The Diary

15 October 2003: Bright Blades Bludgeon Baggies!

I suppose you could say tonight?s game was the one where we finally woke up and smelt the coffee. This was always billed as a battle between two gaffers who were, in combination, more slippery than a box-load of frogs (not my expression, but that of someone much closer to home!) and therefore it must have come as something as a shock to ours when he was sent packing with his tail well and truly between his legs tonight. No complaints as far as this column is concerned, we were totally outclassed in every department by Warnock?s battlers; the only recourse available to us is to take our lumps with some semblance of good grace and acknowledge we had it coming. And it?s no use whatsoever slapping great gobs of the blame in the general direction of our manager?s bald pate either; those half-time switcheroos of his ? Bertha and Hulse off, Hughsie and Deech on - were tactically sound, as was the insertion of Sakiri for the underachieving Greegs later on. At two-nil in arrears, we were always chasing the game, and our almost-unprecedented transmutation to a 4-3-3 and the extra potential firepower it gave up front was therefore logical.

Let?s put it this way; had our leader not taken that half-time option, or something similar, before too long, the Hawthorns air would undoubtedly have been tinged various shades of blue by hordes of Baggies calling into question his judgment, amongst other (unprintable!) things. Yes, I?m totally at one with Megson on that one. His drastic half-time alterations were pretty-much an admission he?d got it wrong, and as far as He Who Must Be Obeyed is concerned, the nearest equivalent in everyday life is the Archbishop of Canterbury suddenly advocating Devil-worship as a nice Sunday pastime. I do have one teensy problem, though, and it?s this. It?s quite commendable switching from Plan A to Plan B when things are going distinctly pear-shaped, but such a drastic tactical change has to be predicated on the assumption that the players themselves actually know what to do in terms of using their initiative and imagination, creativity, even, on such occasions. Fine in sides where players do have scope to think for themselves, but it strikes me that such radical ideas are not exactly encouraged at our football club these days. Given that so much of our game hinges on what happens at the back, our sudden espousal of the attacking-code seemed to come as something of a shock to the system for our finest tonight. A shock too much, perhaps? Aw, you know what I mean, three up front, and still nothing being created in terns of chances, a gormless sort of look towards our bench, and a heartfelt plea to our manager, ?Er ? what do we do now, gaffer??

I suppose the first intimation I had tonight wasn?t going to belong to us came before then game when we entered the Throstle Club. Normally, as ?Im Indoors does his selling-thing, I grab a drink and a cheese and onion roll, and the number of staff serving make it dead easy for me to do so. The problem is that since the departure of Ally Brown and Co, the replacement bar chaps and chapesses don?t seem to be as au fait with the requirements of hungry and thirsty Baggies as their predecessors (there also seem to be fewer on duty), so getting served, even 90 minutes before the ?off? is a lengthy job these days. Tonight, we had a new Dick to unleash upon an unsuspecting world, consequently, we couldn?t tarry unduly. Somewhat annoying, as I?d banked on getting a quick pre-match bite beforehand. And then there were the rozzers. Lots of them, absolutely everywhere, which brings me to Irritation Number Two, a bloody great police van plus trailer parked plumb-spang in my normal Smethwick End selling-spot. At least I had visitors to cheer me up as I flogged my wares, so say ?hello? Michael, from Denmark, plus his lad. Those who followed my account of our Denmark trip will recall this gentleman showing us around Roskilde, so it was great to renew his acquaintance again. Oh, and as ?yer man? had informed me both of them were in the area until Sunday, naturally, I felt obliged to tell them about the Black Country Museum in Dudley; well worth a visit for foreign visitors wishing to gain further understanding of the area, its people, and its customs. One other giggle-making encounter was with another bloke ? an Albion supporter ? who told me that so keen was he to keep up to date with all the various local radio football phone-ins, post-match, he kept one set tuned into Capital and the other to WM?s prize product! There you have it, the complete opposite of sensory-deprivation; sounds more like something that ought to be banned under the Geneva Convention to me.

Much Dick-shifting later, we entered the metaphorical lion?s den, and upon taking our usual matchday perches, immediately discovered a curious fact; Albion new-bug Paul Robinson shares the same name as our next-seat-neighbour! Oh, and one other thing; apparently, the gates allowing passage though the entire Smethwick End are now left open to all-comers until 15 minutes before kick-off. That means, of course, that the lame and the halt are therefore given much easier access to the East Stand from Halfords Lane ? and vice versa. Something we?d been banging on about for almost the whole of last season, and, for all the good it did, we might as well have talked to the 450 bus sign that stands outside the players? entrance. Blimey ? a sudden outbreak of common sense from both club and police? Oooh, can?t have that! Stoppit, at once, do you hear?

Returning to the game once more, we were beaten by a Sheffield United side that took their chances well; their first strike came around ten minutes into the first half, when we pretty-much stood and watched as two of theirs combined in a nice bit of one-two-combo-work to give Houlty a king-sized problem with a shot from just inside the box that had him well-beaten. Not in the script? You could say that, especially as previous to that strike, we?d been the ones making all the running. Immediately afterwards, we could and should have pulled it back with that Gaardsoe header from the corner that just went over the bar courtesy of a timely fingertip from the keeper, and despite even more pressure, including several more corners on the bounce, we simply couldn?t convert that dominance into something a little more tangible. Even Big Bertha, of all people, had a speculative pop from distance, an effort which made keeper Gerrard think (and move!) more than a little. The trouble was, say what you like about Neil Warnock and his supposed mental shortcomings, United were totally-organised, and the game-plan was to prevent us creating anything. Even Gaardsoe was seemingly man-marked, and normally-influential players such as James O?Connor and Rob Hulse seemed rendered totally out of it. Unfortunately, not long before the interval, we went even further behind. Again, we were caught napping at the back, a Blade cut down the right virtually-unchallenged then crossed, and Ward gratefully netted. It really was that sort of a night.

The interval brought the drastic changes I mentioned at the opening of this piece, and come the restart, hope briefly sprang anew as Hughsie?s fierce header stung Gerrard?s fingertips as he made that vital fingertip-save to deny our balding former roofer, but just like the wolf in the ?Three Little Pigs? nursery-saga, as the second period advanced, we huffed and we puffed for all we were worth, but we simply couldn?t blow The Blades? bloody house down no matter what we did to try and make it happen. They were first for everything; loose balls in midfield, interceptions, tackles, you name it, and their hard work and enterprise quickly reduced our lot to ?also-ran? status. In fact, it can be safely said we were lucky not to concede even further, a state of affairs which even the introduction of the talented Sakiri into the fray in the 68th minute didn?t improve. I reckon that by the 75th minute, most of those professing allegiance to the navy blue and white-striped persuasion had accepted, more or less, that all three points plus the division?s leadership would shortly be winging their way at a rate of knots up the A38 and M1; come around ten minutes from the end, the patter of exiting Black Country feet had become a stampede, and, just before the final whistle, that included this somewhat-morose column, plus ?other half?.

Thoughts? One, foremost ? that we well and truly met our match tonight, which isn?t a bad thing in itself. Far better to discover our shortcomings at this stage of the season than suffer a similar reverse right at the death, with the consequences of such an awful lapse well-nigh irretrievable. I would think some rather harsh lessons have been learned from tonight?s drubbing ? that?s what it was, make no mistake ? and these have been duly taken on board by both manager and coaching staff. We now have two more home games to make amends, the first of these being versus Norwich come the weekend. Not an easy one, by any means; they, too, have upwardly-mobile aspirations (and Huckerby, on loan), and that game will provide a stern test of our ability to ride tonight?s twin sucker-punches and go on the promotion-offensive once more. I?d like to think that our finest possess sufficient strength of character to do precisely that, and in the process, make The Canaries wish they?d stayed twittering to each other in their Norfolk cage. I said not so long ago that the current crop of games would really test our credentials for taking up residence in the higher sphere once more. It?s looking more and more as though I was dead right.

And finally? Nothing to do with football, this one, but I now have an additional ?pet?. Not one with fur, or wings, even; think ?eight legs? and a somewhat disconcerting ability to emerge from the plug-hole of our sink without warning, and you?ve got the general idea. ?Boris?, as I?ve nicknamed my seemingly-suicidal arachnid (it keeps making for there in spite of the fact I?ve already ?rescued? it from a potentially-watery grave on at least three occasions thus far) has now taken up residence in a little plastic cup on my kitchen window-ledge, and if he?s got any sense at all, given the love of my cats for things creepy-crawly, he?ll stay there. Really, I suppose he/she/it ought to have a name more in keeping with current status as the resident spider in the home of an Albion supporter ? but a suitable name completely eludes me at the moment. Ideas, anyone?

 - Glynis Wright

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