There was some argument about our defeat at
Wolves. Not, it’s fair to say, about the first half. Only the dangerously optimistic
could say we were anything other than a disgrace. So inadequate were we that I’ve
still no idea whether Wolves are any good. But the second half sparked dissent. Some took
encouragement from our improved performance. Others thought that there are few things
easier than playing a bit less badly against a side enjoying a 3-0 lead. Having applied
the Three Goal Rule I didn’t see the second half myself, but I would favour the
latter view. Having seen us fall apart so completely, I wasn’t about to start getting
excited about a rally once the points had been decided. Fixtures and tables don’t
come with footnotes. In the end, we all agreed on something. The test didn’t lie in
salvaging some pride once we’d already lost a match. The real test came in how we
played in the next game. It’s all about how you respond.
And so to Gillingham. First, though, we should pause to convey our own
sense of sadness at the death of Sam Ellis’ son the day before, an event acknowledged
by the team’s black armbands. It goes without saying that our thoughts are with Sam
and family at this time.
Back at the game, about a quarter of an hour in, it didn’t look like
we’d got Wolves out of our system at all. We were two down before we knew it. I was
contemplating a second application of the Three Goal Rule – rules are rules –
for the first time in ages, but I didn’t feel ready to go. Partly, I felt I’d
had enough beer, with the first pint having touched my lips six and a half hours before.
But also, we weren’t playing that badly. We really weren’t. 3-0 down at Wolves
had been no more than we deserved, but here, 2-0 was harsh.
We had, at least, started with a sensible team. None of that three at the
back nonsense tonight. We had returned to the alpha and omega of football, the formation
that cannot be bettered: 4-4-2. Interestingly, Gnohere made way, with Cox retained to play
alongside Davis, West returning at full-back with Briscoe, and for the first time, a
midfield free of Kevin Ball by choice. He was dropped, with Cook, Grant, Weller and –
we’re saved – Little across the middle. No need to tell you who the front two
were as it never changes, nor who the goalie was because we don’t have any choice.
Along with Ball, and the expected Cennamo and Payton, the other rare subs were Johnrose
and Maylett, suggesting Stan has had his fill of midfield moribundity.
Not much to say about the Gills team – they were the opposition after
all – except at least they didn’t have Andy sodding Hessenthaler playing for
them, and their players do have groovy names, including Guy Butters, David Perpetuini, Guy
Ipoua, of course Iffy Onuora and the near-legendary Nayron Nosworthy. Paul Smith (no, not
that one) must feel a real party-pooper in this company. Nice to see the lads in Claret,
after inexplicably playing in surrender white against rust-coloured Wolves, but
disappointing to see the laughable Clive Wilkes of Gloucester officiating. Isn’t
there a convenient league we can relegate him to?
I spent the early part of the game enjoying the all too rare treat of
terracing, where you can wander about and choose your company, particularly as it was a
clear and mild night. So my thoughts were on the intriguing question of whether they will
ever quite get round to finishing that new stand when Gillingham somewhat surprisingly
went ahead. As usual, it was a soft goal. This for a team that once prided itself on
sturdiness in defence. Again, as often this season, it was the keeper’s fault. Remind
me how this joker’s supposed to be a cult figure, would you? Michopoulos could only
parry a cross, presenting Osbourne with a simple chance from the rebound. Perhaps he could
try catching one of them sometime. NTG is starting to cost us dearly. Goalkeeping coaching
doesn’t seem to be improving him, but how is he ever going to feel the need to
compete for a place when there is no credible alternative keeper at the club?
This left us struggling, and the second duly followed. More than any at
Wolves, though, this was a lucky goal. It was a lottery shot in a crowded box, a
deflection, and a close range pounce from Ipoua, who, in common with about fifty other
strikers, always scores against us. This was an unfortunate goal to concede, and now we
were up against it, staring down the barrel of five straight away defeats. And it was only
eight o’clock.
But it’s all about how you respond, isn’t it? Unlike at Wolves,
we didn’t wait until the game was over to start playing. We showed determination and
stuck to our task.
Moore missed a good chance – another good chance, add it to the list
– but our hard work was rewarded with a goal at the right end by Taylor. West’s
excellent cross – not a phrase I find I overuse – did much of the damage. Taylor
found space and produced the sort of header that he often doesn’t, down and in. It
was a good finish, and it got us back in the game.
After this, we were the better side. At the heart of everything good was,
of course, that man Little. Like others, I really want to believe that we’re not a
one man team. I want to think that, even if you take our best player out, we will still
have a sufficiently talented squad to win matches. But I’m no longer convinced. The
difference Little makes is amazing. Our team had somebody to pass to, and we had someone
who could take the game to the opposition. Remarkably, compared to Sunday, we actually had
spells of possession. Little is a creator of possibilities.
We finished the half the stronger, with the team meriting our applause.
Gillingham looked a poor side at this point, every inch a team that aspires only to stay
in the division.
I went and watched the game with a different crowd for the second half
– because you can do on terraces – and stood lower, behind the goal. I therefore
had a great view of the penalty, which came from a spell of Burnley pressure. Little
played a good cross into the box, Perpetuini handled it, and the ref gave a penalty. It
was that straightforward. Gillingham made rather a fuss about it all – Onuora was
booked for protesting and one of their coaches was sent from the dug out – but for
all that, it was a penalty. I suppose the only surprise was that Wilkes gave it. Up to
then, he’d been happy to wave a card at any Claret who crossed his path.
So, penalty given, but you can’t feel too confident these days, can
you? The only player you’d feel happy about taking one was, as usual, jogging the
touchline, so we assumed we would get the fingers-crossed approach of Paul Cook. Not so.
Our Glen was having none of that. He took the ball and waited for Gillingham dissent to
die down. I wish I could say I had every confidence in him, but I didn’t. Somehow I
imagined a woeful effort. It was hard to watch. But Glen stepped up and drilled it home
with assurance. Top scorer!
The script should now say that we went on to win it. But Gillingham
weren’t going to give in that easily. They came back at us, and this next phase of
play was evenly contested. Both sides had chances. Ipoua, having scored his mandatory
goal, fluffed further attempts, while Moore continued to labour to little avail. His
inability to score is becoming worrying, and he doesn’t look worth a million pence at
the moment.
I thought we faded towards the end. Perhaps the two games in three days
had taken their toll, although it’s questionable how much energy was exerted at
Wolves. This was where Steve Davis came into his own. We needed his determination. He took
the task of thwarting their attacks personally. After clawing back into it, he wasn’t
going to let us blow it now, and his tackles were fine. NTG even partially atoned for his
earlier gaffe by getting his hands to – even holding on to – one or two shots.
They needed to do that because the midfield faded badly. This is still a
problem area. Little did what he was there to do and Weller worked characteristically
hard, but with Grant and Cook both struggling, there were large gaps. This meant that we
found it hard to clear. Too often the ball came straight back at us, and the defence was
pressured. In a bid to take the pressure off, Payton had already replaced Moore, and
towards the end we swapped midfielders, Ball coming on for Cook and, right at the end,
Johnrose getting a rare run out for Grant.
We could have snatched it. Hard by the final whistle the ball broke to
Little in the box, but he just couldn’t dig it out for a shot, and the moment passed.
That was the last piece of action. A draw was a fair result, and a late winner might have
been undeserved, if no less satisfying. As it was, this was our third successive draw on
this former field of nightmares. We haven't lost here for three years now!
Looking back, I suspect I’ve reported it as being more exciting than
it actually was. It wasn’t a particularly thrilling encounter or a memorable game.
Nor was it a technically good game – in fact, it was a match full of mistakes. It
isn’t as if we played superbly. This was hardly the stinging riposte to our Wolves
collapse that we hoped for. There are still question marks over the team – for
example, about the fallibility of the goalkeeper, the lack of pace in midfield and the
poor strike rate of the forwards – and this game didn’t answer them. But, given
that we were 2-0 down, our response wasn’t bad. Unlike at Wolves, we dug ourselves
out of a hole, and that took guts and guile, for which, be thankful. Rot stopped? That
will depend on the next game. And at least we’ve got Little back.
Pull
Yourself Together