It’s been a long, strange week. Barnsley, having sacked Simon Davey, have made a few very public comments about how they’re after a young, talented manager who’s currently in employment – indeed, their chairman might as well have tattooed ‘Mark Robins, the job’s yours’ on his forehead. Obviously the prospect of having to compensate us for the three years he still has on his contract doesn’t faze them. By yesterday, Robins had been given permission to discuss the vacancy at Oakwell and has been placed on ‘gardening leave’ - cue lots of cracks about how he’ll be able to spend time bringing the pitch up to scratch.
Speaking of the pitch, Sheffield Eagles played Barrow there on Thursday night, and the game was televised. As Ted and I were watching it, part of me was wondering if they’d cause any damage to the grass (‘It’ll be fine,’ said Ted. ‘At least it’s not rugby union. All those scrums really dig up the pitch.’) and part was trying to spot whether anyone in the fairly sparse crowd was sitting in my seat...
What’s adding to the strangeness is that our kick-off has been moved forward an hour because of the England game. As that’s just a friendly, we suspect the real reason may be to cut down on drinking time before kick-off and avoid trouble. Whatever, I’m at St Pancras by quarter past eight. This is early by our standards, but Ted’s already en route to Lincoln, having spotted Robert Wyatt at his usual breakfast spot and Sir Geoffrey Boycott boarding the 8.10 at Kings Cross. No celebs on the St Pancras route; just Jenny and I on a strangely quiet train, partly because we’re earlier than usual and partly because all the Championship teams have got the weekend off for good behaviour. Unlike last season, when the train was heaving with fans getting on at Chesterfield, we don’t see more than seven or eight teenagers in replica shirts this time. They might want to think on the fact that if they don’t want to get stopped by the police at Sheffield station, they probably shouldn’t pile off the trains, can in hand...
In a break from routine, we make our way to the Harlequin. We suspect we might be hanging around on the pavement waiting for the doors to open at 11.30 (and there isn’t even a nearby Lidl we can visit to kill time, Ted-style...). However, when we get there, they’re already serving.
The Harlequin is a good pub, but a strange one. Its décor, all floral patterned banquettes and thick carpets, suggests the sort of chain hostelry where they concentrate on family meals at the expense of decent beer, but there are nine or ten real ales on, as well as weiss beer, proper lager rather than the fizzy stuff and what my brother always refers to as ‘Belgian fruit juice’. They also do a nice line in live entertainment; one of the bar staff has the job of updating the week’s event on the chalk board above our heads, balancing precariously on a chair to do so. They’re already hosting a ‘gardener’s rest’ quiz (‘Shouldn’t that be gardener’s leave quiz?’ I ask Jenny), but when the girl chalks in ‘Green Onions’ as the Sunday night turn, I take it as an omen. I’ve no idea what Jamie Green and Graham Onions would sound like duetting together, but I bet Lily Allen would be down the front, moshing!
We’ve let people know we’re going to be drinking here, as Toddy’s got one of his rare pass-outs to come to a couple of games, but no one joins us and Jenny reckons they’ve probably gone to Hugh Vaughan’s regular haunt, the Carlton.
An hour ahead of our usual schedule, we somehow contrive to be at the DVS before half-past one. On the way down to the ground, we bump into Steve Czajewski. Naturally, we ask him whether he’s putting in his application for the manager’s job. Apparently, when Ronnie Moore was appointed, Steve did apply – and got a letter back from then chief exec, Phil Henson, regretfully turning him down!
For once, we actually get to see the pre-match warm-up (people running between cones, the keepers doing secret keeper-y things that only keepers understand etc.), as well as Miller Bear strutting his stuff to MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’. Someone get a decent clip of him up on YouTube, please!
Of course, the real buzz round the ground is being caused by all the speculation on whether Robins is actually off, who’ll replace him if he goes, will he come back and nick all our players in the transfer window and so on. That and the rather feisty atmosphere created by the bunch of Rotherham fans who’ve congregated in Block Six lower, which is as close as they can get to the Chesterfield fans. It’s loud, but good-natured, which is how you want it.
From kick-off, it’s obvious that the players aren’t letting what’s happened over the last couple of days affect them. We force pixie-faced keeper Tommy Lee into making a couple of good saves and are generally the team on top, until the moment which changes the first half. Drew Talbot is charging down the right wing and falls over Jamie Green’s invitingly outstretched leg. Leaving aside the fact he’s obviously another graduate of the Jack Lester School of Diving, the referee (Mr Miller, he of the old-school copper’s moustache) at first seems to decide it’s a free-kick. However, after consulting with his assistant, he changes his mind and points to the spot. TV replays will later show that the offence was committed a good couple of feet outside the box, so it’s no wonder the Rotherham players feel aggrieved. Chesterfield accept the gift and Jamie Lowry fires the penalty high into the net.
‘I don’t know why it is,’ says the bloke with the two boys who sits in front of us, ‘but I just hate losing to this lot.’ And we’re still losing at half-time. The mood is lifted slightly by the fact that not only do we have both Chuckle Brothers (both! You are really spoiling us...) to perform the half-time draw, but Jessica Ennis, the gold medal-winning heptathlete is here as a special guest, receiving a huge ovation.
Things turn early in the second half. Chesterfield have had a couple of attacks, though Jack Lester’s shot is tamer than the two kittens who are probably destroying a toilet roll back at our house right now, but they seem happy to sit back and defend their lead. Then we equalise with a clever free kick. John Breckin, in charge for today, says in his post-match interview it’s something he borrowed from Chesterfield, which makes you wonder how it catches them out. Nicky Law centres the ball, Alf either produces a cute dummy or a total mis-kick (I think it’s the former) and Danny Harrison slots the ball home. ‘If Rotherham let Nicky Law go for less than five million pounds, they want their bumps feeling,’ declares my dad.
Chesterfield have to come out and play now if they want to restore their lead, and that gives us more opportunities. Alf takes one of them, bundling home a Kevin Ellison header, and then Lord Voldemort himself gets the third. Ryan Taylor (on at half-time after Warney has been forced to go off – well, it’s a John Sheridan team, so you should expect that at least one of your players is going to have lumps kicked off him...) has a shot from about 25 yards out which hits the post, and Ellison slams home the rebound. Cue a mass stream-out of Chesterfield fans, just like last season. The man at the back whose catchphrase is ‘Boooook him!’ starts a chant of ‘Is there a fire drill?’ as they disappear.
There’s still time for Ellison to miss a good chance to make it four, and then Rob Page, clearly frustrated by the way we’ve taken the game out of the Spireites’ control, cynically takes Alf out with his arm. It should be a red card, but he gets away with a yellow. Meanwhile, the fans are chanting the name of Tony Stewart (and how often does a chairman get really vocal backing at a match?), and getting excited because Ronnie Moore is watching the game from the VIP/players’ lounge, along with one of Rotherham’s finest ever keepers, Mike Pollitt. Ah, Sir Michael... There was some research quoted in today’s paper which suggests that men tend to get more stupid around beautiful women (next week: water declared to be wet), but that there’s no significant response when women speak to handsome men. I would like to declare that research fundamentally flawed. I used to sponsor Mikey P’s kit, and during that time I spoke to him on a number of occasions. Every single time, I said, ‘Wibble...’
As Jenny and I are gathering up the flag, she lets me know that not only were Ronnie and Sir Michael present, someone had also spotted Steve Coppell. Now, he’d make a great manager, but Barnsley could give us all the compensation in the world and I still don’t think we could afford him.
Squeezing on to the tram, we bump into Chris Burrows, over from Manchester. The three of us go for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head, which is showing the Scotland-Macedonia. ‘George Burley will probably be available soon,’ I comment, the subject of managers still on my mind. And then Scotland score their second goal and we decide he might be in the job a bit longer...
The journey back to London is largely spent trying not to doze off – these early starts aren’t doing me any good at all! The euphoria of a good win against what is clearly no longer our bogey team is tempered by all the managerial uncertainty. If not Ronnie – and though he’s still massively popular, it was either Macbeth or Don Henley who said you should never look back – then who? If we’re looking at the ex-Rotherham factor, then pinching Paul Hurst and Rob Scott from Boston might be an option, as would offering the job to Martin McIntosh, who has no experience but like Robins is a popular, thoughtful and intelligent man who is keen to establish himself in management. Otherwise you’re looking at the usual suspects like recently unemployed Peter Jackson and his heavy metal hair. And what’s Big Ron Atkinson doing these days? Truly, as a Rotherham fan you always live in interesting times...
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