Final Whistle came as a Relief

Glynis Wright watched Hereford United's goal-less Cup tie yesterday. Below is a flavour of her diary.

Next stop? Edgar Street, GHQ of the aforementioned but horrendously-underperforming Bulls, at home to basement league Dagenham and Redbridge in a 1st round FA Cup tie that very same afternoon. We reckoned there might be considerable quantities of ‘baggage’ attached to this one, given that The Bulls whopped ‘em by nine clear goals, back in the days when they were riding high in the Conference, and practically busting a gut trying to get out of it again.

What really got the natives going, back then? The fact that this complete and utter train-smash of a game was played on The Daggers’ very own muck-heap. A more embarrassing dicking by anyone, never mind the Bulls, is practically impossible to visualise. No wonder Daggers everywhere started licking their chops like so many starving hounds discovering a pile of discarded offal, the moment both names emerged from the FA Cup hat, the day the first round draw was made.

‘Im Indoors, being the expert on all things Bull, predicted a godawful gate for the cider-slurpers that afternoon. His reasoning? Their current woeful League position (worse than ours), the beginnings of the Christmas shopping period, and the highly-pertinent fact that being a Cup tie, season ticket holders had to pay to see this one.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, what with the national economy being just about dead on its feet, and locals rightly becoming fearful for their jobs – as far as big employers go, in Hereford, there’s the Bulmer’s Cider brewery and Sun Valley poultry; small, non-heavy industry, and agriculture aside, that’s more or less it, unless you want to bring ‘retail’ into the equation - much belt-tightening was currently in progress in those there parts. In circumstances as grim as that, supporting a distinctly-ailing football team becomes even less of a priority than it had before.

Having just indulged in a short side-trip to a bijou local crafts centre, situated just off the main drag, we arrived at Edgar Street uncharacteristically late, showing up at the B Block turnstiles with around 15 minutes to go before the start. Not that this was an important issue, mind: as I previously said, United are really grateful for all the support they can get for home games, these days.

Then, as we sat down in our usual spot, we noticed something distinctly odd: no Mavis, mother of Nick Brade, United’s demon half-time draw ticket seller, and away match regular. Despite being a lady of somewhat advanced years, she still attends home fixtures with unceasing regularity: had she been taken ill, or something?

The real reason, when it came, wasn’t illness, thank goodness, but still pretty alarming from the Bulls’ viewpoint: sheer apathy, born of any number of indifferent performances, thus far, had kept her away. If that was true of someone who really was ‘Hereford ‘till I die’, what was the attrition-rate among those with considerably less justification to commit?

By the time Nick arrived on the scene, the game had already started, but we’d been previously honoured by the verbose presence of ‘Talking Bill’, of whom I’ve made mention before. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t Bill that provided the bulk of the verbal humour heard that day: the really hilarious stuff came from a couple of guys in the row behind whom I’d never seen before.

It all started shortly before the kick-off, when the Edgar Street PA bloke solemnly intoned: “There will now be a two-minute silence ….” all part of the Remembrance Day ceremonials, of course. Quipped one of the aforementioned twosome, sotto-voce: “….Closely followed by a 90-minutes silence…!”

With every United chance wasted, distinctly-audible groans echoed around the ground; they were frustrated, and rightly so. But there lay the paradox: Watching the Bulls through neutral eyes, it swiftly became clear to me that there was nothing fundamentally wrong in the way they went about their task. Every single time they went into ‘attack mode’, passes were being strung together in a cohesive way that had me absolutely delighted with the sheer quality of their play. Their big problem? Launching that all-essential ‘killer ball’ or, more pertinently, failing in the task of actually getting both striker and ball connected.

Sure, United did have a couple of attempts on goal come very close to fruition, that opening 45 (the Daggers’ keeper was on top form – and it showed) but for the most part, they might as well have spent the entire period sat inside the nearby cathedral, admiring the famous Mappa Mundi displayed therein.

The second half wasn’t much better either; as the game progressed, there came a rapidly increasing sense among the crowd that United had, once more, completely run out of attacking ideas: in their place remained sheer frustration, with nowt else to compensate – and, again, it showed. Unsurprisingly, the visitors, sensing the increasing likelihood of an upset, stepped up their own efforts by a notch or three, and it was only good fortune on the part of the home side that kept them in it, come the end. Personally, I suspect it’s only postponed the inevitable; come the replay, Hereford will get well and truly dumped from the competition.

As for the home crowd, brought up by chairman Graham Turner to expect good-quality football as a birthright, almost, their reaction was an increasingly turbulent one, best epitomised by the couple of jokers seated right behind this column. As the game creaked and groaned into its dying minutes, one of them was heard to say, in rapidly-rising tones of despair: “How do you get banned?”

Then, not long after that, on hearing a feeble cry of “Hereford ‘till I die…” emanate from the Meadow End; “….I think I’m already there!”

But it wouldn’t have been right to let that brace of newbies grab the best punchlines: that’s a job best left to an increasingly frustrated Talking Bill who, midway through the second half, went forth with a lone chant of: “If you’re NOT going to Dagenham, clap your hands!” It wasn’t a solo effort for long, mind: within about 30 seconds, most of our bit of the stand was joining in!”

I have to say that the final whistle came as something of a relief for me. I really do fear for their chances when they go to East Essex for the replay; on this showing, their interest in this year’s competition will be but a fleeting one. Another word about the home crowd: come the final whistle, I faintly discerned a cry of “What a load of rubbish” coming from somewhere, the very first time in the Turner era I’ve ever heard THAT chanted by an Edgar Street crowd. The really disconcerting feature of that chant? They were absolutely spot-on. Maybe the time is fast coming when Turner should think of delegating his first-team duties to someone a bit younger than himself?

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