The Diary

29 April 2003: Town Go Down

It's always distressing to have a ringside seat at the relegation of a club from the League, but for me, that of The Shrews tonight has to rank as one of the most poignant I've ever witnessed - Hereford and Chester's being the others I've seen - but I couldn't even begin to compare what happened then to what happened tonight. I really felt for Shrewsbury's regulars; after the final whistle, what could you possibly say to them that would sugar the bitter pill? Had those supporters not known for quite some time that tonight's angst would be the likely outcome of this fixture, I reckon there would have been far more in the way of wailing and gnashing of teeth at The Gay Meadow than there actually was come the end of the allotted span. What a way to go out, though - to bloody Carlisle, who have supped with the devil on more than one occasion in recent years, the most memorable of which was the time they were saved from the hangman's noose thanks to the intervention of a certain custodian called Jimmy Glass - he unbelievably banged one in for the Cumbrians - deep in time added on for stoppages.

Mind you, we did well to get to the game at all; we'd started out at half-five, which, under normal circumstances, would have been more than ample time to make the short journey into Deepest Shropshire, but because of the likelihood of rush-hour snarl-ups on the M6, we elected to go via Dingle Town (ugh) instead. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem, but for reasons that escape me right now, the whole bloody shebang from God's Own country to that of The AntiChrist was nose-to-tail stop-go frustration personified. This turned what should have been a 30-40 minute saunter into a last-minute frenzy of fast-lane overtaking on the M54; by the time we hove into the city, there was only 30 minutes to kick-off, and no car-parking to be had anywhere. This meant we had to retrace our steps and drop anchor about a mile from the ground; the resultant walk didn't do my back any good at all.

When we finally arrived outside the turnstiles, it was a case of the terraces or nothing, so, biting the bullet, 'Im Indoors and myself joined the queue; fortunately, it was pretty fast moving, and we took our place in the home end behind the goal just as the referee was blowing the whistle for the start. Quickly looking around before the fun started in earnest, there were photographers aplenty on the goal-line, some of whom I reckoned were from the snootier end of the market, and in the Press Box, it appeared to be standing (vulture?) room only. The only thing lacking was Madame De Farge, knitting-needles clacking ten to the dozen, as per A Tale Of Two Cities. And a guillotine, of course.. The thumb-toting habitu?s of the Circus Maximus would have felt perfectly at home in that environment. Oh - and by the way, Carlisle's line-up featured a certain Mr Paul Raven, late of West Bromwich Albion FC; trouble was, he had to go off injured after some 20 minutes of play, which could have been bad news for Carlisle as he seemed to be marshalling their defence rather well, until his departure!

At first, Shrewsbury seemed to be the ones making all the running, but even early on in the game, the kamikaze tackles began flying in, and the ref began brandishing yellow cards at anything that moved, or even spoke a word out of turn, come to think about it. It really was X-Certificate stuff at times; such was the amount of thuggery and skulduggery going on, even notable hard men such as Duggie Fraser and Billy Bremner would have been forced to avert their eyes from what was happening out there! Midway through the first period, Shrewsbury got a penalty - and I have to say that from my vantage-point (I was leaning against the perimeter wall, and about twenty yards away from where the incident took place), the award looked very iffy indeed. To my mind, the Shrewsbury lad put on the best acting display since Larry Olivier, but a spot-kick it was, which the home side - fortuitously so, as it hit either the post or the side netting on its way in - put away, much to the delight of their followers, who collectively went potty with relief following that unexpected breakthrough.

The trouble is, though, that Shrewsbury are totally incapable of defending a lead, which was one of the primary reasons why they were in that mess in the first place. Personally, if I had been in charge, I would have got everyone behind the ball a la Megson, and tried to keep The Foxes out that way, but they didn't. Instead, the Cumbrians pressed for the equaliser with a degree of urgency, and predictably, The Shrews' defence collapsed like a sack of spuds; within minutes, the visitors had restored parity once more, then, just before the interval, they took the lead thanks to some shocking defending by the home side - they left two blokes totally unmarked in the box - and thus disencumbered, Cumbria's finest said 'thank you very much' and made hay while the floodlights shone. Oh, whoops..

Following the interval, during which time 'Im Indoors imparted the dubious delights of Conference football to both a Shrewsbury steward and one of their somewhat depressed followers, it was back to the messy business of trying to make inroads into that lead for the home side, and, in so doing, they left themselves wide open at the back, and the visitors more or less made the game safe with a third. As for the away supporters, shoehorned into the terracing behind the opposite end of the pitch, they were going bananas, predictably enough; it's not every day you get gifted a life-saving trio of goals like that. Unfortunately, the pressure totally overwhelmed a Shrewsbury substitute; around three minutes after entering the fray, he got the bum's rush from the man in black, for an especially nasty bit of footwork. Not surprising, really - it was that sort of game. At a rough guess, I reckon the ref's still trying to catch up with his match report even now.

Following that, Shrewsbury seemed to more or less throw in the towel, and I really had written them off, but around ten minutes from time, something, I know not what, seemed to titivate them once more. And they managed to partially capitalise, thanks to a marvellous individual goal from one of their finest, which, making the score 2-3, seemed to give the home supporters a semblance of hope - but, of course, it was not to be. Three minutes of injury time - personally, what with the sending-off, plus several more bookings, I reckoned it should have been far more - and the final whistle blew, on the game, and also on Shrewsbury's fifty-years-plus League career, poor sods. Think of your emotions post-Twerton Park, 1991, square and cube them, and you'll get some idea of how devastated they're feeling right now. Although police dressed in riot gear ringed the perimeter of the pitch, they weren't really needed; most home supporters were in too much of a state of shock to invade the pitch, or indulge in mindless acts of destruction, and who could blame them? I reckon the PA bloke did a grand job at the end by emphasising the fact they were bowing out with their dignity intact, and would be looking to come back in fine style come the start of the next campaign. Sure, there were chants for the removal of the manager, but nothing on the scale, say, of those Baggies who demanded the resignation of Mr. Gould, some eleven years previously. As I said at the start, what a rotten way to end a season..

On to other things now, and talking of rotten ways to end a season, what about us losing the services of both Greegs and Jordao for the duration of what remains of our stay in the Prem? As far as our defender was concerned, the problem was a pulled hamstring against Liverpool, but the problem was further compounded by Jordao's ankle problems versus our near-neighbours last night, which was wonderful news - I don't think. With our rearguard in such a state of chassis, I wonder whether our leader will now bite the bullet and either give the kids a go, or - shock, horror! - finally bring Mr. Marshall in from the cold to help fill those bloody great gaps? Am I being either terminally stupid or na?ve to even contemplate our manager taking such a logical course of action? Ah, the uncertainties of Baggie life?.

And finally? I shan't be going far from our place tomorrow; what with that mile-long walk to the ground tonight, plus having to stand on that terrace, plus having to make the return trip to The Dickmobile after the final whistle, all my important little bits have now well and truly seized up! In the end, I had no option but to wait on a bench alongside the road, and 'Im Indoors had to fetch our car for me; luckily, my other half is a fast mover (ooer, missus) and I was soon safe within the welcoming arms of my front-seat perch. Hopefully, I should be back in full working order for the Blackburn thrash, for which I'll be wearing full referee's regalia. Is the world really ready for this, I ask myself!...

 - Glynis Wright

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