Mellon 1 Tangerines 0!
Burnley 1 Blackpool 0, 14 November 1999
Firmo
First, some context, by way of an apology
for the deficiencies of this report:
I spent much of the two weeks before stuck
working hellishly hard half way round the world. I returned shagged out on Friday, only to
get up at six on Saturday for the early Leeds train. (Naturally, our cheap and inflexible
tickets had been booked long before the English and Scottish FAs decided to sod domestic
football.) Saturday night saw us give of our best for the third day of Woody’s
fortieth birthday festival. At something like 1.30 on Sunday morning the party began to
wind down. It was but a few hours later that we found ourselves slumped in the cheap seats
(having of course missed the kick off) wishing we were somewhere else and feeling somewhat
ill equipped for it all.
Yet, as the game progressed, I experienced a
feeling which I couldn’t at first place. Realisation dawned when people started
standing up and drifting off; I looked at the watch with surprise to discover that it was
nearly half time. It seems I’d been enjoying the game so much that the half had flown
by.
This was odd, because everything had pointed to
the kind of dour derby battle we had seen earlier this season against Preston. Blackpool
are bumping along at the bottom but were, I’d been told by those in the know, in a
purple patch of form. We had numerous injuries, all to defenders, and they had signed on
loan John Durkin (AKA Johnny Lager), a striker with a good scoring record at a higher
level, and most ominously, David Lee, an otherwise limited player who generally conspires
to look world class against us. Blackpool fans had also turned up in reasonable numbers
for the one game a season they travel to, and as we’d stormed towards the minority of
turnstiles that provide cash admission, we’d heard their lot loudly expressing their
opinion that Micky Mellon was "a wanker."
As it happened, we mustered a near first team
defence, with West restored and Armstrong filling in on the left. The rest of the team was
as expected. Mellon was again in the middle, and one couldn’t help noticing the
absence of a Clarets riposte to the Blackpool chants aimed at him. Hmm.
After the opening minutes of scuffle, it became
clear that we had worried over nothing, as Burnley were easily and unquestionably the
better side. Throughout the first half, we looked like we had the makings of a useful
attacking team, far removed from the grim Ternent stereotype. There are some myths Burnley
fans occasionally believe: We play long ball football. Glen Little can’t cross. Andy
Cooke has no skill. All were disproved in this game. We attacked freely and with ability;
sometimes we over-complicated, perhaps even tried to walk the ball into the net. Little
and Mullin wide got lots of the ball, Little using it effectively. Cooke and Payton worked
hard at the front, with Payton, although not at anything like his best, looking less lost
than of late, and Cooke combining his usual ferocious workrate with bags of ball skill on
the ground.
Blackpool’s tactics were clearly to get men
behind the ball, stop us, and hope to get it forward quickly when they had it. No surprise
there. However, the inadequacies of their attack, with the on-loan Lager puffing
uselessly, allowed Davis and Thomas plenty of scope to get forward. Davis was majestically
bored, and wandered wherever the desire to support the attack took him. Thomas seemed
hell-bent on going for goal, charging into the box at every opportunity.
All very enjoyable. Blackpool offered little
except a couple of early scares from Lee. We knew he’d do that. Thankfully, one or
two excellent crosses into our box yielded nothing. I was initially concerned that
Armstrong would struggle to get anywhere near him. Yet, as the half zipped by, even that
predictable threat was contained. Armstrong ultimately did a good job in shadowing his man
and stopping him getting crosses in. The only worry then became the mystery of why we
couldn’t actually get the ball into the sodding net. I think it was three times that
we sent headers straight at their keeper, twice from Payton, once from Little. Some good
keeping, but I bet their bloke couldn’t believe his luck. He was also fortunate to
keep out a hard and direct Davis free kick, with a little help from the bar.
If anything let us down, it was our midfield.
Cook, while by no means having a bad game, wasn’t the controlling force we know he
can be. Then there was Mellon. Conventional wisdom says that players taunted by their
former fans can go one of two ways. They can hurl the abuse back in the fans’ faces
by responding with a devastating display. We call this the Kurt Nogan camp. Or they can
fall to pieces, trip over their own feet and, for good measure, be sent off or subbed. I
once saw George Oghani self-destruct when he faced us for Scarborough. Mellon seemed to be
aligning himself with the latter faction. He was back to his anonymous worst.
With Mullin also struggling in a left wing slot
that doesn’t suit him (Little and Mullin swapped sides for a bit in the first half
– amazing how you notice these things when you’ve only had a pint and a half),
we were often short of the extra man coming into the box at the right moment to finish the
move. Still, I felt we were working smartly and still had something held back in reserve.
Very good, but we had to score at some point.
Half time brought a fire-eater (dunno, but
anything has to be better than dressed up dogs) and a sweet sentimental moment in the
return of John Francis to do the half time draw. Given that these are often undertaken by
dubious types who played twelve games for us in 1985, it was splendid to see the return of
a genuine Burnley hero of our generation. St Francis of Plymouth, still looking like he
could put in ninety minutes, strolled around the pitch side, shaking hands and signing
programmes. Lapping up the moment, he was still half way down the Longside when the teams
ran back out. For that goal at York, those two bolts from nowhere at Plymouth and lots of
fun in between, thanks.
We lost our way in the second half. After
promising more of the same at the start, one or two players faded and the game became
scrappy. Blackpool contributed to this by fouling any of our lads who got anywhere near
goal. They always were a dirty side, and it is almost comforting to know that in times of
change there are some things you can rely on. One foul on Payton when he was bearing down
on goal from a lob over the top was a masterful piece of gamesmanship. The referee
didn’t even deem it worth a booking. He was a lenient fellow to say the least, but he
was streets ahead of the linesman on our right, who clearly lacked the most basic
understanding of the offside laws of football. It’s possible that he had never been
to a match before. Perhaps someone had told him to keep sticking his flag up every time
someone kicked it forward, for this is what he did.
Best refereeing decision of the day came when we
swung over a cross, and a large defender clad from head to toe in orange rose unchallenged
at least a foot above any Burnley player to head the ball out high over the bar. Result?
Goal kick!
We actually had the ball in the net at one
stage, Cooke banging it in from close range, but the whistle was already blown, apparently
from a foul by Thomas that was less than obvious.
Clarets fans started to get worried,
particularly when Mullin gave way for the prize fop Graham Branch. How would this turn
things? Actually, Branch had one of his less crap games. Of course he meekly surrendered
the ball every time an opponent moved near, but at least he got into some promising
positions before he did so. There had been precious little atmosphere so far, and people
around us were just beginning to grumble. The cold started seeping in, and the endless
drizzle from which the roof offered scant protection began to grow more noticeable. Could
we blow this? Frustration spread. What would it be to dominate this game and not win it?
With most teams having played on Friday night, and with results having gone against us, we
needed a win here just to keep in touch with the top. They even had a couple of chances.
To have lost it would have been a scandal.
Thankfully, come the hour, come the Mellon.
Actually, it was the 77th minute, but you know what I mean. Our midfield enigma proved
himself as equally adept at straddling both camps of the ‘reject playing against
former club’ syndrome as he is at dividing the Claret faithful. It was a just reward
for our pressure, and the way it came was appropriate. It started when West played a
useless pass to Little. Critics of our most talented player should consider what a
handicap it is that Little plays alongside someone who cannot pass a ball. Often Little
looks for a simple return ball from West and is let down. He consequently uses large
amounts of his considerable skill merely trying to retrieve bad passes. So it was now.
With one fluid and brilliantly graceful movement, Little killed the ball, took it past his
man and placed a cross into the box. Cooke got it, tried to turn to work the opening, was
frustrated, and laid it off to Payton. Payton saw Mellon rushing in and gave it him. We
were sat right behind it and it was a perfect shot, straight as a bullet, rising a little,
hard into the back of the net. We rarely score goals that don’t look great, and here
was another.
Three sides burst into a chant of
"There’s only one Micky Mellon." Hypocritical? Yes. Insincere? Of course.
Very funny? What do you think? The Mellon himself got into the spirit of the things,
sprinting backwards at greater speed than he usually goes forward, towards the away fans,
pointing out in case they were unsure the name of the scorer on his shirt.
Splendid stuff. Even better that on resumption
of play, it was Burnley who went for goal. Rather than sit and defend, we tried for
another. It almost paid off. Steve Davis, virtually playing out on the wing for want of
anything else to do, found himself near goal with the ball, and promptly unleashed a
fierce and true shot. The goalkeeper couldn’t hold it, and Cooke was unlucky not to
get to the rebound. Only when Cooke was subbed for Jepson after enduring yet another
excessively rough challenge did the signal go out that now we would defend. Blackpool had
by then conceded that Armstrong had got the better of Lee by taking him off, and although
in Bent they produced another player who worries us, the almost-ex-Claret was anonymous.
There was to be no unjust equaliser for
Blackpool. I was a little tense, but not as much as in the cab back to Leeds for the
white-knuckle ride to narrowly catch our train immediately after the final whistle. The
only real moment of panic came from a backpass hit by Thomas to Crichton at some speed,
which our keeper came out for and eventually dribbled away from the attacker. Very good,
now don’t try it again.
The sponsors showed that they were in on the
joke by naming Micky Mellon as Man of the Match, and then it was all over.
Almost exactly a year ago we had won this
fixture amid a bad run thanks to a Payton penalty best described as dubious. Much has
changed since then. Now it is Blackpool who are staring at the bottom of the table with
nothing to look forward to. Meanwhile, we confidently continue to accumulate points.
Team:
Crichton, West, Armstrong, Davis, Thomas, Mellon, Cook, Little, Mullin (Branch 70), Cooke
(Jepson 89), Payton. Subs not used: Brass, Johnrose, Weller.
London Clarets Man of
the Match: (1) Steve Davis, (2) Andy Cooke.
Links -
More from this day, the away game
and this game last season
