By Glynis Wright
After all the alarums and excursions of our Friday night Hawthorns encounter with Luton Town, our win set us up quite nicely for football of a completely different kind the following day, the sort one finds in Division Two, the old Division Three, and in another nigh-on forgotten, pre-Premiership age, the basement of a four divisional League set-up, from where the top division regularly sourced good young players, thereby bringing much-needed money cascading down to that level on a regular basis, so everyone was a winner.
Quite a contrast to the present situation, isn't it? These days, the top flight, intent on pulling the ladder right up from beneath them, and sod everybody else in the game, solve their personnel needs by the simple expedient of putting in place extensive scouting operations, coupled with serious reliance upon the gems foreign agents bring to these shores. With a reduced amount of money coming their way - sales of good home-grown young players to richer clubs provided a pretty healthy financial lifeline for the seriously cash-strapped, pre-Premiership - leaving the League's lesser-lights to sink or swim as best they could. What does it matter to them? Need to buy a new goalscorer, to give that essential push for Europe a bit of a kick in the pants? There's plenty earning comparative peanuts in sub-Saharan Africa, or lurking around the former Communist-bloc Eastern European states. A bit like buses, really, foreign players, and profligate Premiership clubs: miss one, and there'll always be another one along in a minute.
Mansfield Town, sitting fourth from bottom in the table before kick-off last Saturday, are a pretty unhappy club right now, as we shall see, shortly, but one that still retained the ability to pull from its top drawer one hell of a shock, in the form of a pretty unlikely sort of result. So, the situation was this, in a nutshell: before kick-off, The Bulls stood just a couple of points off the play-off places that morning, and The Stags a defeat or so away from getting up too close and personal with clubs whose Football League future was looking increasingly shaky with every heavy pasting they got. On paper, a pushover for the home side, this one, but as we all know to our cost, football ain't never as simple as that.
So, that's the background stuff dispensed with, then. Around midday, off we set for the rather pleasant 50 or so mile trip. Not that I saw much of the normally photogenic Worcester and Herefordshire countryside, as I was fast asleep for most of the journey, but I did resume consciousness sufficiently long enough to take in the enormous lakes that comprise the meadows bounding the banks of the Severn, these days. How genuinely big is that stretch of water, I wonder? Must be one hell of a sight when viewed from the air. Certainly spreads for the best part of a mile in every direction, right now: quite a feeding frenzy going on when we passed, too, the main beneficiaries being numerous seagulls feasting to repletion on numerous deceased small insects washed up in the wake of the flood.
Because of heavy traffic around the Worcester area - caused, in part, by those floods, coupled with the sheer number of rubber-neckers slowing down to have a good look at the damage Mother Nature had wreaked on the landscape, I guess - we were considerably later than planned arriving at the ground. We had both intended to have a mosey into the town itself, but there was insufficient time to do that when we got there. But 'Im Indoors had a couple of essential purchases to make, so had to go.
Solution? Go there on his jacksi, leaving me in the car. My walking-speed not being all that brilliant these days - oh, all right, then, there's some species of snail that are more than capable of giving me a bloody good run for my money, these days, never mind-time-poor humans! - it all sounded a sensible compromise. Not that I was complaining, mind: all I wanted to do at that time was get even more zeds in, which I did, in the front seat, with complete success.
My other half returning with around 25 minutes to go before the start - masses of plods everywhere in the town, he told me: what, for bloody Mansfield? Had they suddenly thrown their lot in with the Taliban, or something? - goodies safely stowed in car boot, we made to enter the ground. Our usual spot in the main stand, of course, in close proximity to Talking Bill, Nick Brade, his mum, and all their other devilish works. But his mum simply wasn't there! Sacre bleu!
This was like Nelson leaving his Column for a crafty 'Jimmy Riddle' in the middle of the night, getting pie-eyed on his navy's most popular beverage, and not coming back. The odds against such a thing happening so high as to be practically nonexistent, and yet, there was the evidence, right in front of your eyes! A Mavis-sized hole, where a genuine Mavis should be seated, but wasn't! The other lady, Marion, the one with the copious supply of half-time mints was, though: apparently, Mave wasn't feeling all that good, so she decided to give today's game a miss. Probably the most sensible one in the entire ground, as it turned out!
Just moments later, up rolled Talking Bill, and with laryngeal muscles in fine fettle, it would seem. No sign of Nick, though: probably engaged in selling duties of one kind or another. That's another thing that sets the likes of Hereford apart from their more opulent higher-division cousins: with clubs at League basement level, there's little or none of the condescendingly-snooty 'you are lesser than the dust beneath my feet'-type attitude to customer-care you tend to get at richer, more favourably-placed, outfits, because they just can't afford to play it that way! Chairman, directors, manager, coaching and playing staff, backroom boys, supporters, they all have to pull together. None of this prima-donna stuff, either, about players not wanting to interact with what some more opulent outfits might unkindly term 'The Great Unwashed', if the Meadow End will forgive my use of somewhat derogatory terminology for a moment.
It's a basic fact of life at that level. You have to look after your supporting regulars, your fundraisers, your unsung heroes of the backroom, their mums, dads, cats and dogs, even, all of them invariably offering their services on a strictly voluntary basis, and ending up out of pocket as a result. Make them as happy as is reasonable, otherwise you'll find yourself either completely stuffed, or looking for agency staff to perform similar hitherto-voluntary duties, resulting in a massive outlay of money which clubs down there just ain't got. Or, even worse still, the local footballing types, fed up with years of arrogant condescension, deciding to vote with their feet by ignoring the place entirely.
It has been known to happen. In fact, observing the Mansfield lot in the away end, and the banners they'd brought with them, it sure as hell looked as though the club's chairman had managed to really upset their supporter-base already: that was evidenced by the two or three enormous 'HASLAM OUT!' banners hung on the wall behind the away terrace.
But on with the show. Now Nick was there, back from his pre-match pecuniary perambulations, we could start! Yeah! Mansfield had a lad called Gary Jellyman playing for them, no less. What wonderful images that produced in my somewhat overheated imagination! What wonderful puns on the lines of the poor chap 'gelling' with his team-mates I could have created! On the other hand, had I done so, I'm not entirely sure if I'd have escaped with my life: all my puns are primarily noted for their excruciating awfulness. A disappointment when he finally emerged from the tunnel, mind: a less jelly-like player I've yet to see. And, Tucka Trewick aside (no Tam Mkandawire that day, sadly, injured - how dare he!), another Baggies connection, and one provided by the opposition - or they would have, had the lad not been suspended for that game also - so take a bow, Simon Brown, wherever you were that day!
They'd also got a brace of new signings on parade for the very first time: a lad called Gritten, ex-Lincoln, apparently, and accompanied by what looked very much like an aspirant-thug to me. His name was Conlon, he was a striker by trade, and, to my eyes, very much had 'something of the night about him' in true Anne Widdecombe fashion, an insult originally directed at Tory MP Michael Howard, 'tis true, but equally applicable to the Mansfield newcomer. The Stags were his tenth club, apparently, so he was very much one of football's journeymen, then. Nick Brade's snap-assessment was absolutely hilarious: 'He looks just like the Child Catcher in 'Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang!' Yes, he did have a point: one brief glimpse of those menacing Conlon features, and you wouldn't want him coming anywhere near YOUR kids, that's for sure!
As for the Bulls, they had been stringing some impressive results together recently, but right now, they had one almighty crisis, both attacking, and in the middle, and all brought about by an unfortunate combination of suspensions, injury, illness , and having a squad far too small for the purpose. On the illness front, Andy Williams spectacularly achieved the medical equivalent of four or five balls on the Lottery, by contracting glandular fever, which can be really debilitating in its effects, and once rampant in the human body, just like a squatter in a disused property, not at all keen on letting the immune system's equivalent of eviction bailiffs back in to do their work afterwards. And it doesn't half drag people down, too: after-effects like depression and chronic fatigue are all-too common, unfortunately. A half-decent defender in there and mixing it wouldn't have gone much amiss, either.
And didn't Hereford's deficiencies in the personnel department show? With just ten minutes on the clock, they went behind, courtesy of trainee-thug Conlon, bless his prison-style crop and five o'clock shadow. That's what comes of mocking the guy, I suppose! The marking? Awful. Defending? Crap, if you want my honest opinion. They even had time to get two goes at the prize, the first one repelled by the Bulls keeper, but not far away enough from predatory opposition boots, sadly. Result? Mansfield's second crack at the prize whistling straight into an unguarded net.
As for their travelling contingent, they just couldn't believe their luck. Within a fraction of a second of that ball crossing the line, total mayhem broke out in the away end - well, among what few had elected to make the long journey southwards, that is. In the meantime, the ref appeared to let an awful lot go, two fouls in particular, one Hereford, one Mansfield, that would have attracted at least a yellow in our Championship neck of the woods, only resulted in an earhole-bashing for both offenders.
On 16 minutes, Hereford went on the attack. This time the Mansfield defence went into serious 'panic-mode', and put it out for a Bulls throw. From that, the ball caroomed into the box, then contrived to land right in front of a Herefordian pair of feet. An open goal gaped, invitingly so - but typical of current form, the home side missed disastrously!
But still Mansfield kept nipping at their ankles, in much the same irritating manner as an obnoxious Jack Russell terrier with an attitude problem against posties would. After one such first-half incursion, they were dead unlucky not to make it two: there, in front of them, lay a nailed-on scoring chance, created by a one-on-one with the Bulls keeper, Wayne Brown, aka 'Superman'. I was in blissful ignorance as to the precise reason he'd been saddled with that unlikely-sounding nickname, but I soon found out why. Only he could stop Mansfield now, so he emulated his 'namesake' by making himself as 'big' as he possibly could, a standard goalkeeping technique to repel such grave threats to custodial peace of mind. And it worked, too! Just about enough to put the Stags lad off his stroke, mind, but what do you want up there, bells and whistles on it as well?
During a lull in play, I got to hear what is a pretty familiar sort of lament from those parts: the perennial problem of Hereford being classed a Welsh club by mistake - and it rankled, far more than is usual for supporters of the club. And there was a good reason: a commentator more careless and/or arrogant/ignorant than is usual at that level (rearrange wording within this sentence as desired, in accordance with the amount of anti-Taff bile currently residing inside your stomach) made the same simple error during the Bulls' recent tryst with Boston, prompting a furious Talking Bill to do a bit of 'homework' with a handy road atlas shortly afterwards.
It appears that both Merseyside monsters, Liverpool, Everton, are about as geographically distant from the land of leeks and dole money as Hereford also, but they never, ever manage to get lumped in with the Taff persuasion, do they? And they're not the only ones: according to our voluble friend, there's evidence aplenty that other League clubs are nearer also, but even so, constantly fail to appear in the choral catch-all anti-Welsh vituperation that erupts at games, even now.
With the interval fast approaching, and Hereford lucky not to be at least three behind, they weren't half taking some flak from the punters in the main stand. Not a new phenomenon at Edgar Street, by any means, but it does appear to me that their lot seem to be on a much shorter fuse than most, when it comes to player performances, and their definition of what truly is 'bloody awful'. Just as well some of these people weren't around at the time of the French Revolution, really: had they been, the infamous Madame DeFarge wouldn't have had to time to knit a bloody sock, never mind an adult-sized outer-garment, as the tumbrels arrived, then queued, and the guillotine blade repeatedly descended to sever well-bred heads from body at literally breakneck speed.
Nick Brade, thinking them hypercritical to a tedious degree, thought up a Stunning Idea. The simple ones are always the best! Sitting just a few rows behind us was a bloke whose sundry matchday outbursts and rants made the Reverend Ian Paisley seem like the voice of sweet reason by comparison, and all coming flavoured with language that would have shrivelled up any self-respecting navvy, builder's bum and all, there and then, right on the spot.
According to this bloke's horribly flawed thought processes, no matter what the magnitude, or otherwise, of the problem, you had to hold director-cum-manager Graham Turner primarily responsible for each and every event, both on and off the field of play! Talk about taking micro-management to a frighteningly-serious degree: only an idiot would dream of doing so, and believe you me, there was a prize one in that guy.
So, taking his specious argument a step further: 'World Peace' Sort it out, Turner!....? 'War in Iraq' Sort it out, Turner!?.? You can even derive much amusement playing that game for yourselves: the best bit is, of course, you don't need to be a Bulls aficionado to do it to great effect. A little creativity of your own, and you can even apply the very same principle to our very own Mother Of Parliaments. I wish you well in your spats with Tony.
Back to the matter in hand, then. Hereford did try their utmost to get back into the game after the break, but try as they might, they still couldn't get the ball over that thin white line separating agony from ecstasy. Even a couple of remedial subbings didn't help all that much, either. Then, with around ten to go, Hereford completely shot their bolt. Bowden was the scorer, and an unfortunate combination of wind (the sort that blows trees around, not the sort that?.errr!) and bad defending the root cause of the problem. As you might expect, The Bulls were caught out on the break, the Mansfield lad Coke steaming down the left, then laying it off to a colleague, Boulding, just inside. This time, the Bulls' keeper couldn't save the day by use of practical psychology, so the arrears ended up doubled, and with precious little time left in which to service the debt.
And, as the ref made for the centre-circle and the restart, off went The Bloke Behind Me, and in more than usually-vituperative fashion, too. One thing I have noticed about Bulls supporters over the years, is their hair-trigger tendency to get right on the backs of both players and coaching staff when something like this happens. And, after many years of spewing forth all manner of poisonous rhetoric down towards the pitch, and those on it, this chap had just about got it down to a fine art. 'What a load of rubbish!', chanted ad lib was about the mildest of a series of hurled insults. And all accompanied by a whole range of boos, catcalls, the works. Then, Old Faithful, his patience fully exhausted (not to mention the vile range of his entire vocabulary by that stage of the proceedings!) could only spit out the word 'CRAP!' by way of final insult. It's being so cheerful, so positive, that keeps him going, I reckon! I hate to appear smug, but in my experience, it would take a really disastrous run on the part of my lot to get our supporters exuding bile from every pore every home game, not to mention the particularly spiteful way in which this chap - no doubt relishing enormously the results of his self-imposed matchday task, all the way - did it.
As for The Voices Of Genuine Sanity, as represented by our own, more erudite, vastly more enlightened, chums, even their comments had a touch of the old 'barbed wire' about them. 'No cohesion' said Nick, with 'Unacceptable performance!' Bill's two-word contribution to the learned debate going on in the main stand after the event. Looking in from the outside, so to speak, what they desperately lacked was a proven goalscorer, with a tigerish midfielder yet another priority. And, with only five minutes remaining, finding them both in the brief time available was a bit of a non-starter, really.
Right at the death, it was only a tremendous save by the Stags keeper, Jim White, that stopped The Bulls getting one back. In fact, he'd had a good game all round - but not good enough to prevent The Bulls from popping one in just before the end of normal time! Hope suddenly flowered, blossomed, cascaded, even: well, just under 24 hours previous to the Edgar Street affair, we Baggies had been given ample reason to know why late surges could be extraordinarily effective - didn't we, Kev Phillips?
Just like Friday night's Sky TV show-stopper, the entire place was instantaneously consumed by an almighty roar, thousands of home supporters willing their favourites to put the ball into the net a second - and equalising - time. But there wasn't to be a revival on the scale of Friday's: with every Herefordian trying their best to regain parity, pushing up on the opposition, it only served to expose glaring gaps opening up elsewhere in that sorely-pressed side.
One minute the ball was threatening the Stags' goal, the next, it was being booted upfield, and towards their right flank. A surging run from the player that controlled it on descent, a swift cross, falling directly at the feet of the lad Gritton, who'd been astute enough to follow the play properly from the very outset of the move, and it was all over. Bang. Wallop. 1-3, the final score, and very much out for The Bulls.
Still, look on the bright side. After the game, we heard that we'd retained our own hard-won fourth place of Friday night, thanks to some awful results elsewhere. Oh good. Hopefully, once your various crises recede, you'll be able to get back onto the winning trail, and start playing the kind of classy stuff I so admired last season. And the season before. And the season before that.
Consider the evidence: in Tucka Trewick, you have an incredibly-focussed coach, every particle of his being, his massive drive and energy, seemingly bent on one thing only: playing good, attractive, entertaining football, and ways of getting the players to do it that way. It will come eventually, the silky performances that were such a wonderful feature of your recent Conference incarnation, that familiar feeling of scoring goals just for fun. In Graham Turner, you've also got one hell of a chairman, and one that actually knows something about the game for once, which is a vast improvement on some I've encountered over the years, believe you me! Keep the faith, stick with them both, for there lies your future exit from the Second, and in an upwards direction, this time, not the reverse.
As for we two, where better to round off the day than at a local Chinese buffet, once we'd got back to the Black Country: trust me on this, their sweet and sour veggie soup starter covers to an astonishing degree a multitude of sins and ailments, home-defeat depression (my miserable other half) and near-onset hypothermia (me) being some of 'em!