The Diary

29 February 2004: Rotherham Bother 'Em

Before saying what you all know I?m going to say about today?s performance, a word in your collective shell-like lugholes about the man in the middle this afternoon, Tony Bates. No doubt Baggies the length and breadth of the land are right now debating the somewhat dubious legality of a goal scored (and given) when two players, one Albion, one Rotherham, were well and truly horizontal on the deck and injured, following what appeared to be an accidental collision ? Big Dave?s appeared to be of the ?head? variety, for which the game has to be stopped immediately, by law - but even if our mate the whistler ends up with half an irate Brummie Road camping on his front lawn tonight, our collective wrath would be nothing compared to what he?s got coming Monday morning.

Puzzled? OK, I?ll let you in on a little secret; the guy is a workmate of The Noise, believe it or not, and after today?s events, I can only hope Wedgwoods? routinely supply their employees with extra-strong ear-defenders, because after a somewhat prolonged ear-bashing from our extremely verbose (and somewhat emotional, occasionally!) co-editor, he sure as hell is going to need all the help he can get. Talk? You could say that, and with added interest. I crap you not, when The Noise gets really started, nothing ? I repeat nothing ? is safe from the aural barrage. It wasn?t just the circumstances surrounding the goal; let?s just say some of those decisions of his, for both sides, not just us, were a tad dubious at times. Whatever god Mr. Bates worships, I can only hope that on Monday morning, it feels suitably divinely-disposed towards giving The Noise a stiffish dose of laryngitis, or something, to head him off at the pass.

That?s my critique of the circumstances surrounding the goal done and dusted, then, but that?s not the whole story; one goal does not a silly defeat make, as we all well know. The ill-judged actions of one man with a whistle do not consign a whole side, all eleven of them, at the opposite end of the First Division table to their opponents, to an unexpected defeat, so it would be dashed unfair of me to wholly blame The Noise?s pottery-making mate, or the scorer, for that matter. Fair play to Rotherham?s Chris Sedgwick for taking advantage and potting the thing while the rest of our defence seemed more intent on playing ?statues? in the box; after having us on the back-pedal for most of that half, that goal was their just desserts, pure and simple.

"There was not enough determination, desire or drive in our performance," complained our leader after the game, and as far as the second 45 is concerned, quite right, too, but you do have to ask why Clem was pencilled in to play on the right, and Scouse Jase on the left, despite neither of these being the positions God made them for. The pair of them didn?t look at all comfortable in those unaccustomed berths of theirs, so why persist? Certainly, there were times during that 90 minutes when I could have given our ex-Chelsea lad a really hard shaking, and correct me if I?m wrong, but it was primarily because of a cock-up from him ? Clem had the ball, went to kick it into orbit, missed completely, thereby allowing Rotherham to get the thing back again: the rest we all know - we ended up conceding, albeit indirectly. Trouble is, though, during that same game, there were times when his performance simply oozed class from every pore. What?s the answer? Buggered if I know.

Apologies, folks: I?d normally allow any excess steam to escape from my ears much later on in the writing process, but so consumed was I by sheer fury over what happened, I simply had to give vent to my anger sooner rather than later, which is rarely a good thing to do when dealing with these matters, so what I?ll do now is return to the beginning of this sorry tale, then take you through the rest of it when I?m in a suitably-calm frame of mind to do so. And it all started so well, too. Despite my initial fears that the game might be in jeopardy due to the icy conditions, we awoke this morning to discover that the night hadn?t brought yet another layer of the chilly white stuff to liberally dust our back yard. Game most certainly on, then, even though Norwich?s tryst with The Mackems had fallen victim to inclement weather, as had the Crewe-Stoke encounter. A quick bite to eat, a rapid-fire read of the tabloids, and it was off in The Dickmobile to a distinctly chilly Shrine around midday. Not that I was going to give the cold a chance to penetrate, mind; three chunky jumpers, two pairs of thermal trousers under a pair of denim jeans, undies, two pairs of socks, one of mountaineering standard, the other one, like our local rivals, just plain thick. My circulatory system being what it is, I have a distinct aversion to cold, and will go to almost any lengths to avoid it. If I ever get run over by a bus on my way to a midwinter game, then God help the people in Casualty, because they?d need a tin-opener to get through all that lot.

Anyway, we fetched up at the Throstle Club eventually, which is where I found out from The Noise that today?s ref was a work colleague of his. Had I taken more notice of the programme, I probably would have made the connection, as when we set out for grounds somewhat distant from our own, the doings of his whistling chum do tend to feature in the conversation/monologue at some point or another. Mind you, the sad thing about all this is, until today?s little caper, The Noise really rated the guy?s reffing abilities, even the time when he had our ?opener? versus Walsall, the one in which we lost heavily! Oh, whoops. Oh, and while we were discussing the pros and cons of workmates officiating at important games involving our finest, young Carly was working her delicate little fingers to the bone, texting a young male admirer like there was no tomorrow! Ah, what it is to be thirteen and (almost) innocent, to reach the zenith of late childhood, and enjoy in an unhurried way the view from the summit, just before all those awkward ?Kevin? type hormones start to well and truly kick in. Bless. And then The Fart rolled up, showering ?Im Indoors with fulsome praise for Hereford?s incredible nine goal away win last night, but that was after his normal Friday night participation on the WM football phone-in, of course. Quite a pilot of the airwaves, is our Tel, when the mood takes him; even Radio Five have been known to bleed his ears about matters Albion before now.

Into the chilly air, then, around 1.20 ? and once outside our normal pitch, a bit of a surprise. Instead of a desultory stream of supporters hanging around waiting for the turnstiles to open, what we got instead was a conglomeration of frozen-looking Baggies shivering on the opposite side of the road. Strange. And then I heard it ? not so loud it blasted your brains out, just a quietly-insistent electronic ?bleep? from within the ground. And, not long after that, a couple of stewards telling us to move away sharpish because the fire alarms had just gone off inside! Not us, guv, honest. Selling activities totally truncated for the moment, all we could do was watch. Within minutes we heard the inevitable ?di-dah? sound of the fire-engines, but as no smoke and/or flames could be seen belching forth from inside, we ? correctly, as it turned out ? assumed the whole thing had been a false alarm. And, while we?re on the subject of the emergency services, there then came what was, for us, a rare sight indeed. That of one of our subscribers in the uniform of a West Midlands Police officer, and a very fine specimen of constabulary diligence and zeal he looked, too, sergeant?s stripes all agleam on those bright yellow epaulettes of his. A worthy role-model indeed for young bobbies everywhere. Old ladies could turn to him with complete confidence should they have difficulty crossing the main road, or find poor Tiddles being savaged by the neighbour?s Rottweiller. And before you ask, no, I?m not ?outing? the lad, as we do value his future custom, not to mention our continuing freedom from the taint of a criminal record!

The fire nonsense having been dealt with, we then resumed our flogging activities, on what was proving to be a bloody cold afternoon indeed. In the distance, a yellowy sort of cloud-mass bore the certain promise of a barrow-load of the powdery stuff about to be dumped another part of the Midland region, but around The Hawthorns, not a snowflake was there to be seen. And, at first, it seemed as though the crowd had taken the same route, because until around half an hour before the ?off?, there was a distinct paucity of bodies around the ground; most people must have left it late to avoid exposing themselves to more of the shivery conditions than was strictly necessary for their continuing good health. Mind you, the amount of traffic we got after half-two more than made up for what we?d missed previously; when it came to going into the ground, though, I temporarily lost my other half. How come? Just as he was about to go through the turnstile, two potential customers grabbed him, and one needed change, which had all been put back into our bag, of course, holding things up even more. Which left this column anxiously waiting just inside, and wondering where the hell he?d got to.

Finally reunited once more, we then took our usual places, closely followed by the team news. As I told you, the main surprise was the switch done with Jason Koumas and Neil Clement; that, plus the unexpected reappearance of Russell Hoult in goal. What a turn up for the books. Also, a lot more Rotherham supporters than you would have expected in their end. Still, no time to ruminate further on that one, off we jolly well went, to the tune of our now-normal 4-4-2 thingy, and for the first 20 minutes or so, it really seemed as though it were only a matter of time before Joshua blew his mighty horn and the walls of Jericho came tumbling down on the visitors in a great big dusty heap. As early as the third minute Hughsie delivered an almighty drive on the turn which shaved the right-hand post and surely deserved better; within minutes, both Koumas and The Horse made a pretty good fist of their efforts, but sadly, they weren?t quite enough to beat their keeper, who saved brilliantly from the latter?s effort.

And, not long after that, Hughsie was only a toe-poke away from opening the scoring, as a lovely Clem pass found The Horse, galloping full-tilt on the right. He then crossed to our predatory ex-roofer, and I kid you not, all it needed was the proverbial prod to send it rolling over the line, but sadly, our Smethwick striker?s legs weren?t quite long enough to reach it. Had any one of these efforts found the target, it could well have changed the whole outcome of the game, because with around 25 minutes gone, it was plain to see that Rotherham had also. Gone, I mean; that rearguard of theirs was buckling about as badly as the deflector shields of a Starfleet ship pursued by a whole bunch of predatory Klingons, and all their phasers completely out of gas. But who was going to do the decent thing, perform the proverbial ?act of mercy?, the coup de grace? Surely it was just a matter of time? But no: for whatever reason, be it the onset of severe hypothermia or a more-stinging-than-usual dose of vituperation from the bench, we suddenly went off the boil, and the game then settled down to what I can only describe as our normal ?war of attrition? stance. And, even before the interval, Rotherham had provided us with a couple of warnings ? one of which came about as a result of a blunder by our out-of-position defender ? but on both occasions, the visitors only managed to rouse some poor sod in the back of the Brummie from their state of icy torpidity, luckily for us. Clearly, a half-time kick up the fundament was needed for some of our finest, and as both sets of combatants trudged off the pitch, we fervently hoped that the 15 minutes break would be used to good effect.

At the start of the second period, it was to be hoped that the interval had concentrated minds wonderfully. Not that we could compare our 45-minute score with those elsewhere in the division; for some reason or another, our resident DJ neglected to read out the half-times, so for those of us without radios, we had no alternative but recommence supporting activities in blissful ignorance of events elsewhere. And it wasn?t long before the spectre called ?worry? began to haunt our thoughts once more; whatever the Rotherham gaffer had said to his troops during the break, those words had clearly settled on fertile ground, because after only about 5 minutes, Houlty had to shift sharpish to nick the ball off the feet of one of theirs just before they could pull the trigger.

Come ten minutes gone, come the changes, but not quite what I?d expected. Off came Hughsie, Kinsella and Robinson, and on came Facey, Volmer and Greegs. More or less what we?d done at Bramall Lane last week, i.e. reverting to a 3-5-2, but I must say I was doubtful about taking Lee off, and even more doubtful about leaving young Lloyd Dyer out of the picture, not to mention chucking all our subs on in one almighty throw of the dice. The problem was, it might have worked at Sheffield seven days ago, but it sure as hell didn?t work here. Where there had once been some lovely pass and move stuff in the beginning of the first half, there was now only desperate ?hoof and hope?-type tactics, which got us absolutely nowhere considering the size of their defenders, all of whom could have given a brick outhouse a decent run for its money. Unsurprisingly, the crowd scented this, and were most unamused by the procession of cock-ups paraded before them as the half progressed; well, it was as clear as the zit on the end of your nose what was going to happen eventually, and with around 15 minutes left on the clock, it did.

The circumstances, controversial or whatever, were as I described them at the start of my piece. From then on in, Rotherham shut up shop, defensively speaking, and who could really blame them? Not that we could do anything about it, mind, we?d used all our subs, burned our boats. With around 5 minutes left, Jason Koumas nearly nicked us a point from a free-kick just outside the box; the shot took a sudden downwards swerve as it passed over the wall, their keeper doing bloody well just to fingertip the effort onto the bar, and out for a corner. Although we frantically tried to get the equaliser in injury time, it just didn?t happen, and by that time, a hell of a lot of our punters had long since headed for the hills. Final whistle delight for the Millers, that win of theirs taking them right away from trouble, but as far as we?re concerned, ours might just be beginning. What puzzles me most of all about the entire affair is the pre-match switch of Clem from the left to the right. The lad may be a good many things, but a right-footed player, he most certainly ain?t, and what?s more, never will be in a month of pigs? puddens, as my old mum used to say. Just what was our leader thinking of when he thought that one up?

As I said earlier, Norwich didn?t play today, so they?re still three points in front, but with a game in hand on us instead. Sure, I know, you have to win games in hand, but the way they play, I wouldn?t like to lay good money on them cocking up Dingle-fashion. Wigan, Ipswich, The Hammers and Millwall: they all dutifully plonked their three points straight into the old biscuit tin this afternoon, which makes today?s performance even more infuriating. This means, of course, that Tuesday?s game is going to assume all the proportions of a ?must win?. Eek! We did have that 6-point cushion separating us from third-placed Wigan, but after today, that?s been reduced to three, which isn?t exactly a lot as the crow flies, and also lurking suspiciously in the foliage, man-traps poised and ready, are both London clubs, plus the Norfolk one. A bit of a ?Cuban Missile Crisis? type situation, really: everyone up close and personal with us, eyeballs a-popping, and hoping like hell we blink first.

More tomorrow, when I?ve stopped fuming. Sorry, can?t think of anything funny to say by way of a closing paragraph right now, but hopefully, my sense of humour glands will return to normal function in around 24 hours time.

 - Glynis Wright

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