St Pancras is unpleasantly clammy, the couple of lurking policeman presumably there to keep an eye out for any rogue Millwall supporters taking the circuitous route to Leeds. It can’t be for the Brighton fans en route to Hillsborough – from past experience, they’re more likely to go looking for the local Waitrose than any form of trouble.
Ted’s sitting chatting to Jenny when I arrive. Even though his train is a few minutes after ours, he made an early start so he could get his breakfast. A man needs to fortify himself when he’s lugging a huge rucksack full of camera equipment up to Kettering, don’t you know?
We’re joined by Chris Kirkland, Chris Turner and Clarkey. Mr Turner apologises for being a little sweaty, but he’s made part of his journey by ‘Boris Bike’. At least, that’s his excuse for breaking out the continental lager as the train trundles through Cricklewood...
When we reach Sheffield, Chris K hangs back to meet Chris Burrows, who’s coming through from Manchester and needs guidance in finding the Fat Cat. It’s the pub’s 29th birthday beer festival, and though the advertised barbecue won’t be starting till after we’ve left for the match, as long as there’s steak pie on the lunch menu, people will be happy.
Ted’s mate, Brian, is already in the Fat Cat, having decided a jaunt round the fine pubs of the city where he lives is preferable to an afternoon in Kettering. He has a pint with us, shares his always unique view of the world, then departs for the Devonshire Cat. At some point in these proceedings, we’re joined by Phil, Frances and Joy.
As always, I’m looking for omens in beer names. There’s nothing referencing the current squad, but Clarkey samples the Monty’s Midnight stout, in tribute to the very lovely Gary Montgomery, who turned his back on football after being made surplus to requirements at Grimsby and started taking his cricket seriously. Unfortunately, by signing for Lancashire, he’s gone over to the dark side of the force, but no one’s perfect. He actually made his first team debut in a televised CB40 game against Somerset this week. No wickets in his bowling spell, but he did take a catch, prompting the predictable cracks from the boys about him holding on to the ball for once. He was last man in, and the batsman down the other end was out before he could face a ball, which Clarkey reckons means he now has a batting average of infinity! Brian, à propos of very little, had made a remark about people not knowing the difference between sarcasm and irony. So, Brian, what’s the correct grammatical term for discussing cricket scores before going on to witness what’s about to happen at the DVS?
Jenny and I leave in good time, as she’s arranged to meet Dave Finnis. As ever, his need to travel over from Australia has coincided with some football matches. She gives him a small selection of the programmes she’s been collecting for him – the rest will be going to Hereford next week, presumably in a small suitcase... We also bump into Hugh Vaughan, who has daughter Sian with him. He claims she’s only here for the pre-match pie! Hugh was at our reserve game against Bradford in the week. We won 5-0, but he claims he’s still not convinced about a couple of the players on display lasting a full ninety minutes of action, including Marcus Marshall. I reckon it’s going to be useful to have players like Marshall to come on towards the end of a game if Ronnie needs to change things. We shall see.
Since we last played Cheltenham, which only feels like a couple of weeks ago, they’ve got rid of veterans Barry Hayles and Julian Alsop (now back plying his trade at the mighty Bishop’s Cleeve). The game has barely settled down when one of their new-look front line, Jeff Goulding, scores. It’s a good goal, but it’s come out of nothing and it instantly deflates the crowd. I console myself with the thought they’ve probably peaked too early. I seem to have been proved right when Tom Elliott plays a clever ball into the path of Alf, whose far-post finish comfortably beats the Chelters keeper, Scott P Brown. (They did have two Scott Browns in their squad last season, hence the initial. This season they only appear to have one, but presumably he didn’t want anyone to take the P. He’s also decided to team a fluorescent orange jersey with lime green socks. Don’t try this at home, children.)
There’s a raft of scouts in the seats behind the press desks, and furious scribbling breaks out. There’s no sign of Mr Scouts With Wolves, who was a regular visitor last season, but there’s certainly someone with a Derby badge on his padded jacket. ‘And Derby probably needs someone,’ says our chum with the two boys in the row in front. ‘They’ve lost again today.’
We have a good chance to take the lead, but Nicky Law can’t keep his shot down. Then, for some reason, we forget how to defend for ten minutes. The normally impeccable Don starts to come for a ball, stops, and allows a Chelters player to pass the ball to Wesley Thomas for an easy tap-in. While we’re still reeling from this lapse, Exodus Geohaghon plays a casual pass to Dean Holden. He’s beaten to it, and Shaun Jeffers, who’s on as a sub for Goulding, makes it 3-1 to Chelters. All around me is despondency. ‘When did we last score four in a game?’ asks my dad, the answer being at Bradford, just before Christmas last year. Our chum in front is cursing Danny Harrison for not having the best of games, and I’m starting to believe that people are calling for some new Russian signing, ‘Ronnie Gerrimoff’. An enormous dragonfly floats past, oblivious to the gloom. Just before half-time, Nicky Law lays a ball into the path of Harrison, who curls the ball beautifully into the top corner. ‘Okay, I’m a hypocrite,’ confesses our chum in front when he finally stops eulogising over the finish. Even though we’re still behind, the mood has changed and the team is applauded off the pitch.
At half-time we’re again treated to the underwhelming dance stylings of the Millerettes and High Definition, but we are in the presence of greatness, as the Chuckle Brothers perform the half-time draw. Presumably, they’re contractually to do this at least once a season, being honorary Presidents of the club.
The match turns on an incident a couple of minutes into the second half. One of the Cheltenham defenders pushes Elliott over in the box. It’s a silly, obvious foul and the ref points to the spot immediately. Brown does his best to psych out Alfie, lingering by the ball when it’s been put down, then making himself look huuuuge in the goal. It almost works, as he saves the penalty, but the rebound falls straight to Alfie, who slots it between Brown’s legs.
This is when things start to get seriously weird. A couple of minutes later, we get a free kick, which Tom Newey takes. There’s a scramble in the area, and who should get his head on it but Alfie. Finally, after scoring two in a game on so many occasions last season, he’s got his first hat-trick for us.
Not to be outdone, Ryan Cresswell quickly heads in a fifth, and people are starting to lose track of the score. There’s a bloke sitting two rows in front of us with a little boy of about four. He has to keep taking him out to the toilets or the concessions, and he’s missed Harrison’s and Cresswell’s goals. ‘Keep going outside,’ my dad tells him, ‘because every time you do, we score.’
It does look like we could score another every time we go forward. Alf volleys a spectacular-looking shot, but Brown saves it comfortably. Then Ellison rolls the ball into Alf’s path. Brown gets fingertips to it, but it rolls into the net. Cheltenham can’t know what’s hit them. It’s not as though the players’ heads have dropped, and they’re still trying to get back into the game. Shaun Jeffers has a shot that hits the post. In the efforts of Don and the defence to clear it, something happens that causes the ref to blow for a penalty, but in the tangle of arms, legs and bodies it’s hard to see exactly who gave it away. Don isn’t quite so theatrical about making his presence known to the penalty taker, but like Brown he also makes a save – except he manages to push it behind for a corner, which we clear.
Ronnie takes off Elliott, who looks to be struggling, and Ellison, who is injured in a challenge, and brings on Marcus Marshall and Paul Warne. Marshall seems very confident, presumably after scoring against Peterborough, and has one beautiful moment when he controls a long diagonal ball in a way we keep being told English players just don’t have the technical ability to do. Warney, meanwhile, is his usual livewire self, trying to score the seventh but also haring back to defend when he needs to. Because we’re still pushing forward, we get a bit sloppy at the back again, and allow Chelters to score a rather soft goal from a corner. I’ve never seen ten goals in a game before – the best I managed was nine, a few Christmases ago, when we went 5-1 up against Hull and somehow let them pull it back to 5-4. In a recording studio somewhere, Danny Dyer is probably already being dusted off to put a voiceover on this game for some end-of-season bloopers and highlights compilation.
As I go to collect the flag, I’m punch-drunk. I can only imagine how the Cheltenham fans feel. I text my brother to find out whether he’s sleeping on the couch tonight, being married to a Cheltenham girl and all, but apparently it’s always a happy house when Rotherham win. Meanwhile, Ted seems to have lucked out, as the Kettering-Darlo game has finished nil-nil.
At the tram stop, Clarkey and the Chrises are as bewildered by events as I am (Jenny’s stopping over in Rotherham tonight, presumably in a darkened room with a wet flannel over her forehead after all the excitement.) Chris T claims that at some point in the second half, when there hadn’t been a goal for about ten minutes, he heard some bloke behind him shout, ‘Sort it out, Ronnie, it’s gone flat!’
We go down to the Sheffield Tap, where Chris T and Clarkey have what they decide is their best pint of the day, the Hawkshead Lakeland Pale Ale. It’s threatening to spit with rain, but sitting outside is still more pleasant than the muggy interior of the pub, and it allows for better people watching. Plenty of Brighton fans are streaming in, fresh from their defeat by the Wendys. A couple of them fall foul of the ‘no colours’ policy, but the bouncers are reasonable enough about it, as they have been with us in the past.
Getting on the train back to Sheffield, I spot one of the Cheltenham players lugging his kit bag into a carriage further down the platform. The rest of the train is mayhem, as one of the carriages is faulty, but by the time we’ve left Chesterfield we’ve finally managed to get four seats together. Clarkey spots a bloke he knows called Ian, who organises the travel for the London Owls, and they compare performances today. It seems the number of Wednesday fans travelling up from the capital is dwindling – just like us, they’ve got members who’ve moved back north, or have family commitments or financial constraints preventing them from getting so many games.
I get distracted from the serious conversation by something far more important, spotting another of my omen obsessions – llamas! Llamas I’ve never seen before! There are three of them in a field, somewhere near Long Eaton, but we don’t usually pass through this area slowly enough to notice them. Now the day truly is complete.
As we approach London, Chris T and Clarkey debate the idea of going for a swift pint, either at the Betjeman or somewhere near Victoria station, but when we get off the train it feels much later than half-past eight and everyone’s shattered, so we all decide going straight home is the best option. It’s true what your parents told you when you were little – all that excitement will tire you out!
No comments:
Post a Comment