The Diary

20 August 2006: Baggies Bag All Three Points From Unlucky U's

This one truly had to be the game where Apathy ruled OK, an unloved and unlovable contest where at least one of the participating sides had more or less rolled over and died by the time the half-time whistle went, but in true ?Dawn Of The Dead? style, somehow zombified themselves sufficiently enough during the break to spend the remainder of their Hawthorns time lurching sightlessly all over most of Albion?s real-estate, slobbering blood in all directions, and looking to get revenge by sinking their gory fangs into yet another set of Baggie jugular veins and carotid arteries, thereby making them Undead also.. Oh ? and trying to get back a two-goal deficit while they were at it as well.

Seriously, though, by the time the game had run but ten minutes of its appointed course, I genuinely thought that acute embarrassment would be the lot of the Colchester contingent; already four or five corners to the good, it only seemed a matter of time before the dam would break, and the gushing waters quickly swamp the distinctly-distressed Essex side ? but this is West Bromwich Albion we?re talking about, here. Remember?

The complete and utter shambles we witnessed over the course of the last ten minutes was brought about principally by our complete and utter failure to bury the newly-reincarnated sods with a stake right through their collective hearts, metaphorically speaking, when we had the chance. During the first 45, of course. Ever stronger they became, after the break, and in true Hammer Horror fashion, so much so that by the time the ref finally drew the proceedings to a close, just about every Albionite in that ground was reaching for the old tranquillisers themselves. A state of affairs which led to that unbelievably-tense finish, of course, and largely self-inflicted. Maddening.

Mind you, when we got to the bottom of Halfords Lane, around two hours before kick-off, we found it really difficult to believe there was a game on at all. People? What people? Something told the pair of us this game had totally failed to excite the imagination of the West Bromwich football-watching public, and had it not been for the plethora of police parking cones laid along each side of the road, you really would have had great difficulty knowing there was going to be a game at all later that afternoon.

Nearer the ground ? no, I tell a lie, right outside it ? we did have better luck, in the form of five or so workmen gazing meaningfully into the hole they?d dug ? or rather in the direction of the poor sod currently in there and seemingly busily engaged in doing all the donkey-work! All in the cause of locating that wonderful Hawthorns perennial, ?finding the gas leak?. I kid you not, this very scenario ? or variations on a similar theme ? have been part and parcel of matchday life for a fair number of seasons, now. One of these days, the whole shebang will go ?BOOM!? Let?s just hope I?m nowhere near it when it finally does.

One other thought ? a full 12 months after it was finally closed, the old Throstle Club has now fallen victim to the wreckers? deadly JCB. Now it?s finally down, and, contrary to what we were led to believe at the time, the new school hasn?t claimed the plot, just what manner of new creation will rise, Phoenix-like from the rubble, the next time I show up for a game, I wonder? Bet you anything you care to mention it?s yet more car-parking!

A much more reliable indicator of our probable gate today came in the form of the relative dearth of bums on seats when we entered the Hawthorns Hotel. Agreed, there was still oodles of time until the ref blew to let battle commence, but even so, the lack of bodies provided compelling evidence that this game had totally failed to jizz the imaginations of a fair number of Albion people. Even getting to the bar was a comparative doddle, for once: no sooner had we both taken our places alongside the Lewis family, Carly, now well and truly designated our group?s official Booze Carrier, was back bearing liquid gifts from afar. And what a ?natural? she is at carrying all our wants: that?s my girl!

Our whistles well and truly wetted, we were then able to ?tune in? to the latest bee in The Noise?s voluminous bonnet: i.e. that despite having a pretty good mix of players in theory, the lack of an additional decent striker could well see us effectively self-withdraw ourselves from the promotion race to come. Suddenly having a bigger audience on which to inflict industrial deafness, the Noise quickly found himself in his element. According to him, the fundamental difference could be seen when comparing Albion with Stoke City: the latter?s first-team squad were most certainly of mid-table calibre, no more ? and it showed on the pitch. They lacked that extra bit of class we had, the one factor at our disposal that instantly turned a squad of ?so-so? players into one looking to be much more upwardly-mobile. That was the fundamental difference, but it meant absolutely rock-all should we not find some sufficiently capable of banging the ball into the back of the net on a regular basis.

And I certainly couldn?t argue with that full and frank assessment, especially when the conclusion of that particular Lewis-propelled monologue happened to coincide with a certain Rob Hulse, a striker formerly of this parish (and still slobbered over in true Roy Hattersley fashion by a thoroughly-besotted Carly, still wearing a Baggies shirt with his name on the back, by the way!) slotting the ball away for Premiership newbies Sheffield United, playing the mighty Liverpool ? the Scouser marking was absolutely appalling, mind - delighting their followers no end by going in front during their inaugural top-flight home game with said Merseyside mob.

Jumping the gun slightly, we were to discover much later that former Albion OAP Kanu ? who, according to Ceefax, is still 31 years of age! - managed to net a brace for Pompey versus Blackburn Rovers, eventually dipping out on a possible hat-trick by missing a penalty. Such happenings are wont to arouse my ire, somewhat ? and move me to beg the following no-brainer question: just why is it that when a striker leaves The Hawthorns, he suddenly rediscovers a rich vein of form? All answers on a postcard to Jeremy Peace, please, and not me!

Half-two, and time to ?get it over with?, as my gloomy other half put it. Honestly, you?d have thought it was a date with a firing-squad he had in there, not an event he?d paid good money up-front to see (but considering the way things nearly panned out later, on the other hand??.). Plonking my bot on my little seat once more, and glancing around the ground, it was becoming all-too clear that the awful gate I predicted yesterday was most certainly going to materialise. Gaps everywhere, and to the point where the white writing on the blue seats was plainly visible in some parts of the ground. Apathy, pure apathy. One amusing interlude, though: a teenager, squeezing past me to get to her seat, had, to my complete horror, a replica Albion shirt complete with the word ?SEALS? in tandem with a number ?10? emblazoned on the back. What the?.?

We didn?t say anything at first, but curiosity finally got the better of us both. ?Im Indoors had to ask the question in the end ? er, why that particular logo on the back of her shirt? At least the answer was a profound relief: ?SEALS? just happens to be that young lady?s nickname, nothing more, nothing less! Phew, thank goodness for that ? for one horrible minute we?d thought??.

Although augmented further by some latecomers, stuck on the motorway somewhere, presumably, just before kick-off, the away support at that time amounted to some 400 or so ?good men and true?. Sure, I realise that the Essex club aren?t exactly the best supported in the Football League, but given this was their first-ever League showing at our level, our lot the side much fancied to bounce straight back, and boasting one of the division?s better grounds for gawping purposes, you?d have thought there would have been considerably more interest from them, now, wouldn?t you?

Enter the gladiators, then, of both sides ? and, in our case, replete with no less than four young ?mascots? proudly marching in front! As far as Nathan Ellington?s fitness was concerned, as it turned out, no worries: pronounced totally ?cured? by our medical people, there he was, as large as life. Just as well, really; had he not been able to turn out for us, the score on the doors come five to five might well have read somewhat differently. Nathan?s inclusion meant, of course, that we were hanging onto something pretty vital, at long last ? the continuity that comes from having the same side there for three on the bounce, a happy state of affairs that inevitably brings much-needed stability in its wake.

Albion, kicking towards the Smethwick, got going, finally ? only to concede a Colchester corner in the very first minute! And that, my leetle cherubs, was about the only glimpse the visitors had of the match-ball those torrid opening ten minutes or so. Their little incursion finally dealt with, Albion quickly broke out of defence ? and for the next nine minutes or so, proceeded to run them ragged. With every passing minute, up went the obligatory ?corner-count?: one, two, three, four, five, all on the bounce, and all from Albion?? How the hell the scoreline still stayed pristine during all that time, I haven?t a clue; my main memory of that period is of our finest staging a pretty convincing re-enactment of the US Seventh Cavalry in action against the Sioux tribe, circa 1870. Colchester were rocking, badly ? something had to give out there, surely?

Ten minutes into the game, and an Ellington near-miss, a Gera attempt kicked off the line, much annoyance and embuggeration gushing forth from the ever-busy feet of John Hartson, another attempt from The Duke brilliantly stopped by their keeper later ? yep, you must be getting my drift by this time! ? we finally got the break we needed, and via the ref?s index finger pointing in the direction of the penalty-spot, for once. John Hartson was the Baggie adjudged to have been impeded in the box, and once the ref had blown, we collectively agonised over who was about to step up and do the dirty deed that had to be done. Much to our surprise, Nathan Ellington was quickly designated Albion?s Slayer-In-Chief, so without further ado, up he marched to the spot, match-ball in hand. Was that wise, we Halfords Lane Stand lot all wondered, as small shards of nibbled bits of fingernail flew in all directions. We needn?t have worried, mind. Up stepped the lad, WHACK! went the ball, as it obediently entered the rear of the premises, to order. A very cleverly-placed kick, too, may I say, right in the corner of the net, and just inside the far post, even ? their poor keeper never even had time to move an inch for it. One to savour via the scoreboard, which now boasted a brand-new clock, one that counted down the minutes ? and, at long last, with a readout large enough to actually tell the time from the blasted thing!

OK ? so we were now one goal to the good, finally putting the U?s to the sword seemed but a formality, given time ? so why was it that the atmosphere in that ground still bore considerable resemblance to a particularly-fraught day at the local crematorium? Bodies, of course, live ones ? or rather the ones we didn?t have. The attendance, some 17.5K was absolutely awful, which is why the best efforts of the Smethwick End in that direction sometimes fell well short of what was really needed for morale-boosting purposes.

I was to change my mind considerably during the course of the second half, but right then, it seemed to me that there were many parallels to be drawn between Colchester?s current plight, and the awful showing we made of our inaugural Premiership season back in 2002. As far as that first half was concerned, Colchester appeared literally light-years behind us in terms of overall class; on that basis, I had them mentally marked to sink like a stone, finishing their season with a whimper and most certainly not a bang. Just goes to show how much I know, as I?ll demonstrate later.

Right then, it was one-way traffic, more or less ? but still we couldn?t turn what was overwhelming superiority into genuine copper-bottomed goals. Everything but, in fact, further eliciting niggling worries that we?d end up well and truly shooting our bolt because of repeated failure to score, then getting punished for it horribly during the course of the second half. Certainly, as the first half entered its final phase ? no less than twelve Albion corners given over the course of forty minutes or thereabouts - you could see numerous little errors trying to edge their way in. Just as well, then, that thanks to the unlikeliest of goal-scoring interventions ? from the nimble feet of Ronnie Wallwork, no less, for only his second successful Albion strike in four seasons - we managed to double our lead, and with only a matter of four minutes remaining to the interval, too. Mind you, during the three minutes of stoppage-time added on, our blue and white-striped suicide-merchants nearly managed to let Colchester back in once more. It seemed that our worst enemy was complacency; believing the job done, we were wont to take our eyes off the ball, with all-too predictable consequences for our still-overworked rearguard, of course.

That half-time break ? who needed it the most, I wonder? The 22 blokes flogging their guts out on the pitch, or we oft-frustrated ? and, sometimes, absolutely infuriated - spectators? While our finest spent their precious break time, this column was busy perusing Jean Homer?s holiday snaps ? pics with a soupcon of their latest silver-tabby feline addition, Zoltan, chucked in for good measure. An amazing cat, that one. As bright as a button, and somehow developing a penchant for watery pastimes along the way. He absolutely adores jumping right into a bath full of water, apparently ? soapy, not soapy, containing aromatic bath-oil or otherwise, whatever ? and will also sit for hours watching their tumble-dryer whiz round and round. Mind you, I?ve come across more than a few Dingles wont to do similar in my time, so I suppose you can?t really regard this sort of thing as the exclusive province of the feline/brain-dead tendency ? er, can you?

Time for the second half, then ? and no sooner had the whistle left the ref?s mouth, Colchester nearly found us wanting courtesy some quick-fire attacking of their own. (What was it I said about complacency being our biggest enemy this half?) What?s more, they nearly managed to pull it off, too. No flash in the pan from a bunch of fancy-Dans, that ? they genuinely did look increasingly dangerous, as the play continued to careen wildly from end to sodding end. No more looking like the side most tipped to go straight back down, either; their attacks, more numerous, now, were beginning to find their target, and we were making mistakes left, right and centre. Robson was going absolutely crackers at his newly-slipshod charges, make no mistake.

One such daft error, from second goalscorer Wallwork, brought forth a yellow card, his second thus term, I believe. ?That?s a stupid soddin? booking, Wallwork!? roared an incensed John Homer.

?E?s a stupid soddin player?.? muttered the Bloke In Front Of Me, darkly.

With the game now entering its closing stages, there were now three further players augmenting those tattered Baggie ranks. Gera had left the scene with 15 minutes gone, Carter coming on by way of replacement, then, just a few minutes later, it was Duke Ellington?s turn to call it a day, the lad Chaplow finally getting his place in the sun ? and impressing more and more as the remainder of the game progressed. Third but most certainly not out was second goalscorer Wallwork, his replacement Albrechtsen helping stiffen things on the flanks.

Now that the greater part of our attacking firepower was gone, and United pushing more and more for that vital opener, things started to look distinctly hairy for us at the back. Now come on, lads ? had our gaffer wanted a real kamikaze job doing today, he would have used Inamoto, wouldn?t he? Colchester?s double-subbing, on 82, finally paid off when their replacement for Izzet, the lad Guy, managed to grab his first goal for the club, a neat-enough turning in of a well-placed cross.

That?s when it really started getting sweaty. United, having managed to pull one back, finally, were pushing something rotten for an equaliser, and our defence, not the most confident, even at the best of times, were buckling badly. ?KEEP THE BLOODY BALL?.? was the battle-cry that literally rang in the ears of our finest for the greater part of those last few fraught minutes. Heaps of respect to them, though, for managing to do precisely that, by and large, and by the intelligent use of the ball, too. Even so, it was with a great deal of relief that I heard the ref blow to conclude the matter, finally. Another day, another time, and it could have gone so wrong for us, of course ? as things stand, the three points are ours, but we didn?t half have to work that last few minutes to properly secure the win. Colchester may have started the game looking like prime candidates for the division?s ?Patsy Of The Season? competition, but believe you me, that snap-assessment of mine was somewhat premature.

Of one thing I?m sure, they can certainly attack ? and, what?s more, with a speed truly astonishing to behold, especially when coming from out of defence. Those last few minutes, they ran at us like tigers, and were nearly made to pay dearly on more than one occasion. As for their future prospects, they might look gloomy right now, but provided they can start ascending the steep learning-curve they currently have sitting right in front of them, maybe ? just maybe ? they might then start to punch above their weight in this division before too long. Certainly, their gaffer, Geraint Williams, look you, boyo, is no mug, indeed to goodness. Thanks to his many second-half promptings from the bench, Colchester provided incontrovertible proof of that. They sure do live in interesting times.

And Finally?? One The place? Gents toilet, Hawthorns Hotel. The time? 2.30 pm. The problem? ?Im Indoors, on finishing his ?business? suddenly realising there was no means whatsoever of drying his hands there ? hand-dryer bust, and no paper towels provided, either. Enter another Baggie, very ?Black Country?, also in a similar predicament, but taking in the situation at a glance, then ?acting?: ?Well, it?s wot yer trousis is for, ay it????

Two?.. The Noise, to me: ?Megson?s scouting for England, now???

Me: ?What? ?Scouting?, or ?shouting????.?

Three.... Biggest laugh of the afternoon? The 'prawn sandwich brigade' voting Jonathan Greening their Man Of The Match - and all after a series of awful mistakes perpetrated by 'yer man'. You really couldn't hear yourself think for the raucous roars of laughter coming from the mouths of Baggies who seriously begged to differ!

 - Glynis Wright

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