Where's John Kettley when you
need him?
Macclesfield 2 Burnley 1, 24th October 1998
Firmo
These were rather ignominious
surroundings in which to surrender our brief unbeaten run.
Not that I could get too worked up about it. I
searched for the usual post-away defeat emotions of anger, depression or despair. There
was nothing. There were no conclusions to be drawn from this game, there were no lessons
to be learned. Simply, this game should never have started. The pitch was unplayable
before the game kicked-off, and got steadily more so as the afternoon progressed. Top
meteorological experts believe this may have had something to do with the large amounts of
water that fell from the sky both before and during the game. Sadly, this was a theory
that the referee did not subscribe to. He, apparently, inspected the pitch twice, at ten
and twelve, and both times passed it fit.
How much of the pitch he inspected, and whether
he looked at the large patch near the away end where the ball stopped dead every time it
touched, is a matter for conjecture. Still, the ref could be forgiven if he gave the grass
only a cursory glance from the safety of the tunnel; after all, it was bloody chucking it
down out there.
So, the game was on. I had mixed feelings. After
all, this was a ground tick (and we all do grounds, whether we admit it or not). The
reason for this novelty was, of course, Macclesfield's rapid elevation from the
non-league. The downside is that their ground is still non-league. And the away end of the
ground has no roof. People with umbrellas consequently made many friends that day.
Given the conditions, the game was something of
a lottery. You could say that Macclesfield bought the winning ticket, but that might not be
entirely fair. They seemed to be more up for it than us, and were presumably better
accustomed to the state of the pitch (and this will be to their advantage - if their pitch
is like that in October, what might it be like in February?). Macclesfield were better
than us in two departments: they shot on sight, knowing that with the weather anything
might happen, and they dived at every opportunity, aware that the ref, a fussy man who did
not take account of the conditions, might give them something. They therefore showed more
savvy than us, though this is hardly surprising when you consider the inexperience of our
side.
Our team was also weakened by the usual round of
injuries and contained the standard quota of players played out of position. This was one
of those games where you looked at the team and tried to work out who was playing and
where. Occasionally, you would turn to someone else and ask, who’s that then?
Robertson and Paul Smith were both injured, and Heywood was absent after vomiting before
the kick-off (lovely). Eastwood was occupying a defensive midfield slot, and our frequent
enquiries on the matter of who might be playing on the left were met with the eventual
response that it was John O’Kane, signed that morning from Everton. I can’t say
he impressed. As well as all that, Swan was clearly carrying an injury, and when he
departed it was a mercy.
As for actual on-pitch events, once again I am
unable to provide a full report, albeit for different reasons than Colchester. I spent
much of the first half simply trying to shelter from the pouring rain and jostle for my
position on a terrace that was dangerously over-crowded. I frequently wished my glasses
had windscreen wipers.
After an opening period when Macclesfield looked
on top but didn’t threaten, they struck a speculative shot from long distance. It
looked like Ward would cover it, but it skidded off (we estimate) three puddles, moved
quickly and went in. 1-0 to the weather.
I went to vent my frustrations on some stewards.
Although they must have known exactly how many tickets they had sold - all of them - the
top of the away terrace had become horribly overcrowded as latecomers joined throughout
the half. I believe there was space nearer the sides, but it was impossible to reach with
incurring severe aggro. Meanwhile, to our side, we could see an odd stand with a high roof
covered in tent-like material, similar to a marquee at a country fete. It was almost
empty. The logical solution was therefore to move some people from our terrace to there.
Unfortunately, the logical solution is never the first to suggest itself to the jobsworth
fools who police football. I squeezed my way through the throng and, breathing in,
clambered down the steps. The policemen I spoke to were typically unhelpful. It was
nothing to do with them: it was the stewards, and the only power they had was to have the
game abandoned. Okay then, I said, thinking of both the scoreline and the warmth and
comfort of the pub we had left. I don’t think they took me seriously. I worked my way
through a succession of stewards before reaching the white-coated chief steward. It was
while I was chasing after him to have a word that disaster struck.
In my haste to catch him, I was oblivious to the
wet grassy bank I ran across. Oblivious, that is, until I felt it slipping away from under
me and the world going sideways as I fell. I landed squarely on my arse. When I picked
myself up I was utterly covered with mud.
I gathered together what little dignity I could
muster, tossed away my cheese and mud burger, which up to that point I had been enjoying
(non-league standards of catering are much higher) and continued in my mission. Being
harangued by the wild mudman of Macclesfield must have had some effect on the chief
steward, for shortly after that, they began to open the gates and usher people through to
the empty seats. I went to the toilet cabin in an attempt to wipe the worse of it off. I
was grateful they had soap - another non-league feature.
Mission accomplished, I returned to the game.
The weather had now turned dry for a bit and was concentrating instead on being cold. As I
stood there and watched my fellow Clarets luxuriate in the comfort of the seats, I
reflected heroically that it was all thanks to me, yet they did not know the extent of my
sacrifice or the costs of dry cleaning I would have to suffer. Such is the fate of noble
men.
Onwards. Significant action: just before half
time, Cooke pulled out of a challenge on their keeper, who dived in full view of the away
end. Cooke got a yellow card. It was at about this point that we realised the day was not
going to get better.
To prove it, Cooke got sent off shortly into the
second half for reacting to a physical challenge from that wearer of dubious headgear, Efte
Sodje. Cooke raised his arm and although there appeared to be little contact, the tall
Nigerian went down as though shot. It was a straight red.
Although Cooke’s penchant for petulance
frustrates me at times, he didn’t do much wrong here. In any case, how could we
remove the passion from his game and leave him the same player? His critics should
remember that he would still pass for young in most teams and has much yet to learn.
As we seethed at the injustice of it all, the
team came up with a better response: a Reading-style ten man fightback. Odd how we never
did this before but have now done it twice this season. Who could figure out what
formation our re-jigged team were playing now? The blameless Smith made way for Maylett,
as our Stan showed he does not shy from substituting the substitute when tactics dictate
(yes, we have tactics now). The fightback was led by the easily magnificent Little, who
took his first opportunity to chop down one of theirs, before deciding that he could beat
them with football. He ran at them and gave them hell. His goal was superb, the one moment
of genius that made the day light up. How do you describe these goals? He beat three men
and lashed a shot into the top corner.
All the pointlessness and misery of the game
evaporated. We were going to get something here, you could sense it. As the collapsed pack
at the top of the terrace reassembled itself and launched into a full-on rendition of the
new Glen Little chant, the last thing anyone thought might happen is that they would
snatch it yet.
Their goal was sickening. Does 84 minutes count
as a late goal? Although it was no Glen Little, their Smith did well, picking up the ball
and driving in a shot from long range against which Ward stood no chance. I couldn’t
help but feel it would have been nice if someone had got near him, though.
There was still time for us to almost get the
point our second half performance deserved. Little - of course - beat their fullback for
the umpteenth time before firing in a beauty of a cross. Brad Maylett, in a great position
in front of goal and with little time to react, got in a fine header. It was going in. The
goalkeeper accidentally saved it. He spread himself in the hope of stopping it, and got
lucky. No one looked more agonised than Maylett, but he was blameless. There will be times
in his career when he scores goals he deserves less.
That was the end of the game. Cold, soaked,
covered in mud, and seeing us beaten, I think it’s safe to say I’ve had more
enjoyable days. Yet, long though the anecdotes may remain, the memory of the actual
scoreline will fade. Our scratch side was one (un) fortunate piece of goalkeeping away
from a draw.
One other thing. I can’t support this idea
expressed at the game and afterwards that we shouldn’t be playing "sides like
Macclesfield." Well, we very nearly weren’t. Macclesfield got into the league on
merit and deserve to seek to preserve their status by whatever means. What doesn’t do
them justice is their ground, and the make hay while the sun shines mentality that sees
them selling too many tickets for a poor away end at £10 a throw. If they are planning to
stay in this division, they should be made to upgrade their ground, or police games
better.
That said, I can now get on with the business of
being patronising. I couldn’t escape from the sensation that this was a cup match
against a non-league side who pulled off an upset. Perhaps that’s why the ref sided
with them. When we drew level, I honestly half-thought something about getting them back
to our place for a replay before I remembered league points were at stake. Maybe
that’s just me.
So I have my reasons for thinking I
wouldn’t be too disappointed if I don’t have to go to Macclesfield again next
season, fine though the pubs are. It’s not as bad as Reading, though. And that Cooke
/ Sodje battle in the home match should be something.
Team: Ward,
Swan (C Smith 28) (Maylett 70), Armstrong, Vindheim, Eastwood, Reid, Little, Scott, Cooke,
Payton, O’Kane. SNU: Carr-Lawton
The home game
