It's a while since I've written a match
report, but I think I remember how they have to begin. For us, it always starts with the
crapness of trains. After a week of going out most of the time, I was pleased that we were
travelling an our old time of 8.20, after a grim but necessary spell spent getting up
before the birds for the unfeasibly early 7.20. The 8.20 is the one that gives itself an
extra half an hour between Wigan and Preston, so that they can say they're not late. With
that catch up time, you've now got to go some to arrive late at Preston. We arrived late.
There can be no more unwelcome sight on the journey north than the town of Northampton. I
don't like the place itself, but for practical purposes it means a diversion from the
straightest route, and twenty minutes' extra journey. Engineering work, apparently, which
must have been a relief for Virgin, because it meant they could blame Railtrack. I suppose
in a world which made sense we could be perturbed that, instead of a 'can do' culture, one
of blame-passing prevails: as long as it's not your fault, it's okay - except for the poor
sods stuck on the train, who don't care whose fault it is; they just want to get there.
Next year's £4 increase on the group travel fair to Burnley is going to be hard to
stomach. Ah well, at least the engineering works were due to finish in the morning so we
wouldn't be diverted on the way back. Post-Northampton the journey was a halting one, at
times approaching the sort of speeds that might almost make you worry about spilling a cup
of coffee (I made a pile of coins on the table: it never looked like it might topple), at
others the train coming to what is known in the railway vernacular as a 'complete stop'.
Curious, this. We seemed to be stuck behind traffic, but surely they'd known the
engineering work was happening, hadn't they? So what was the excuse for our stop start
journey now? Lord knows, but we eventually fetched up in Prestonia in time for our
connection. We hoped the jovial Brighton fans on board would get to Carlisle for kick off,
while they pitied us for a season of suffering at the hands of Branson's absurd clockwork
train set. We even had time for a non-side-touching swift un close by the station. Not a
great pint, but in the context of yet another shitty journey, it tasted like a victory.
As you know, there was no victory to come from the game itself. Yes, I
guess this is where the match report begins. And back to the reasons why it's been so long
since I braved the Sunday hangover to sit before the PC. My last match report was Crewe
away. I volunteered for that on the understanding that it would be a nice, innocuous,
purposeless sort of game. Four penalties and a referee from planet Toss later, it seemed a
spectacularly wrong call. I lost it that day, in a big and not particularly amusing way,
and then with a head full of lead I had to make myself write about it. Odd then that for
this, my recall from the sub's bench, I got now what I'd wanted then: a nice, safe game in
which not much happened.
Sod's law, that. I could tell my brother wasn't convinced by my tales of
our brilliance at Wimbledon and Norwich. I'd told him of the commitment and attitude of
the team, the same non-stop belief that had propelled us to two unlikely finishes in the
two seasons before, the unlikely resurrection of West, the casual brilliance of Nik the
Greek, the conversion of Moore into a striker and, above all, the almost cruel genius of
Weller linking with the on fire Little. As the game stuttered through its early stages,
his doubts would have become concrete.
I looked down on the match from my Longside eyrie, more sober than the
norm, partly because of the abbreviated drinks session in Preston, and partly because of
an enforced half hour detour to the Turf Moor ticket office. As a non-season ticket
holder, I'm normally happy enough to give them my dosh on the day. But this time I'd
panicked. Fuelled by faster than hotcakes tales, I'd rung and booked my seats. Only
problem was I had to pick them up, which cut a swathe through legitimate pub time. I was
astonished by how many people were there, though. What do they all do an hour and a half
before kick off? Of course, I needn't have bothered. I could have got in. Amidst the big
game hype, I'd misplaced my customary pinch of salt. But Brum fans must have bag fulls of
the stuff. Where were they? The Cricket Field end was half full. Each Blue could have had
a seat for each cheek. By contrast, West Brom one week before had filled the thing. It's
hard to resist making that comparison. I don't want to be too hard on Brum, as I like the
city, and once the obvious yobs had quit the train at Accrington, exiting left pursued by
the law, three lads had sidled up to us, confessed they remembered us from the pub we got
locked in after the game in Brum (life is hard) and picked our brains for the best pints
in Burnley. But really. I'd thought there wasn't a bigger club in this division. They
hadn't played us for years. And, although you could say this wasn't a particularly big
game for them in what's now their play off campaign, it would have been if they'd lost. So
why weren't they there? The Burnley support turned up in good numbers - there weren't many
spare seats from where I was sitting - but the opposition let us down. I'd thought they
were a big club, but I must have been wrong. I wouldn't mind, but this meant my guess the
crowd prediction turned out to be thousands awry when I'd considered myself a good bet for
the tenner.
Right, so that's out of my system. As for the game, not much to report. We
started with a curious line up, although we know by now not to question the Way of Stan.
NTG in nets, Davis and Armstrong at the back with the now ex-international Cox benched,
West rightback, Thomas left back with Briscoe curiously playing ahead of him in midfield,
along with Ball and Weller, Little on the right and Moore and Taylor up front. No Paul
Cook, presumably out with frostbite after playing without his gloves in Norfolk, or Paul
Smith. As for Birmingham, I didn't get where I am today by watching the opposition, but I
did notice that Clarets reject Danny Sonner was playing in their midfield, and, according
to a Brum fan in the Sparrow, they only had one fit forward, which is somewhat surprising
for a club that seems to have more strikers than we have players.
We didn't start the game well, but they didn't exactly threaten. It was
scrappy stuff. In some ways it was reminiscent of our early steps in this division. We
seemed too anxious, too aware of the potential prize of our labours. Perhaps the
expectation got to the team. We often tried to play it too early, with too little thought.
This left our attackers having to fight for possession against some tough defenders, and
when we went forward, players were often unsupported, left isolated. In our games before
this we had shown breezy self-confidence and willingness to attack. That was when it was
hard to believe there was anything at stake. Now it almost seemed the case that, as soon
as we had released we might be playing for something, it had got harder to play. What we
needed was for someone to put their foot on the ball, but too often experienced players
like Armstrong, Ball and Thomas whooshed it first time. This is not to be overly critical.
Birmingham's recent loss of form clearly weighs heavy on their minds, and for us there
were some moments when it came together, when the attackers connected and passed and moved
their way to positions of threat. One such produced our best chance of the half, not long
before the break. An attack wasn't adequately cleared, and as the ball fell to Weller he
produced an instinctive volley, on target, calling for a very good save. Birmingham, by
contrast, did not muster clear cut chances. Their best was a long shot with Nik made a
show of pushing over. The Greek one concentrated on making his rare saves look good. I
enjoyed one slow motion dive.
So, not very much happened, and it continued to happen in the second half.
I was a little distracted around this time by trying to consume a slimy, undercooked
potato pie. Like the taste of raw pastry? Then get yourself to Turf Moor. Disgusting. It
seemed clear to me that Birmingham were going for the point which would keep them in the
play-offs and make it hard for us to get there. Fair enough, although someone who thinks
he's as good a manager as the dislikable Trevor Francis clearly does should have more
sophisticated tactics in his arsenal than diving and timewasting. It seems odd that Brum,
a wealthy side bursting with talent, so often underperform, and always blow it when the
pressure is on, until you remember who their manager is.
Birmingham's man of the match must have been their physio. He covered
every inch of grass. Every time a Blue went down, which was often, on he sprinted. In
this, he was assisted by the usual weak refereeing performance from Roger Furnandiz, who
always gives the impression of having been bullied by football fans as a boy. The physio
ignored his half-hearted attempts to have fallen players treated off the pitch. Perhaps to
compensate for the referee's weakness, Birmingham's Holdsworth acted throughout as his
confidante and adviser, sort of the Al Campbell role to Furnandiz's Tony Blair. He also
likes to give a dropped ball, does Furnandiz. When in doubt, stop play and drop a ball. It
didn't help a scrappy match get any more expansive.
I suppose we could also add a penalty we might have had early in the
second half to the list of complaints, although I honestly wasn't sure. It was at our end,
and it was impossible to judge whether their handball from our shot was deliberate. They
get given sometimes, those penalties, but they always seem a bit harsh to me, as a
defender doesn't have much chance to get away from the ball.
I thought we played better in the second half, with Ball and, to a lesser
extent, Weller getting more into the game. Any hope that Little might exert his influence
of late was, however, dashed on 66 minutes, when Maylett was brought on for Briscoe. It
was encouraging to see the speedy young pup being given a chance, although the loss of
Briscoe was surprising. Naturally, we know not to quiz Uncle Stan, and it may well be that
Briscoe is either struggling to get over the last niggling injury or in the process of
succumbing to the next one, but I wonder if Stan was tempted to drop Briscoe down to left
back and put the struggling Thomas out of his misery? Thomas foundered badly all
afternoon, and it was sad to see our former colossus discovering feet of clay. Whatever,
the worse thing about Maylett's introduction was the sight of Little trudging across the
centre circle to play on the left. Where, of course, he can't bloody play. The Norwich
defenders would have given anything to take our Glen out of the game. Here, we did the
job.
Not that Maylett didn't do positive things. One dart down the right, when
he knocked the ball ahead and beat his man with pure speed, could have produced something
good. Ball had a decent pop with a long shot, clearly going goal crazy after scoring two
this season, but it was saved with comfort. Then Ternent rolled the dice one last time,
losing West and Armstrong for Payton and, oddly, Cox. Can't see the need to swap
defenders, unless we were thinking of set piece height. I would have liked to see Mullin,
unused again, given a chance to run at them through the middle, but it was not to be.
Still, when they lined up it was clear we were in going for it mode. We had three up
front, with Payton looking a dogged shadow of his former self, and three at the back, with
Davis increasingly pushing forward as the minutes ran out.
Somewhere around this time, Clarets reject Danny Sonner left the field. I
must say, I've been surprised by the rejuvenation of Sonner's professional career. I
caught some of his handful of Burnley appearances and I didn't see any promise. On this
performance, I was right. A curious moment occurred when I took the opportunity of his
departure to lob a few choice words. The woman in front of me put her fingers in her ears!
So, it has come to this, has it? Turf Moor now so resembles a particularly subdued meeting
of the Noise Abatement Society that sensitive souls venture there in confident expectation
of a nice kip. Recommended afternoon's entertainment for librarians? Those raising their
voices will be met by polite tut-tutting. Needless to say, there was hardly anything
resembling a song here. Remind me why I prefer away games, will you?
As you know the score, there's no suspense here. Only a win would really
be good enough to sustain an unlikely play off campaign, but of course we didn’t get
it. Yet it could have been. Possibly the best chance came close to the end. It emanated
from a surprising source, although the manner of the miss was more predictable. Davis
scurried deep in Little territory, beating the odds to produce a cross of unexpected
accuracy. Perhaps Taylor had been assuming Davis wouldn't pull it off. Stood unmarked in
front of goal, his header was wide. Taylor's forehead must be a marvellous and
multi-faceted thing. The ball bounces off it at all angles. I'd thank him for his efforts
and renew the search for next season's striker.
Well, that was that, and there remained only the long and breathless climb
up Manchester Road, surprisingly not in the rain, to wait for the train, which was, as if
you didn't know, late. I really must have a word with whoever keeps making that hill
steeper. And has the 17.18 ever actually arrived at 17.18? In the absence of football
incident to pore over, these were questions to ponder.
As for where it leaves us, it makes the play offs unlikely. Is that any
bad thing, I wonder? To be honest, ever since this unlikely play off campaign began, I
haven't been able to decide what I want to happen. Partly, I should admit, this reflects a
personal agenda which will see me out of the country for the season's last game and the
play off semis, and if our play off games don't happen, at least it means I don't miss
them. But also I couldn’t work out whether we were ready for this, and if either a
defeat in the play-offs or a final victory would be good for the long term future of the
club. I think I'd just about determined that, if you're in this position with a few games
to go, you kind of have a duty to try to win all of them. Well, I think we did try, and we
didn’t do too badly. The fact is that you can't win every game, and other teams'
results have gone against us, but our mere presence in such a race in April is an
extraordinary achievement, given the club's recent history of failure. We probably started
our surge just too late, but what we've learned in almost doing something we didn’t
mean to do this season will come in next handy next season, when to get to the play offs
should be our aim. And, as a response to that defeat against them, what more could you
want? Everyone has responded magnificently.
I couldn't see any Blues fans on the train back to Prestonia, suggesting
they might have been kept in. After a swift several and a devilishly hot kebab, all that
was left was one more marathon train journey back to London, in the company of a lot of
noisy and sometimes charming Brighton fans. We castigated them for not doing more to
consign Carlisle to the deserved oblivion of non league, but we brushed aside their
sympathy for not getting the win. We couldn't feel sorry for ourselves. The idea of
holding Birmingham, with them playing for a point to stop us pinching their play off spot,
would have sounded absurd even months ago. We've raised the bar again, and perhaps next
season they won’t get the breaks in a game of similar importance. Maybe they'll even
come and watch the game next time.
As for the train, of course we were diverted through Northampton on the
way back. Quelle bloody surprise. I won't be heading Turfwards again until August, so it
will be nice to think I'll have less travel time and more beer time then. We'll see.
I don't
mind