The Diary

28 December 2003: Derby - The Shape Of Things To Come?

It?s been well over 24 hours since our rain-lashed embarrassment versus unlucky Derby, but a jumble of questions have quietly pervaded my mind ever since the final whistle went, and, I?m sure, yours. We first of all turn to the niggling doubt that?s been quietly gathering momentum in my brain for the last few games. In short, have we finally been rumbled by opposition managers?

It?s certainly looking that way; the last home League game we trotted off with maximum points was, ironically enough, Norwich ? but even then we had more than our fair share of divine assistance from Above that day. The Sunderland game was bloodless, but how we didn?t concede then completely eludes me as well. Did Houlty sign a secret pact with the Devil that day, or something? The Reading game also fired blanks, and versus The Hammers, we again had more than our fair share of jam dolloped onto our plate, courtesy of our old friend ?Oggie?, this time in the form of their unfortunate lad Mullins, whose headed late ?equaliser? broke East End hearts for all eternity. I laughed like a drain at his discomfiture at the time, but the fact remains we were desperately chasing the game, and fortuitous salvation came from a totally-unexpected source. Crewe? This is one where we should have racked up a cricket score, but instead, kamikaze-like, threw away two sit-up-and-beg-type points so cheaply, they should have been placed on offer in the forthcoming January sales. It seems, now, that all opposing managers have to do to stop us at home is pack the midfield and defence, try to stop us settling on the ball, and turn the whole exercise into a war of attrition, or, as Crewe did, simply run straight at us with their three forwards, and confuse the hell out of us by doing so. And, as evidenced by the above, very often it works perfectly.

What I find particularly annoying at the moment is the fact we have within our ranks a lad more than capable of getting behind defences and whanging damaging crosses into the box for the strikers to do whatever is their bent with. This unsung genius? Clem, of course. Where the hell was he, yesterday? He certainly wasn?t on the subs? bench, so why not, I ask? And, come to think of it ? this is an old lament of mine, but it?s still pertinent ? why are we not making better use of some of the very skilful players we currently have on our books, and sitting on their own fundaments for most of the time? Blokes like Sakiri have been there, done it, and worn the bloody T-shirt out several wash-cycles over, such is the extent of their experience at the higher level. To go for out and out creativity in the middle might also solve a problem that?s been plaguing us of late, and that?s our sheer inability to put the ball into the back of the net at home. Sure, I?ve seen the ?quick-fix? recommendation ? buy in new strikers ? but I would put it to the readership that what we have already would do very nicely indeed, were they to receive adequate service from the middle, on the ground, for once. Constantly launching the bloody thing into the stratosphere in similar fashion to a moon-shot, then expecting the likes of, say, Rob Hulse, or Hughsie, to be on the other end of it, isn?t the answer, and never will be.

There?s something else that seems woefully lacking in our players these days, and that?s a problem, arguably, not of their own making. I?m talking about the sheer pleasure gained from being a participant in ensuring that a particular job or enterprise is well done. You don?t need an encyclopaedic knowledge of football to spot when players are putting in uninterested and jaded performances, and that?s precisely what I?m seeing out there these days. If you like, it?s a similar situation to, say, working eight till five in a factory turning out widgets, and going through the same mindless routine, day in, day out, until the time comes for that person to either retire, or go to pastures new. No mental stimulation, no challenge, and certainly no enjoyment inherent in the task, especially if the factory?s being run by unenlightened management, or what?s popularly termed micro-management. Vary the routine a little, get workers really involved in what they do, welcome suggestions from the shop floor to speed up/improve manufacture, and ? most important, this ? act upon the best ones, and make sure the workforce are well-aware that management genuinely do take constructive ideas on board, and the whole situation is improved immeasurably. Sure, there is the small chance of some gaffers being made to look slightly foolish by those who actually do the job, but as long as the firm benefits as a whole, what?s the harm in a little intelligent application of factory-floor glasnost?

It?s not too difficult to extrapolate from my remarks parallels with the situation we currently find ourselves in, is it? No need delving into the transfer market: we do have players of sufficient skill and imagination on our books right now, but given our seeming reluctance to employ those players in a more fulfilling on-pitch role, it seems to me that there?s now some danger of our promotion drive ending up bogged down in a glutinous morass of our own making long before this season comes to a close. If that should happen, then it?s a given that the likes of Koumas, Sakiri, Gaardsoe, Hulse, and even Houlty, perhaps, would be out of the Hawthorns quicker than the Space Shuttle from Cape Canaveral. Considering the real progress we?ve made over the past three years or so, that really would be a tragedy for our club, given that the problem can so easily be rectified.

In short, it?s a lot to do with the intelligent application of the industrial principles I outlined above, but in the dressing-room, and on the field of play, this time. Jaded, listless and battle-fatigued players, ever-fearful of applying genuine creativity to their task, make for vapid and insipid performances on the field. Where?s the enjoyment, the sheer fun, in that?

Sure, our lot get handsome financial reward for what they do, and for some, that?s the totality of their entire footballing existence, but sometimes, in the dead of night, during one of those surreal moments that occasionally creep up on one?s self twixt the states of sleep and wakefulness, I quietly subscribe to the admittedly fanciful notion that to a good many players, money isn?t necessarily the sum of all the many parts that comprise a satisfying career. And before anyone chucks the old chestnut at me that sides with a love for the beautiful game never reap the Division One honours come the end of term, my retort is simple. What about Ipswich, a few seasons back? Or Man City, champions the same season we went up? They conceded many, ?tis true, but they managed to put into the onion bag far more than they shipped from it, 100-plus, if I remember correctly. Pompey? They, also, blasted to the Prem playing football that didn?t bore the pants off everyone who watched them. And, from what I?ve heard and seen myself, Norwich know more than a few wrinkles of this noble but endangered art, which was, presumably, one of the factors that played such a large part in ensuring Darren Huckerby plumped for them and not for us.

At this halfway point of the season, these are the problems facing our club as I perceive them. Those reading this have two choices: they can read and digest this, then delete it, muttering things apropos not knowing what I?m talking about, or similar. Or they can ponder upon my words for a while, and realise we do have a problem, a small one at present, admittedly, as we?re still in an excellent position to go up as of right, but unless something is done to change the state of affairs I just described, and quickly, then we might have a real disaster on our hands. At the moment, I still ? just about ? believe we?ll be there when the pots and prizes are handed out, but don?t take it as read we?re automatically bound for the Promised Land. There are an awful lot of fixtures still remaining, and a lot will hang on how much stomach our performers have for the struggle ahead. The next few games should prove instructive.

Onto much more palatable subjects, now, to whit, what we got up to on Chrimbo Day. A massive blow-out of goose (a real Dickensian touch, that, as that particular bird was the nation?s festive roast of choice in the distant days when Scrooge And Co had their real-life counterparts) at ?Im Indoors?s folks, then after a goodly helping of traditional pud, we wended our bloated and indigestion-racked way home. When my other half?s beau, Norm, puts on a Christmas dinner, it?s the biz. Forget Ainsley Harriott, Jamie Oliver, the blessed Delia Smith, even ? the grandeur of their cuisine pales in the light of Norm?s culinary efforts. Mind you, when you?ve cooked for millions of hungry squaddies, and under battlefield conditions, applying such expertise to the domestic kitchen is a piece of ? erm ? cake by comparison.

No telly-watching nonsense for us on return, though; instead of viewing the usual dross on offer from the main channels, we elected to watch our newly-acquired Bob Taylor video instead. I have to say it was superbly done, and for us, a timely reminder of some of those superlative goals he scored in the dim and distant past. Examples? That diving header, suicidal, almost, in the same category as those funny Japanese folkies who insisted upon crashing perfectly serviceable aircraft onto US Navy aircraft carriers, and versus The Dingles, which made the strike even more delicious. Plus, of course, The One! Versus Crystal Palace, you may recall, and the one that sent us flying into the higher league?s Terra Incognito for the first time in our history. Not strictly true, I know, as Big Dave was the one who made the initial breakthrough, but, as Bob said himself, days before the game, Derek McInness casually remarked that it was scripted, almost, that Bob would have a say in our eventual promotion. If you haven?t got this excellent appreciation of Bob and his playing life and times, then all I can add by way of comment is, ?Why not??

That?s about my lot for tonight. Back on Monday evening for a pre-Wimbledon discourse, but before I go, just another little note about our former hero. Mention of the bloke who is rapidly elevating himself to the same legendary status as The King and Bomber Brown brings me to yet another Taylor milestone which might have escaped your attention in the Christmas festivities, and that?s his 200th League goal as Cheltenham beat Macclesfield 3-2 the other day. According to the press report ? thanks to Julian Rowe for this, by the way ? ?It has taken the 36-year-old 18 years to join the exclusive club and even after all his experience with higher-level clubs, reaching the landmark clearly still meant a great deal to him. He raised an arm with two fingers pointing to the sky and spoke afterwards of his relief at getting there.?

Apparently, Bob got the second of Town's goals, but subsequently admitted that he had felt the pressure. It appears that our supporters? club recently had an undervest made for him with the legend '200 goals' on it, plus the teams he?d played for, and the goals he?d notched up over the years. He?d wanted to wear it but didn't. The reason why is below.

"I am a bit superstitious,? explained Bob, ?and we needed to win so I thought if I wore it things would go against us. If I had worn it, and scored, I would have ripped it off and been running around!?

Never mind, Supes, I?m sure this particular garment will get an airing one way or another before the current season?s finished. Bob is now a fully-paid up member of a somewhat exclusive club; there aren?t that many strikers around who can make similar boasts about their playing careers, and as the strike that counted was his seventh thus far for Cheltenham, I?m sure there?ll be a fair few more flying past bemused keepers before Supes finally decides to hang up his boots for good. There are players, and there are special players, and it?s not too difficult to work out into which category Bob fits as far as Albion supporters are concerned. Need I say more?

 - Glynis Wright

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