Imp My Ride

I know what's going to happen in the game today; I dreamed it last night.
Danny Harrison is going to score directly from a corner, and the goal will
be disallowed. This would be a more realistic prospect if a) Danny Harrison
actually took corners for us and b) Drewe Broughton was running round the
pitch in a sweaty vest at the same time, as in the dream. That's the last
time I have Stilton before I go to bed, I can tell you.
You may scoff, but I have in the past had dreams which have correctly
foreshadowed a scoreline. A few years ago, we played Reading in a game which
was moved forward for Sky. On a Bank Holiday Monday. At the same time as the
unwashed hordes were making their way home from the Reading festival. Great
timing, Sky, thanks. However, the night before I was dreaming about the
game; it was nil-nil at half time, and then I woke up. So when we were
sitting in the Madjeski the following day, I was quite relaxed in the first
half, as I knew no one was going to score ­ and they didn't. It was only
after the break that I began to get anxious, seeing as I hadn't dreamed the
final result.
But that's all to come. First John K and I have got to get up to Newark and
rendezvous with Chris, who's coming over from Manchester and has three
minutes to make the connection, though at the least his train pulls in on
the adjacent platform, so he's got a fighting chance of making it, which he
does with time to spare. As we're getting off the train in Lincoln, a bloke
spots Chris' Rotherham shirt and gets chatting to us about a schoolfriend of
his who's a Rotherham fan. It turns out he's talking about Richard Burton,
who my dad used to stand with on the Tivoli before he got his seat in the
old main stand. So I promise that if I see Richard later, I'll tell him that
Andy says hello.
Andy also points out the swiftest route to the pub the Kirklands and I are
trying ­ the Green Dragon. Normally, we'd head for the Golden Eagle, which
is a great pub but is always rammed on matchdays, but Ted was in Lincoln for
Darlo's abortive attempt to play them a couple of weeks ago, and recommends
the downstairs bar in the Green Dragon, as it has 12 real ales on and isn't
too busy. It proves to be a good choice and, suitably fortified, we had for
Sincil Bank.
We end up sitting right by the corner flag near the away turnstiles, because
I've done my best to tape the flag down securely, but it's so windy it ends
up flapping about and I want to be close to it as one of the stewards is
concerned about the safety implications of someone tripping over it. At
least he hasn't demanded it should have a fire certificate, unlike at Milton
Keynes (not that I'm still sore about having it confiscated that day. They
do have a stadium where smoking is banned, after all...). It means we're in
the perfect position to spot the Burton brothers as they go past, and when I
start telling Richard about bumping into a mate of his, they decide to join
us. As we're sitting close to the disabled area, our little corner is soon
completed by one of the regular Rotherham programme sellers and her other
half, who's in a wheelchair. It means we end up doing a lot more chatting
than usual during the game ­ not that what's happening on the pitch isn't
gripping, but Martin Burton¹s lad is going to be the mascot for our
sponsored game against Brentford, so we discuss how well the mascot is
always treated by the club on the day. I'm also curious to see where the
brothers have been drinking, and with them starting at nine this morning,
apparently, it's more a case of where they haven't been drinking. Meanwhile,
Richard has prised from the programme seller the revelation that she's
actually a Wednesday fan. It's very tempting to bind her up in my flag tape
and teach her the error of her ways, but we don't, because she's nice and
it's far more fun learning about her massive crush on Chris Sedgwick, our
one-time dribbling winger who's now at Preston, though finding out she once
saw him stark naked at the training ground is probably more information than
we need!
Last season's game here was probably one of the best of the season. This one
doesn't match those heights, but it's still entertaining. My dream turns out
to be partially correct, in that we do have a goal disallowed, but it's
because Drewe Broughton (wearing the regulation yellow away shirt,
thankfully) is offside when Jamie Clarke slips him the ball. Meanwhile,
Lincoln's Paul Green decides he's going to take part in the annual 'Remove
Everything South Of Mark Hudson's Kneecaps' contest, with a nasty-looking
tackle that leaves Hudson on the ground for a while. Last season's entrant
earned a red card, but this time it's only a yellow, much to the fury of
Chris, who has turned into a small fangy, clawy ball of fury and is yelling
at the ref that he's bottled it. The Rotherham fans have already pretty much
offered the Lincoln fans outside collectively in their general chanting, and
the mood seems to have spread to the players, with Nick Fenton and Geoff
Horsfield also getting booked for jostling and looking at each other in a
funny way.
The other real excitement during the first half is the realisation that
tanned colossus Howard Webb, 'England's top referee' TM, is sitting in the
crowd with his children. We saw him at Millmoor a couple of times last
season, but this is the first time I've spotted him at an away game. It
prompts chants of 'Webby is a Miller', which he takes in good part.
We've had all the best chances, but it's nil-nil at half time. We take the
lead about 15 minutes into the second half, when Jamie Clarke wriggles past
the defence, gets in a shot which is saved, rebounds to Broughton, is saved
again and is slotted home by Mickey Cummins. As both Broughton and Cummins
seem to be standing about six inches away from the goal line, one or both of
them surely has to be offside, which is why I don't leap up and celebrate.
But the flag stays down, the ref points to the halfway line and Martin
Burton hugs me gleefully, so we must have scored, then. After that, we seem
to be completely in control of the game. Lincoln are playing a lot of aerial
balls, which Ian Sharps in particular repels with ease, and though Don
Warrington has one dodgy moment when he thinks he's let the ball run out of
play, only for the forward to nick it off him, he really doesn't have much
to do in the way of making saves. Ryan Taylor replaces the sluggish-looking
Reuben Reid and has a couple of decent chances, then Jamie Green almost wraps
things up with a couple of minutes to go, with a carbon copy of his shot
against Gillingham, but this time the ball hits the crossbar. Lincoln very
nearly make us pay for this when they hit our bar with the last move of the
game, but that would have been an unfair reflection of the pattern of play.
Chris heads back to Manchester via Sheffield, and John and I take the first
train to Newark, to try out two more of Ted's recommendations - the Fox and
Crown pub and the Appleton Gate fish bar. The pub is full of people watching
Ireland v England in the rugby, but is the sort of place you wouldn't mind
having more than a quick pint in, while the chip shop is as good as Ted
claims, as the queue out of the door testifies. After a trip like this,
there should be some sweet dreams tonight...