Where's your Verve gone?
Wigan 0 Burnley 0, 3rd May 1999
Firmo
When we woke up on Monday and the
hangover still hadn't cleared, we realised we still had two games left to play. Do we have
to? We do? Oh, go on then.
Thus we set off to Wigan on the year's hottest
day for our first pre-season friendly.
I found the team selection disappointing. I
wouldn't have minded ticking off a few new players. Plus, if Fulham were going for a
hundred points, we still had a record we could set. Why not pick fifty players? As it was,
only Davis, finally succumbing to the double hernia injury that those in the know knew
he'd been carrying for weeks, was missing from Saturday's triumphant team. Reid was
restored in his place.
We faced a Wigan side stuttering in the face of
the playoffs and roundly lashed with buckets of sympathy for having to play a number of
games in a short space of time. Yet, as we approached the hated non league slum of
Springfield Park, astonishingly looking more dilapidated than ever, I couldn't spare them
much. With their shiny new ground rising, Wigan have clearly taken the sensible decision
not to spend a penny on the old one. It will soon be drab pointy houses or a dull set of
standard shops, and it will not be missed. But all of those earlier games were called off
because of a shit pitch. Ours was, back in the grim days, because it rained the night
before and that was more than it could take. Back then, they'd hardly played at all.
They'd had a mid season break. And if they hadn't been moving, maybe they'd have spent a
few quid and done something about the state of the pitch. Their problem, then.
Not that we shouldn't be thankful that we
couldn't play when we should have. That postponed game separated the twin horrors of
Gillingham and Man City. Who knows if that would have made it three? Who will ever know if
we'd have died in front of Man City if we'd collapsed at Wigan before? Who even knows if
Ternent would have been given that chance? You end up chasing your tail once you start
thinking like this.
So we won't. But we went from a grim wet day in
March for what would have been a crucial game to this hot sunny May day for a pointless
fixture, with us firmly ensconced in mid table. Every time I think I understand this game
I am wrong.
We squeezed into a packed terrace, leaned on the
fence at the front, concentrated on soaking up the sun and waited for the ninety minutes
to pass by. This was a great following for a meaningless game.
Burnley started slowly, looking a little
lethargic. I couldn't find it in my heart to be too hard on them. To be honest, I felt
like shit after the amount I'd had to drink that jubilant Saturday night, and I was
struggling just stood there in the burning sun. God knows what it must have been like to
have to run around in it.
Wigan had the best of the chances, but a mixture
of bad luck and bad finishing served to deny them. They hit the post at some stage. We ran
around a bit. Look, do you want a report? Honestly, I was shagged out from a weekend of
intensive celebration, to say nothing of the road to Wigan beer. Along with that there
were the end of season blues; after and despite everything, there still comes a point
where I hit May and stop thinking I’ll be glad when it’s all over to realise
I’ll actually miss the game.
They had a penalty, just before half time. That
I remember. The referee was an old foe, W C Burns, so you can probably guess that it
wasn’t a penalty. Cowan happened to be stood near someone who fell over and this
odious official pointed to the spot. We bayed our dismay. Crichton turned to us and - this
is extraordinary - as we shouted to save it, nodded his head ever so slightly and gave us
a look which said, yes, I will.
That was when I realised the season had to end,
for I had started liking Paul Crichton, a player I have vilified, just for his
determination to undo an injustice. The game before I had started liking Ronnie Jepson, as
much for his piss-taking in the face of a Fulham miss as his splendid goal. This
determination and fighting spirit thing we’ve got, it does funny things to you.
I was told that their bloke, who apparently got
sacked by Norwich for ear-biting, or something, never misses penalties. Ever. But, as we
swayed half heartedly to try to put him off (it worked once), he missed this. Rather,
Crichton saved it, dived right, pushed it out and it was cleared. Cue a surge in belief in
Crichton and the knowledge that justice had been done.
This was yet more proof that it’s always
best to sit behind the goal. You see more detail, more human expression, more needle.
That’s the heart of football.
There were probably some more chances in the
second half. I concentrated on hoping someone would turn the sun off. I eked out my ration
of water. They started to get desperate. They had a lot of shots, but their strikers
weren’t particularly good, and when they were on target and didn't hit a post or bar
Crichton stopped it. He had an inspired game. For us, Little took the game to them in the
first half, playing kind of up front, but excusably faded when fatigue and sub took its
toll after half time. Andy Cooke missed his obligatory sitter when clear through, shooting
high and wild. But legs were tired and the sun continued to sear. We needed our young and
fresh-legged subs on. Robertson and Maylett were both warming up. We couldn’t
understand why Ternent wouldn’t make use of them. The overcritical bloke behind me,
who’d laid into the team although I couldn’t see what sense it made now,
lamented, "why doesn’t Stan do something about it?"
Err, because he wasn’t here. Despite all
our protestations that we were approaching the last two games in a businesslike and
professional way (and to be fair, we did field a strong team, cognisant of our obligations
towards others), Ternent wasn’t there. Ellis was king for a day, and a hesitant one
at that. Ellis the Unready. Ternent, by the way, was allegedly on a scouting mission at a
reserve team match instead. Hmm.
Eventually Maylett was allowed a cameo
appearance. Immediately he chased down a backpass to their goalkeeper and panicked him
into an almost costly mistake. It was the first time we had challenged their keeper that
day. It was also the most exciting moment for us. Speed of foot and quickness of thought
could take this lad far, if he’s given the chance to develop.
Their finishing got laughably more rushed and
wayward as time ran out. They were guilty of some quite horrendous misses at the end of
the game. Ultimately, they were too uptight to win it, although credit should go to our
team for keeping a run going when many of us thought we might not try. Perhaps attitudes
have changed. Crichton was outstanding, for once a barrier that looked like it would take
some overcoming. The defence held together well in the absence of Davis, although Reid
looked vulnerable at times. This made it all the more important that Brass continued along
this new sensible and solid career trajectory, where once he seemed in unstoppable
decline. Cowan was, as usual, brimful of himself. The calls for his permanent capture were
entirely justified.
Just think, this once so leaky defence ended the
game having conceded one goal in five (instead of five in one game). Davis, Brass,
Pickering, Cowan and, yes, Crichton, deserve much of the credit for our survival.
At the back we only need to keep Cowan and bring
in another goalkeeper, so then we will have two keepers at least. In midfield there is
work to be done, though. Thankfully the ineffectual Branch was out, having apparently hurt
himself making the first tackle of his life on Saturday. But as ever Johnrose was there,
huffing and puffing, labouring to little purpose, carrying the burden of his nameless
injury. Mellon had one of his better games, but still has much to prove. At least Little
remained sharp and dangerous, at least until half time.
He deserves to have won at least a couple of the
numerous player of the year awards, all of which went to Payton (ours will be announced,
as ever, at the July AGM). Payton deserves nothing less than a medal and a small statue in
a Burnley square for his unstinting efforts this season. It was sensible not to risk him
in this game. He did his work when he needed to. There was no point rushing him back to
push for a record. He had nothing to prove. Cooke, by comparison, continued to struggle,
semi-fit and some way short of form. Because of his past achievements, we should stick by
him. But it would be sensible to find another striker.
This was all next day thinking, though. Feeling
like an extra from Ice Cold in Alex, I was just glad when the game reached an end.
The unbeaten run was preserved, and that mattered, but the game was forgotten even as we
filed from the shallow crowded terrace for the last time, applauding our players for their
efforts today, but more for their heroics of two days before. As I walked down the slope
from this crap ground, I wasn’t thinking of anything more ambitious than reaching a
shady place and resting my tired head. The half hour walk back to the cool comfort of the
pub damned near finished me off. When I got there, I found I couldn’t speak simple
words.
That should have been that. A long weekend over
with, I should have had a pleasant collapse into a train carriage seat and a calm trip
home to look forward to. But this being the last serious trip of the season, the evil
fiend Branson had a special treat in store for us. It was Bank Holiday Monday, and our
train’s route from Glasgow to London took it via the Lakes. The train was jammed
solid. There was hardly standing room only. We could whistle for our reserved seats. Or
any other seats. Exhausted, overheated and dehydrated, I stood up all three hours to
London.
I’ve often wanted the team to know what
kind of sacrifices people make to watch their sometimes feeble efforts. Recently, though,
I finally feel like they’ve been trying as hard as we do. Who’d have thought
that we’d end the season as a hard-working, disciplined and determined team? What
next?
Team: Crichton,
Pickering, Cowan, Mellon, Reid, Brass, Little, Cook (Jepson 82), Cooke (Maylett 89),
Johnrose, Armstrong. SNU: Robertson.
