and Horses. Manchester pale Ale for me, with steak and ale pie. Big, friendly place. Spacious and walls decorated with old photos and pictures of locally born celebrities. One of my favourite post-war funny men Eric Sykes is up there. As is Christopher Biggins, who apparently sat with my mother at an airport and had to tell her who he was (oh the cruel indignity of it all …)

 

We drift out of the car park, find one of the final places on the official car park (a steward carries the Car Park Full and sets it up in the road behind our very car.

Good timing! We smile – a little too smugly. But one of the stewards tells us of a car that got trapped in mud there a couple of weeks ago and another is telling anybody who will listen that he has won money on the Grand National. Strange – it doesn’t begin until after the final whistle.

Since the last time I was here a new stand has been built where, previously here was a feeble security fence atop a bank of hard-core. I think I know here I am going so we head up the hill. But … also since last time the home supporter’s end has been switched and, effectively we end up walking round three sides of the ground to find the correct gate to pay at. Old fashioned ground this one: built with players and officials entrance straight onto the road, solid brick walls and manned turnstiles.

From inside the new stand looks good and the corrugated roof we sit under, behind the goals is held up by a spider web of Meccano-like joints, braces and nuts and bolts: Universal fittings. Rusted into place.

And the pitch looks rough. A lot of sand, a lot of bumps.

The two teams come out. Henry left on the bench, Taylor playing, Pennington who had a good debut last week in, O’Connor still missing. Hiwula and Bradshaw look a good pair up front with Sawyers behind them is our guess. Kick off and we look smart, good passing. But just to much passing and not enough having a shot?

 

Love the short, passing game with the occasional longer ball to open teams up: and that’s what we are doing to Oldham, but not just having a bash often enough for my liking. Forde is playing – and very quickly snaffles some great interceptions, then head down and flying to get a cross in. Excellent.

Hiwula moving about: either doing what he’s been tasked with or making it up as he goes along. He’s certainly covering ground and putting some maximum effort in.

But, curses we are blessed by a group of “experts” (three of ‘em) who know everything there is to know about football and just have to give everybody else the benefit of their wealth of knowledge. Apparently they even knew how we were going to play – and that we’d be rubbish … and that we’d lose.

Nothing like that kind of punditry to set my back up and destroy what is otherwise a very positive fandom. Malignant and erosive. Tell you what lads next time stay at home eh?

But then again, as my grandfather might have said fools who never stop talking must get one or two things right, just because they say so damned much.

And while we aren’t scoring Oldham manage to get a goal ahead. Their fans, quiet as mice up to that point go berserk. This really is the score they are needing, freeing them of relegation worries.

And, once ahead they fight hard not to let us in.

Bradshaw gets taken off: some thigh injury perhaps?

Lalkovic, Kieron Morris and Jordan Cook come on, but it doesn’t get any better.

And it is suddenly raining. Hard. And, feeling confident I have left my waterproof coat in the car (sorry darling). The last few minutes are played out – there’s a tinge of the familiar about it all. And, although Burton lose to Scunthorpe other results have us dumped down to sixth place. Still with games in hand, but the next one is away at Gillingham.

We scuttle , just about maintaining our dignity back to the car. Making the distance in a break in the downpour. Back on the road we are both grimly quiet and listen to the commentary of the Grand National race as hail piles up on the bonnet of the car. The race is taking place as we drive through this dreadful weather but there is no mention of storms, winds or hail there ( less than forty miles away).

Sheffield United Away

Dean Holden has been appointed as Walsall coach. Fresh from spell at Oldham but previously signed as a defender at Walsall. Maybe we need his enthusiasm, different pair of eyes and defensive knowledge. This is going to be a run-in and a half. Burton Albion slipping up and their results bring them closer to us – just the matter of a couple of games in hand to deal with. Oh and three consecutive away games: Sheffield United, Oldham and Gillingham to be precise!

We have also signed a twenty one year old defender, Matthew Pennington on loan from Everton. I am not sure whether this was some kind of knee-jerk reaction to the injury to James O’Connor. But we also have the impressive Matt Preston available; but some depth in numbers – as long as it is quality – may be what we need. A young gun, ready to fill his boots, make his name and add his weight to the race-for-the-line.

Speaking of which the Oxford v. Cambridge Boat race was last weekend. The newly-added women’s race was astounding: the Oxford boat seeming to lose its way, while the Cambridge boat, already behind, followed the “racing line” and shipped so much water the pumps failed to work and the top of the sides of the boat were, literally level with the surface of the Thames! Credit to them that they managed to dig and finish. Credit to the Oxford cox for steering their boat into calmer (and winning) waters.

In the international break our very own Tom Bradshaw finally played for the Wales full team; coming on for twenty minutes as sub.

And a campaign to raise awareness of prostate cancer has TV Sky presenter Jeff Stelling doing a walk from Hartlepool to Wembley. He was joined on his midlands stretch by officials from local clubs, including the Saddlers. The campaign is called Men United.

So, following ‘phone calls I volunteer to do the driving to Sheffield United’s Bramall Lane home. The weather forecast is for showers to have passed and sunshine to be flooding in – and I grab the tickets from the box office beforehand. There’s a Transit Rail white van with Wolves supporters and Baggies fans involved in some banter outside the window there, but all cheerful enough.

Saturday comes round after news of international steel company Ta Ta deciding to sell the steel plants in Port Talbot and the government, faced by international corporate business and, either confounded by European Union rules or using this as an excuse unable/unwilling to do much. It is so much easier, of course, to be in opposition … but to be making the decisions (or avoiding them)? I mention this because, once upon a time Sheffield was the earth’s home of steel, particularly the stainless variety, the place was synonymous with quality cutlery and pen-knives. Hall marked!

And this indeed is where the nickname of Sheffield United comes from: the Blades! Their mascot is a rather pantomime pirate figure – up-staged only at half time by a rag-tag bunch of super-heroes (a lanky Spiderman, an aged-looking Captain America, Deadpool, and – a token DC character – Batman who parade around the ground, posing for photos and waving to sections of the nineteen thousand and some crowd.

Exactly when and where did this “nicknaming” of clubs start? The derivations of names from local industry/trade (obvious in names like Luton Town’s Hatters, Scunthorpe’s The Iron) gives something of the history – and pride of places the clubs are based. But, rather hollow in places like Sheffield, far more famous in its current guise for the Don Valley Stadium, and coach trips to one of Europe’s largest shopping malls at Greenhall Meadows. Coach trips to a shopping centre, I ask you. Really?

Walsall still has saddleries of some repute, including one which provides saddles for the Spanish Riding School (based, naturally enough in Vienna, capital of Austria!) And, I remember pootling around a cowboy store in Montana, finding saddles badges with made in Walsall.

But I get ahead of myself. The weather brightens after a trip to the library. By the time I get to my brother’s the roads are beginning to dry and by the time I have picked up the other two and am pulling out of the Alrewas petrol station things are looking up.

The car zooms speedily enough along the A38, the M1 and grinds to something of a stutter as we hit city centre traffic. Finding a parking space is never easy, but Bramall Lane is unusually close to the actual city centre. Loads of roads are permit-only and bristle with monitoring wardens. Eventually after riding all of the famous seven hills of the city (some of ‘em more than once) we chance upon a spot and disembark.

Inside the ground we get some pies and beers in (though I’m still resolutely non-alcohol – at least until we get beaten) and climb stairs to find we have a super view, from behind the goals of a well-sponsored, well-maintained ground. Which lacks the floodlight pylons it once had, but looks enormous from this angle. Feels rich too, though it may not be.

Kick off and some urgent scuttling about. Pennington is making his debut. Looks big, plays with confidence and energy in a 3 – 5- 2 system (if Sawyers can be considered a striker that is – even he is not sure).

Rico Henry running the left wing. Fast, tricky, but his crosses after wonderful runs are wasted. Either because he doesn’t look or because we just don’t have bodies up there (take your pick) and we go a goal down.

Sheffield using the wings well, carrying the ball. Well, they are at home. But Walsall are still, somehow, underwhelming. Was it the international break lay-off?

Reece Flanagan, picked because he had impressed in training, is ineffective, or swamped by Sheffield players, Sam Mantom cannot make up the ground and Chambers, always willing is last-ditch tackling and covering like a maniac.

Soon we are two goals down.

There is a spirited spell in the second half. Milan Lalkovic comes on, Hiwula too, but it is too late to make a real difference. Bradshaw up front, for the first time this season is unable to run on to the balls that are pumped up to him.

So we file, quietly out and find our way – eventually across the non-motorway Peak District therapy. By the time I am pulling into the drive at home most of the below-par performance has been erased.

Still in it: heads-down boys and pull for the top spots!

Oh, and I can now drink alcohol without feeling too guilty: thanks boys!