In the wake of his Olympic triumph, rower Steve Redgrave was asked what his
team's race tactics had been. Simply, he replied, to get out in front, because once there
they weren’t going to let anyone pass them. In a number of away games, those seem to
have been Burnley’s tactics too: take a lead, don’t let them score, win 1-0. It
worked at Huddersfield, and of course at Palace in the league. It was about 30 seconds
from working here.
Such had been my lack of enthusiasm for a second visit
to Selhurst within the space of a month that even I hadn’t taken an afternoon off
work. A storm from the office at 4.30 saw me make the excellent Royal Oak on Tabard
Street, where five pints of various Harvey’s were despatched in the next 90 minutes
with a minimum of fuss. Thence to Norwood Junction and, via a pint and a half in the handy
Alliance, to the ground.
Which was empty. We’d expected as much, but when
as old hands we made our way to the away end ticket office to find it closed, and away
fans directed to the home ticket office at the other end, we were puzzled. Turned out
they’d given us the whole side, as opposed to the corner we’d occupied for the
league game. There were few Clarets present, most having sensibly opted to stop up in
Lancashire, and the smattering were mostly familiar faces, with the London Clarets doing
their best to make the numbers up. I concentrated on trying to sit on as many different
seats as possible, moving around to try to make it look fuller. Ah, the magic of the
league cup.
On the pitch, Briscoe’s undeserved absence sparked
a further defensive reshuffle. Armstrong played at the back with Davis and Cox, Thomas
took right back, Branch left, with Mellon starting for Cook alongside Ball in midfield,
Little going wherever he wished and Cooke and Payton up front. Positional adaptability is
a key player attribute in Stan's eyes. Oh yeah, Michopolous was in goal again, with
Crichton sat on the bench. Plenty of time to look up the best route home in his AA
motoring atlas.
We weren’t bad as it happened, and definitely
looked the brighter side. Armstrong was efficient, Cox aggressive, Thomas attempted to
maraude down the wing, Branch, Little and, yes, Mellon all showed sharp skills. I
can’t take these games seriously and consequently didn’t give the game my usual
keen attention – supporting is a marathon, not a sprint, and it doesn’t do to
peak too soon in the season – but I thought we did okay. There was little atmosphere
and it was rather a case of start your own chant. The pies were flat too –
inexplicably, all the food was squashed – but for the second game running, hot. And
at least there wasn’t a queue. They did, however, still contrive to run out. A second
visit just before half time yielded only a sausage roll from the Brazilian catering staff
(from the beautiful game to Selhurst Park). I was munching this less than tasty item and
emerging back into the stand when Andy Cooke flicked a header in from a corner. It hit the
right side of the bar and was in, and seconds later the whistle blew to send us in ahead
at half time.
Naturally, they attacked more in the second half, but
it has to be said that Palace aren’t remotely a good side. Clearly, last year has
taken its toll, but they are incredibly inept in front of goal, and of course in Alan
Smith possess one of football’s more dislikable managers. Plus, how good can any side
be that has fat Cockney reject Ruddock as their best player? The sight of this tub of lard
stepping up to whoosh free kicks is a pitiful one.
We had chances to end it, but we didn’t take them.
Andy Cooke, when put through by Little’s perceptive pass, had only the goalkeeper to
beat, but prevaricated and allowed himself to lose the chance. Why not take a shot? Little
himself, who had an odd game, at times anonymous, at times almost too keen to make Palace
look like fools for getting rid, deserved a goal, for one mad run that saw him beat
everyone, including the keeper. His placed shot was a hair’s breadth wide. It bounced
back off the post, agonisingly just behind Payton, who couldn’t turn and get a shot
in. These were two first rate chances, that could, and should, have produced the winner.
Palace wouldn’t have come back from two down.
Their best chance might have been a Nik the Greek
howler. Yes, that’s right, the impressive all round goalkeeper of Saturday had gone,
and in his place was a nervous, error-prone flapper. Maybe Crichton's been giving him a
few tips on punching crosses. Michopolous might have set a record for the fastest ever
case of Burnley syndrome: impress, sign a contract, blob out. Let us not judge
prematurely. There was real class there at Huddersfield. But someone who only saw this
must have wondered what we were raving about. Too often we were forced into last ditch
clearances, and if it had been Crichton in the net, we’d have said he’d had a
stinker. Cox also could have been sent off for professionally fouling an attacker running
towards the area; with relief, it was yellow.
Oddly, the scoreboard isn’t on top of the away
end, so we were able to watch the minutes to Stan’s favourite scoreline tick away. We
substituted our three most creative players – perhaps our three only creative players
– in the last ten minutes as we made clear our intentions to hold what we had. Glen
Little was replaced by Paul Cook, or, as the Palace scoreboard preferred to call
Burnley’s number 8, Lee Jones. Cue chants of ‘Jonesy, Jonesy’. In short
succession Payton gave way to lardarse Jepson and Gray came on from Branch. This was a bit
odd as di Branchio had been our best player in the second half, trying to tie defenders,
and sometimes himself, in knots and chasing most things. It also seemed strange to replace
a leftback, albeit a putative one, with an at best semi-fit centre forward, necessitating
positional changes late on, when surely everyone needed to know their role. Still, Ruddock
could breathe a sigh of lardy relief, as he was no longer the tubbiest player on the
pitch. Jepson’s girth far outpointed his, and even Gray might have been close to him.
The 90 minutes were up and we were beginning to warm up
for the march to a train and beer. The board of four eights showed a mystifying three
minutes of added time, plucked from an unknown place. Of course, Burnley don’t
concede late goals. Last season we scored them. But I suppose our policy of defending 1-0
leads was going to come unstuck sometime, and in the 90 something minute, it did. I
remember Andy Linighan coming on, because the Palace supporters cheered, and I had a vague
thought along the lines of, how sad cheering for Andy Linighan. Perhaps they knew
something I didn’t. Maybe he makes a habit of this. A routine cross wasn’t dealt
with and Michopolous missed the ball. Linighan stuck it in, and seconds later what we
normally call the final whistle blew. It had been a crappy goal to concede, but an
undeserved reward for Palace’s increasingly desperate hit and hope tactics.
There was some movement towards the exits at this
point. Mostly it was the opportunists amongst us taking a quick chance to relieve our
bladders, but one or two had a notion that the away goals rule counts after full time. To
be fair, Clarets fans haven’t had much need to understand the finer points of league
cup qualification lately. We've tended to be several goals behind. We were also fairly
sure that there wasn't a golden goal rule. Only fairly sure, because as we all know, they
change the rules all the time these days. Emerging from the sudden toilet crowd I was met
with a poignant site: a solid row of men on mobiles advising that they’d be later
than expected home. What time was that train again? Eastbourne, Guildford, Portsmouth and
Watford Clarets around me had some interesting choices to make.
Clearly, the odds were now against us. The team looked
deflated, while Palace took heart. As well as this, most of our 11 were in their 30s, and
Palace’s younger team weren’t going to tire as easily. We were poor in that
extra half an hour. Big squad we might have, but I’ll be hoping Little, Payton and
Branch aren’t all out at the same time this season. It was sobering to look at what
our team had turned into, how easily it had become moribund, and to reflect that there
wasn’t a single player you could see producing the goal from nowhere that we needed.
Perhaps at least one of the flashy players should have been kept on, just in case. Defence
and midfield looked solid enough, but Michopolous continued to cause concern, and we
resorted to hacking away. I have to give Palace credit for attacking. They didn’t
need a goal as much as we did, but they went for it at first. It was disappointing that we
weren’t going for a goal – even if we got caught out and both sides scored one,
that would get us penalties – but with an attack like the one we were left with, what
would have been the point? I devoutly hope that we at no stage attempt to play a league
match with Gray and Jepson up front. Gray was never in the game, and being just back from
injury, he needs to work on his fitness. And perhaps his attitude. It would have been nice
if he'd been up for this. As for Jepson, there’s a time and a place for this comedy
turn, but his time has gone and his place is the retirement home. It wasn’t
particularly funny to see this fat and unfit relic getting in the way of the game. Andy
Cooke was knackered after two hours of chasing about the pitch – but he still moved
faster than Jepson and Gray.
We had two good chances to take it. Mellon broke but
his shot was straight at the keeper, while Davis had one surge forward and let off a near
shot, although I felt generally we didn’t push him up enough. Palace decided to
settle for what they had, and there’s no unit of time that goes faster than thirty
minutes of extra time when you need a goal. No one really felt we could do it, and they
were right.
There were some interesting discussions between the two
benches, with Alan Smith seemingly intent on playing as Palace’s twelve man and
Ternent getting into a row, apparently with Ray Houghton. A word of advice for Ray: Stan
strikes me as a man who bears grudges.
Stan was right when he pointed out that, although
Palace seem to regard themselves as the superior team in our encounters, in three matches
they haven’t beaten us. It was strange, given the pang of dejection I felt at the
end, that this was a draw, not a defeat, although it might have also had something to do
with the realisation that post-match drinking options had been drastically reduced. It was
a shitty way to go out of a competition – and have we gone out on away goals before?
– but those are the rules, and of course, it’s only the league cup. Let us take
comfort in the old cliché for a team out of the cup: we were never going to win the
bloody thing anyway. And there’s been years when we’ve been getting hammered
when we would have regarded a second round technical knockout as a rare luxury. If
anything, we played better than when we won here in the league. The tie was lost when we
went 2-0 down at Turf Moor in the first leg, if anywhere, and our slow starts at home
should be the real cause for concern to take from the two legs. We nearly got away with
that 1-0 thing again, and if it wasn't going to happen sometime, a Tuesday night in the
league cup wasn’t a bad night for it to happen. Perhaps Stan will realise it’s
sometimes a good idea to leave a creative player on the pitch – although I
wouldn’t count on it.
Hey, I even got a couple of post-match pints in and
made it home by half past midnight, so how could I complain? I’d seen two hours’
football for a tenner, and it’s possible to mistake that for value for money.
in:
Palace of Swords Reversed