Bugger it. Look, I didn’t want to have to
write a match report about this game. It was never my intention to do it. But my talented
squad of regular reporters has point blank refused to return to the wounds of this game.
We’re in collective denial. Grim jobs such as this inevitably fall to the editor. So,
under duress, here we go.
What an anticlimax this match was. All the build-up, the genuine
anticipation and excitement and the hype on top of it, the shocking nervousness which
ruined many a Saturday night’s sleep, the worrying about tickets, transport and
drinking arrangements, the endless discussion and careful planning, was for nothing. After
seventeen years of hurt, in a moment we’d all yearned for and often suspected might
never occur, Burnley didn’t play. We didn’t get going. The opposition, who were
far from spectacular, deserved to win. What could be harder to take than that?
I should have known. There were enough bad omens. My alarm didn’t go
off for starters, and I nearly missed my transport. A fellow Claret reported cracks in her
Burnley mug that morning. I had to wear a shirt and tie. How could a day with these
beginnings turn sweet?
The shirt and tie, by the way, was made necessary for the fact that my
seat for this game was in the director’s box. Not ideal, but I’d won two tickets
for any game from Barry Kilby in the London Clarets AGM raffle, and back when it looked
like I might not get a ticket, it seemed at least this way I’d get to see the game.
So it came to pass that at 3 o’clock me and my brother were swilling pints of smooth
beer in the guest lounge, looking out of the windows at people on their way to the match,
reflecting that we’d been involved in supporter protests on that very street below,
surrounded by other freeloaders filling their faces with free sandwiches. I noted a
distressing number of blue ties with red roses on them. I'd earlier seen Clarets fans
regarding supporters clad in those colours emerging from coaches with near-scientific
curiosity, as if encountering a previously mythical species for the first time.
Far from offering hobnobbing opportunities, the only familiar face I saw
in the box was fellow London Claret Alastair Campbell, like ourselves right on the front
row of the box. Nerves got to us early, and we were in our seats an unprecedented half
hour before kick off.
I’d like to stop this report at the moment when the teams ran out and
fireworks erupted over the Cricket Field Stand, partly because that was a magical moment,
but also because it was downhill from there. They were there, in their dreadful blue and
white shirts, playing us at home for points. This was it. And then the game started.
I concentrated in the early stages on trying to get my brother to damp
down his normal committed style of support in due deference to the unaccustomed
respectability of our surroundings, but not with success. In trying to get him to stay in
his seat I was undermined by Campbell, who as our kid pointed out, had gone up at the
first hint of Burnley danger (a Moore/Branch combination which didn’t produce a clean
chance), and if the second most powerful man in the land could do it, why couldn’t
he? Fair point.
Sadly, that early promising move represented something of a high
watermark. This is hard to say, but the opposition settled down faster and got on top of
the game. I thought we looked too hurried, too nervous. The ball was a hot potato, and
some players couldn’t get rid quick enough. We weren’t holding onto possession
and we weren’t passing. What disappointed me most was that some players, senior
players who you look to to show the way, evaded their responsibilities. Chief culprits
were in midfield, where the game was lost.
Paul Cook was, sadly, terrible. On live tv, he fluffed his lines. It was a
shame because, although he was scurrying effectively and working hard to retrieve the
ball, whenever he got it his distribution was dire. The ball ballooned forward to nobody
in particular and came promptly back at us. When we were lucky, he put it out. It was a
mercy when he was eventually subbed, and a pity he hadn’t gone sooner. I felt a bit
sorry for him because he was obviously trying hard and it wasn’t happening for him.
He was, therefore drawing attention to himself, when an easier way out would have been to
try not to do things and hide from the game. After all, it worked for Micky Mellon.
He’s had some good games this season; this was not one. It seemed his sole aim on
receiving the ball was to work out who he could give it to as soon as possible: not to try
to work the opening or get it to the front men, but play it short and square and avoid
making the kind of mistake you risk in being daring. Not good enough. Ironically, in view
of his later indiscretion, Ball provided the only midfield composure.
How we missed Little here, more than in any other game he's missed. A bit
of derring do, the something out of the ordinary, was what it would have taken for us to
win the game. I’d have loved to see him taking someone on down the touchline. My
heart had sunk to find he wasn't even on the bench when the teamsheets were doled out. And
we desperately lacked width in this game. Weller has stymied by being played in a
defensive position. When he impressed at the start of the season, it was in an attacking
role. He didn’t turn heads with his defending, because it isn’t something
he’s particularly good at. Run at him and you’re in with a chance. Do it enough
and he's out of the game, which is what happened here. But Branch was the biggest
disappointment. I’ve advocated him this season, when I think he’s been one of
our best players. Here, he was a fop once more. He never forced himself into the game, and
remained a peripheral figure. Has he got what it takes to play in a big match?
This left us with the usual solid defence, albeit somewhat static at
times, and a hardworking but ball-starved front two. Payton did his best with the scraps
that came his way, while we rarely tried to use Moore’s pace and touch. If we spend a
million quid on a striker, we have to work out ways of getting the ball to him.
Thankfully, while having the edge, our opponents looked less than great
either. They had more of the ball, but didn’t particularly threaten with it. For a
side which has invested so heavily over so many seasons in front players, they were poor
in front of goal, and the quality of their crossing was dreadful. Good game, eh?
A sure sign of this was that the opposition bench in front of us was
getting desperate for a helping hand from the officials. Perhaps they’ve had this in
the past and expect it now. I should explain we were on the front row, right behind them.
The opposition manager cut a ludicrous figure, strutting along the touchline, timing his
runs from the limits of his technical area to coincide with the linesman’s absence,
rarely still for long, protesting at the injustice of everything, expecting the referee to
give all. One of the more satisfying things in life is when you've always disliked someone
and you turn out to be right. I’ve always loathed him, back when he was a dirty
player or a bitter, failed manager, and when he joined his current club I said it was a
perfect match. They go together nicely. He epitomises them.
It was on one of the opposition manager’s frequent cheating scurries
that I lost my aplomb. Having previously tried to get my brother to sit down, I now left
myself without a leg to stand on. Those nearby in the non-padded Bob Lord seats may have
been surprised to witness a be-tied fellow leap from his feet to bellow, ‘get back in
your f*cking area!’ This was to be the start of a good period of discussion with the
opposition bench, which came to a head when the man bounded from the area to insist on a
handball penalty after the ball had struck Steve Davis’ chest. The opposition manager
stormed over to the nearby Sky man and demanded to see a replay on the monitor. We watched
along with him. Never a penalty. A clear penalty, proclaimed he. I think it was about that
stage that my brother was told to ‘f*cking shut up or I'll slap you'. Such lovely
people. We were also told to ‘watch the game’. We pointed out that what was
stopping us was this jumping fool bounding about in front of us, and merely observed that
it would be better if they observed the rules.
It was all quite enjoyable, and served to help what was, objectively, a
poor half pass quickly.
The tone of this report would be very different if it wasn’t for what
happened half a minute from half time. From nowhere, the other side scored. Cook failed to
deal with an innocuous throw in, and as the defence froze and Nik watched from his line,
an opposition player was allowed to head home. Watch it on the replay if you can. There
won’t be any need for slow motion. It happened in slow motion. It was a soft goal,
and a shocking goal to concede in the context of a big match.
Seconds later the whistle blew and the game had changed horribly. If it
had been the pretty much deserved half point 0-0, who knows? There was a team talk out of
the window, and for the first time we’d have to respond instead of just reacting.
We quickly decided to junk all thoughts of the half time guests’
lounge. There were too many of the other lot about for our liking. Even a half time piss
stop was perilous. The facilities in our 20 odd year old stand aren’t the best by
modern standards, and the gents are small. This prompted opposition freeloaders to observe
loudly the perceived inadequacies of the surroundings. Of course, we haven’t had
their budget to fritter. Things didn’t improve when I observed mournfully ‘but
what a bloody goal’. Someone answered along the lines of 'yeah, what a cracking
goal'. Mindful that I was representing our club, I hurried outside.
The half time chewed over consensus was that it was hard to see where the
goal we needed was coming from. So it proved. It was clear early on that no dramatic
improvement was happening. They started brighter, while we didn't get going.
Interestingly, the opposition manager started the game in the stand, before bounding down
to spew more bitterness pitchside within a minute of the match re-starting. No
self-control, that man.
We were thankful for their dodgy finishing at this stage. It was clear
that we need a change to try to grab hold of the game. Cook finally went for Johnrose,
which gave the opposition fans a chance to prove the longevity of their support. How many
would know he once played for them? Hardly a whisper. Then Maylett replaced the horribly
disappointing Branch. We came back a bit with Maylett on. At least he took his man on,
tried to get to the box and cause them new problems. More experienced players did much
less. Maylett has some ball skill and lots of speed, so there's a chance he'll make it in
the future. However, he'll need to learn to cross. Too often his runs didn't produce
results. But it's as unfair to criticise him as it would have been to expect him to turn
the game. He's just a kid who hasn't played much. And it was an obvious point, but look at
our bench compared to the multi-million signings they were able to bring on. In terms of
resources we're still light years away.
Mullin then came on for the anonymous Mellon, which meant at least we were
spared the embarrassment of Jepson, and then Kevin Ball decided to inject some missing
passion into the proceedings. His tackle on an opponent was two footed and so late it
could have come by Virgin train. The referee brandished an immediate red card, and it
seemed fair enough. Not to preach, but those are the rules and that's what happens. It
wasn't, however, enough for the opposition manager. He charged from his area and on to the
pitch to intervene. Disgraceful. What more did he want? Ball was walking. Would a hanging
have sufficed? As the brawl that had broken out on the pitch threatened to be mirrored by
one in the stand, I felt duty bound to point out to the dolt that it was all very well to
do press conferences and appeal for calm, but by failing to control himself again here, he
was turning up the heat and giving those who wanted to riot a pretext. This game didn't
need incitement. Still, I suppose we should feel lucky he didn't plant a flag in the
centre circle or anything.
After that it got quite heated on the pitch. The referee paid the price
for his earlier laissez-fair approach. All very well to want to let the play flow, but as
it started to boil and he struggled to keep a lid on unpleasantness, you couldn't help
thinking that he might have been better off stamping his authority on the match early. He
wasn't a bad referee, just weak. Needless to say, the manager in front of me was convinced
he was a cheat who was utterly biased against them in every respect. How tiresome.
Still, be grateful, he could have sent off Davis. Our Steve had already
picked up a booking, which entails a one match ban, and could have got another when the
boots were flying. This time Ternent charged on. What's sauce for the goose. I think he
persuaded the ref to see sense. If Davis had gone, the game would have turned into one
long brawl.
Oddly enough, we played some of our better stuff when Ball was off. I'm
not sure about the old ten men cliché, so I assume it was because we realised that attack
was all we could do now. Moore even had the ball in the net, following one of those
challenges on the keeper which always result in a foul. The opposition manager didn't ask
to see the Sky monitor (now pointed permanently towards him) on that one. Sometime in this
spell Davis also took a free kick from a promising position. Guess what happened? Some
away freeloader behind me exclaimed 'this looks dangerous'. Well, how was he to know?
It wasn't terribly convincing, our attacks were sporadic, and to be honest
if we'd scored it would have been (a) brilliant and (b) fortunate. Payton had a couple of
half to full chances, but if anything seemed too desperate to score. Davis, too, was
obviously keen to try to turn the game by force of personality. Strange that some players
were too wound up, some not enough. He covered much ground, and sometimes stretched
himself too thin as a result. By the end he was playing up front, which is a sure sign of
desperation. It rarely works. I felt our best chance might be a corner, but annoyingly
their goalie was good on corners and caught them all.
Payton chased a ball and ran into said goalie. They both went down, the
ball duly went out and Maylett picked it up in readiness for a throw. For some reason this
incensed the other lot, and some tough guy knocked it from the kid's hands. Both players
were up by now, not hurt, neither fouled. Ternent ambled benignly down the touchline,
presumably to explain that we would throw it back. However it wasn't that sort of game,
and to no one's great surprise it quickly turned into a heated session of close-up
fingerpointing between Ternent and the other manager, which the fourth official broke up,
pushing Stan gently backwards to his bench. The fourth official had a busy game. Minutes
earlier he and the opposition manager had been bawling nose to nose. If I was him I'd have
called the ref over. Other managers get away with far less.
They put the tin lid on a dismal day with the second goal. 45 and 90
minutes. I ask you. More stood off defending and motionless goalkeeping produced the grim
finale. Nik parried rather than held, and the rebound was stuck away. Might as well lose
2-0 as 1-0 they say, although show me anyone who's ever happy to see their side concede.
That was it. We resisted without hesitation the post-match hobnobbing. I
couldn't get out fast enough. We applauded ours off, naturally, because you do - and I was
pleased how many stayed for that - and then it was out into the police state of Harry
Potts Way. There seemed to be a lot of folk loitering, but I was head down for the pub and
alcohol induced memory loss. I'm sure we all heard the stories of what went on that night.
It just represented more awfulness piled upon the day. There were some things for Burnley
not to be proud of that day. One to forget, or remember for the right reasons.
Ah well, that's that: the overlong report I didn't want to write, and
can't bear to look at again to edit. What hurts most is that we didn't give a good account
of ourselves - we're better than that - and the opposition looked by no means brilliant or
unbeatable. Indeed, it was a match of poor quality, if you put the occasion to one side.
I'm sure we could have had them, but we let the occasion get to us. In doing so, we
surrendered our unbeaten home record, and our record of not losing two in a row - without
enough of a fight, and worst of all, to them. God it's awful.
The
Bitterest Pill (I ever had to swallow)