The Diary

14 February 2005: Albion And 'Nearly-Won Syndrome'

Remember this diary a few weeks back when I told you all about ?Nearly-Bought Syndrome? a condition perfected to pin-point sharpness by my completely technologically-resistant mother-in-law? Well, I reckon I?ve now found its Albion equivalent.

Just in case some of you missed the piece in question, you certainly won?t find this malady described in The Lancet; it?s all about looking very carefully indeed at some ?new-fangled? household item or other (well, as far as she?s concerned, anything researched, developed, and marketed as late as the1980?s and shortly afterwards can fall into that category), weighing up factors like ease of operation, price, the very real possibility of the goods concerned slashing instantly the amount of time needed to perform the tedious household chore the old item covered (or blew up in spectacular fashion whilst doing so, in some cases) then going away and thinking about it for a day or two. And, once the time?s elapsed, anxious enquiries having been made by this column in the meantime - and what do I generally find? Despite having uttered many murmurs of delighted approval at the boundless labour-saving possibilities inherent in ordering the modern replacement, she then performs a complete U-turn by opting instead for a similarly-ancient version of the gadget/item of furniture/white-goods domestic appliance that irreparably conked out in the first place.

Which generally proves to be something of a logistical headache for the dear lady these days; replacements for such ancient family heirlooms can only be found at The Black Country Museum or similar historical institutions; enter the average Comet, or Apollo 2000, ask for similar, and they?ll instantly refer you to a good psychiatrist. Or you end up taking in the distinctly unedifying sight of several sales staff, all of them mature, and some well into their 40?s and 50?s, collectively soiling their underwear to an embarrassing degree of wetness through indulging in lengthy bouts of hysterical laughter the minute you mention the name and vintage of the original item, and its totally non-existent replacement possibilities.

Quite funny at first, a hitherto-unrecognised and delightfully quirky streak clearly inherent in my other half?s family DNA, but when you?ve gone over the entire time-consuming rigmarole with mum-in-law several occasions on the bounce, only to see the same maternal standard-operating-procedure set in motion yet again (a possible move to a bungalow, new cooker, new bedroom furniture, have all bitten the dust; her front room is also a living museum dedicated to late 50?s and early 60?s interior design) the urge eventually overwhelms you to retire to the nearest padded cell, then proceed to scream the bloody place down. Frustrating? Not half. But not as frustrating as my favourite football club, who seemingly suffer from a close variant on the theme so ably demonstrated by ?Im Indoors?s mum. Its name? Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you all to ?Nearly Won Syndrome?.

As you will readily appreciate, there?s a similar principle involved here; as the 50?s American-import TV crime programmes used to say in strident Transatlantic tones, ?only the names have been changed to protect the innocent?. Sceptical? Just examine closely what happened during the course of the whole ninety minutes versus Pompey, Southampton, Bolton, Fulham, Norwich (A); Palace, (H) ? and now Spurs, FA Cup, both games. Plus several other Premiership fixtures not fulfilled under the guidance of our present gaffer, of course, which is why, in the interests of scrupulous fairness, I?m only discussing what?s gone on since the arrival of Robbo. The games mentioned above have all had the lot, so just to save you the bother, here?s the basic template you can apply to cover each and every one of ?em.

For starters, us playing the opposition right off the park for the opening 20-25 minutes, and in delightfully-breathtaking manner these days, thereby treating punters to a dish so delicious they willingly come back for more first time, every time. Ten or so minutes into the game, and by that time, our supporters ? and who can blame them? - finding themselves positively drooling at the rich footballing fayre unexpectedly placed before their badly-jaded palates, and wanting more, more, more! Suitably buoyed up by such unexpected delights, we generally go on to take an early lead, and confidence then becomes joyously rampant both on and off the pitch, but once the jubilation finally dies down, we invariably embark upon a series of glaringly-embarrassing misses that even a house-trained Cub Scout could have put away given a hefty donation to Bob-A-Job Week, and a few minutes crafty woggle-hopping.

Goalmouth incompetence leads to very familiar costs and consequences: conceding an equaliser under very dubious circumstances indeed (Palace, Spurs, astonishingly memorable, both occasions), regaining the lead once more, maybe (Pompey, Palace, again, although they got off the mark first that night, mind), only to concede very late doors indeed through some of our rearguard collectively and instantaneously falling under the influence of a very powerful narcotic drug. Or simply someone at the back dwelling for far too long on the condition of their Aunt Mary, who?s just had a painful operation on her ?unmentionables? and is currently housebound. Or the new-born nipper keeping Dad up for most of the previous night. Whatever.

Also chuck into the already-volatile mix an incident that costs you either two or all of those badly-needed points, a passage into the next round of a major competition, even ? dodgy penalty, opposition free-kick on the edge of the box awarded by the referee under highly-dubious circumstances, leading straight to a goal in our own net, a major outbreak of either bubonic plague, Rob Styles or Darren Purse, take your pick, Michael Howard transforming into full Dracula mode, whatever ? and you?ve covered the entire script for the afternoon (or evening). All highly frustrating indeed for both players and spectators alike, and very costly in terms of revenue and playing staff when we do finally take the plunge ? already I see vultures circling meaningfully around Greening via the rumour-ridden medium of the Sunday scandal-sheets - but no matter what happens on these occasions, the principle?s always the same. We, as a football club, as directors, as supporters, as players, even, all suffer chronically (and horribly) from Nearly-Won Syndrome.

What makes our current situation all the more maddening right now is the frustrating fact that we?re so tantalisingly close to coming up with a side well capable of continued Premiership existence. And without sacrificing entertainment value on the shibboleth of survival. Before the arrival of Robbo on the scene, we were totally bereft of confidence throughout, our front-men weren?t getting the ball in the back of the net, mainly for reasons connected with lack of an effective midfield supply chain, and because of our chronic lack of strike-power, we were then suitably ripe for the picking. So much so, we rapidly became something of a national joke. Since the recent managerial change, all that was bad about the club?s somewhat negative playing style, the main factor responsible for the biggest gripes along the serried ranks of the long-termers, was instantaneously eliminated. Players are suddenly rediscovering the possibilities of the game meaning more than just a rich source of weekly income to them; suddenly, training sessions, ?proper? games, even, are fun.

Which, just like disease, can be highly-infectious; most of our followers quickly scented the astonishing change in motivational attitude among the players, and they too were greatly uplifted by the remarkable improvement in style during games. The end result? There?s lots more smiling faces to be seen these days, and it?s a happy state of affairs that?s quickly percolated through to both the Brummie and Smethwick. So much has been positive: we?ve finally stemmed the slow drip-drip of negativity, of nastiness, of dressing-room humiliation, of constantly-bawled vituperation, there?s far less of a ?parade-ground culture? about the place, everyone seems treated with far greater respect than was the case just a short while ago, players are finally being allowed to express an opinion, and rightly so; in our ranks are some highly-intelligent, highly-motivated and experienced people. Just about every element that makes for a happier club has now been covered, and our players have responded by practically busting a gut for their paying public every time they put on the sacred stripes. And yet, despite all that, why can?t we transmute so much that?s promising out there into full-blown Premiership survival points?

So what?s the cure? We?ve tried most things, exhausted pretty much our stock of tactical solutions, played ?cops?, both ?good? and ?bad?, but we?re still found wanting. Not to mention becoming maddeningly frustrated as a supporting body; had we managed to sort this problem much sooner, we might well have been taking a long, hard look over our shoulders when glancing at the Prem table right now, emitting a panicky ?Eek!? or two, maybe, but we sure as hell wouldn?t have been reaching for the nearest available life-raft. Of that I?m certain.

I do appreciate we?ve had far more than our fair share of bad luck or downright daft decisions of late; those who read and digested my thoughts on the subject yesterday will know precisely where I stand on this issue, but I would also contend that what?s cost us far more this term has been our inability to completely and utterly nail down the opposition once ahead. Take yesterday?s game, for example; no sooner had Kanu taken a well-deserved lead for us, we were then quickly presented with several other chances to further add to our goals tally, but completely failed to do so. Not half-chances, mind, but perfectly-valid goalscoring opportunities, and all of them spurned, for whatever reason.

Let me see, now; Campbell, on several occasions, Robinson, Jason Koumas, Clem, albeit very late indeed ? with the exception of the last, when it was all too far behind schedule to do anything, all could (and most certainly should, in some cases), have added significantly to our lead. Forget bloody Darren Purse, and the possible indisposition of Houlty; what?s happened at the back has been secondary to what really ails us, especially in games where we needed a result just to stand a realistic chance of being in the same division next season. The truth is quite simple. We badly need far more bang for our buck, and it?s the relative lack of this that?s been the fundamental problem that now separates us from our fellow relegation rivals.

It?s far too late to retrieve the current situation, of course ? unless you are one of those diminishing few that still truly believe in miracles ? but now we know the likely outcome of the current season?s shenanigans, we really should be looking towards formulating a plan of action for next season that encapsulates the concept of basing our entire escape-plan upon a one hundred per cent attacking creed. As I commented last season, despite some opining to the contrary, it?s perfectly possible to play attractive, attacking football and as a result of that policy, still achieve escape-velocity, and with a fair degree of media-attractive panache also. Remember Man City, the same season we went up for the first time? Ipswich? Charlton? Bolton, and not once, but twice? Leicester?

Sure, by trying to score more, you?re highly likely to ship more, but as long as you score more than you end up shipping, you?ll go up. Bang in those goals, and consistently, and idiot and/or just plain dodgy refereeing decisions quickly become irrelevant. Oh ? and before I finish, yet another thought concerning those in black, all who sail in them, and all on a hefty retainer at this level. As per The Noise?s candid thoughts on the subject yesterday, it?ll certainly be interesting to see what manner of stinking pus does manage to leak from the festering sore over the course of the next ten years or so.

And finally?.One.. Anyone in a position to tell me whether those who travelled to White Hart Lane courtesy the Elizabethan Coach Company have arrived safely back in West Bromwich yet? The reason I?m asking is because when we were returning from yesterday?s game, and only 20 or so miles from the capital, we encountered a coach owned by that very same firm in the slow lane and puffing and blowing a good five miles behind the bulk of the Albion convoy! As for how wide the potential disparity between them and the rest of our coaches would become in terms of motorway speed as the miles chugged slowly by, I will leave that as ?an exercise for the reader?.

Two. Yesterday, it appears John Motson gave us a plug on-air. And, before you ask, not of the bathroom, sink or sparking variety, either. Not being party to the Beeb?s live commentary for obvious reasons, I only found out when The Fart told us this morning; apparently, he (John Motson, not The Fart) finds GD ?funny?. Is that ?funny? as in ?funny peculiar? or ?funny? as in ?funny ha-ha?? All right, don?t all rush at once!

Three. Talking of which?. I see The Fart is still maintaining consistently-high standards as far as the ?amnesiac stakes? are concerned. Usually, it?s umbrellas or hats we discover when we do our customary sweep of the Dickmobile the day after an away trip, but this time, he?s really excelled himself. Rock cakes, as lovingly baked by our culinary chums Messrs. Firkin, who have a shop just up the road from us, and one our resident war veteran usually visits prior to coming to GD Towers for an away trip. They?re nestling quietly in our fridge right now ? the rock cakes, I mean, not The Fart, although, given his much-advanced age, perhaps he should reside there also? - and the proper owner plans a somewhat emotional reunion tomorrow morning. Oh well, I suppose I should thank God for small mercies; it could have been something like over-ripe Gorgonzola cheese silently awaiting its true destiny under the back seat!

 - Glynis Wright

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