The Diary

13 December 2004: Whither Now, Baggies?

Having now had at least 24 hours to cool down what were emotions almost incandescent in their intensity yesterday, we now have to pose one significant question. As far as the Premiership is concerned, what?s left for us now? Sure, today I?ve seen people, those possessing significantly greater enhanced optimism levels than I, presumably, posting to opine it ain?t all over until the fat lady sings. And, in theory, I suppose they?re right. In the 6 months or so period of time that remains to us in this godforsaken division, we still have 21 to play, obligatory third round FA Cup exit not included, of course. Realistically, though, our chances of staying up are now about as likely as those of a pair of suspender-less stockings I foolishly purchased in days of yore, well before the widespread use of tights by females; positively guaranteed to ?stay put? whatever situation the wearer found herself in, the manufacturers claimed, but they still ended up in a ruinous heap around my ankles in the middle of West Bromwich, approximately five minutes after both purchase and rapid putting-on in the ladies bog.

Yesterday?s performance simply served to highlight some extremely-worrying deficiencies, both up front and at the back; once they?d got that goal, trying to get an equaliser proved to be a task about as futile as trying to prevent the advance of a Centurion tank with a pea-shooter. Towards the end, huff and puff as we might at the sharp end, the visitors were simply doing just enough to hold us at arm?s length, and no more, in similar fashion to that of a school bully, much bigger and heavier than his madly-flailing playground victim, contemptuously dismissing the puny onslaught with both a stiffly-outstretched arm and an alarming sneer. If we are to transform our season at this late stage, then change will have to be on a pretty-cataclysmic scale, comparatively speaking ? and as I see it, there?s insufficient time, now, to embark on any such radical solution to the problem, then coach players to become effective at it. Tactical ploys, set-pieces, those sort of things, they?re like a good beer, or wine ? they need considerable time and investment to enable them to develop properly. It?s a luxury we don?t have, sadly.

I would have felt considerably cheered yesterday by even a small indication we were beginning to extract ourselves from this almighty mess, but, sporadic moments apart, there were few crumbs of comfort to be gathered from that game. Charlton came to our place knowing precisely what had to be done to see us off, then having done it in the 30th minute, it was then a simple matter of keeping us out for the remainder of the 90. I can?t even consider it a ?bad day at the office?, either. It?s all a mater of morale, really, but coupled with a smidgen of group psychology; after Charlton?s winning strike, a brace of reasonable Baggies efforts apart, you could see with your own eyes the considerable amount of mental wilting that took place within our somewhat beleaguered ranks.

That sort of attitude ? and please note, I can readily see why things have come to this; my comments are intended as constructive ones only - coupled with a prolonged series of losing games, generates what I like to call a ?negative feed-back cycle? of hopelessness and despair. Heads drop, the beautiful game isn?t any fun any more, and despite the best efforts of the coaching staff, players always emerge from that tunnel at five to three half-expecting to be on the losing side come the end of the allotted span. And, of course, goals are then shipped cheaply, the prophecy goes on to fulfil itself, of course, and round and round goes the losing cycle once more, ever-deepening the depressive furrow as it does so. Feed into the mix the understandable ire of supporters watching their team underperform ? the Hawthorns scenes at both half and full-time illustrated this perfectly ? and you end up with a first team squad whose team spirit and morale is completely shot to hell.

Incidentally, I?m not in the business of trying to score petty points or anything, here, but in former times ? certainly as recently as when our current manager last turned out competitively in the blue and white stripes ? were the side in a bit of a hole, the lunatic fringe apart, most supporters would offer players genuine post-match commiserations, coupled with a friendly hand on the shoulder, and very likely over a Saturday night pint, somewhere. Such is the massive gulf that has developed between players and their watchers over the last few years, any such well-meaning attempt at ?group therapy? on the part of our followers would be completely impossible in these constantly stage-managed and ruthlessly-PR?d times. Such encounters would provide much more mutual understanding and respect, in my opinion, something that appears to be sorely lacking in this increasingly-intolerant age. A shame that; were that sort of thing possible these days, the chances of players encountering the scenes we saw yesterday would be considerably minimised.

As the old song goes, ?Heaven knows I?m miserable now?, but just make sure that when you do wallow in it, bottle it up in private, and not where the Press-wallahs hang out. And there?s yet another saying that springs to mind reminiscent of current supporter-player relations: ?You reap what you sow?. Players are told what and what not to do off the field, of course, so they may not have much choice in the matter anyway, but the trouble with constantly fostering a PR image of remote, unreachable beings is that it then becomes very difficult indeed for supporters to genuinely empathise with players? difficulties both on and off the pitch. Result? The sort of mindless abuse heard at the conclusion of yesterday?s game.

Given that things have now deteriorated to the extent that a gradual softly-softly approach to the problem simply won?t work ? how many know we have the least number of points in the entire English professional domain, and but one win over the last twenty one games? - our only hope now lies in us getting a totally-unexpected (and possibly undeserved) three points within the next two weeks. That might, just might, serve to jolt us out of the swamp in which we currently find ourselves immersed up to our necks, and once buoyed by this, serve to get us back on the winning trail, finally. The trouble is, though, having watched each and every one of our Premiership games this season, I really can?t discern any likelihood anywhere of the miracle happening to our lot. The reasonable opening spell apart, with a couple of hard-luck stories chucked in for good measure, individual performances have since nose-dived in similar manner to that of a kamikaze pilot on the attack, and with an equally-destructive outcome, as far as I can see.

Any chance of next week?s game providing a somewhat springboard for a renaissance of our fortunes, then? Er ? no, quite frankly. I?m assuming everyone reading this saw the final score for the Villa-Blues encounter earlier today, which was 2-1 to the Small Heath persuasion, and all achieved on Villa?s mouldering patch as well. If I were an Albion player (or supporter, even?) contemplating next week?s encounter, I?d much rather chuck myself into a tank of live piranhas there and then. The final outcome?s broadly similar, I would guess. The sole constraint upon the ability of our local rivals to make us look very silly indeed will be the dim view the authorities currently take of blood being spilled in quantity upon the field of play. And, following that one, we then ?entertain? ? assuming that?s the right word, of course ? Liverpool. Our American cousins have an endearing habit of describing a very popular hand-gun commonly used to blast perpetrators of weekend pub brawls and arguments completely out of existence as a ?Saturday Night Special?. ?Nuff said?

I wouldn?t really care about the sheer amount of ordure currently being heaped on our heads were what was on offer on the pitch in any way entertaining to watch ? but it ain?t. Again, I can accept that changing that sort of thing takes time, especially when you?re dealing with a side that?s had around four years of being totally immersed in a ?functional? sort of mindset, where dour defence has been king, and entertaining and attacking play its poorly-paid handmaiden, with little or no dissent tolerated. I?ve gone along with that in the past purely and simply because I was convinced the end justified the means; put up with the sterility, the negativity, the dross, and the Premiership would lie ahead, in similar fashion to that of a safe harbour viewed from a long distance following an extremely long and hazardous voyage at sea. Get there, and only then embark on the process of fitting the football to the new circumstances.

The current season now represents our second shot at staying in this division; the first time, around the halfway stage, I finally accepted we weren?t really ready for promotion, not good enough to stay there, and acknowledged our equally-rapid descent in philosophical manner, pretty much ? but now? Sure, we have a different gaffer, with an entirely different game-plan, in charge, but I can only see more of the same. Dross, negativity, and not even the winning variety, either. It sure as hell is going to be an awful 2005 for us supporters. Travelling very long distances just to watch us being humiliated isn?t the most uplifting of weekend pastimes, is it? Luckily, the Supporters Club has within its ranks many fine stalwarts genuinely willing to put up with the constant pain and torment, otherwise I would be suggesting at this stage in the game it might behove the club well to lay on a minibus to transport our followers to future away games, and not a fleet of coaches. Were there ever a footballing equivalent of the club chucking in the towel, and thereby saving us further punishment, I?d go for it right now, I really would, if only to spare a wonderful set of people the slow agony of seeing us sink like a brick.

Solutions? If I could provide one, I wouldn?t be sitting here typing these words; I?d be very rich indeed, having successfully set up and run a company that specialised in motivating completely hopeless causes. Having seen us try various approaches, including that of removing the previous manager, and still finding ourselves immersed up to our necks in the doo-doo, I?ve simply run out of both practical suggestions and constructive alternatives. Get rid of our chairman, as some have opined, of late? No chance - in case it?s escaped anyone?s notice recently, with over 70 per cent of the shares clutched in his hot little mitt, Jeremy Peace is now the de facto owner of the club, and can do what the hell he wants with it.

If our manager can quickly reach into his little grab-bag and figure a way out of it himself, then fair play to him. It?s not a totally-impossible achievement, even at this late stage of the season, but even with the assistance of my best rose-tinted spectacles, the only thing I see right now is the whole thing ending in tears. Yesterday, I had a conversation, a daft one, really, that revolved around our chances of staying up being on a par with believing in the existence of Santa Claus, or the likelihood of fairies inhabiting the bottom of our garden. After yesterday, I reckon you can now amend the odds to those of anyone finding a successful solution to the Middle East conflict, or that of an alien mother-craft landing in Dartmouth Square and having it away with the clock. Not to mention those of ever seeing a Conservative government in my lifetime.

Oh, well ? no significant Albion activity this week, so my next effort will probably hit your PC next Friday night. Unless something pretty radical happens, of course. Now where did I put that life-membership application for ?Exit??

And finally?. My weekend catalogue of domestic disaster continues apace, folks. Not content with chucking half the contents of my fridge all over the kitchen floor yesterday morning, it?s now the turn of our automatic washing machine to drive us to complete despair; when I went to chuck yet another load into its cavernous depths this afternoon, then start the cycle, an almighty torrent began to gush from out of the powder compartment. Just as well I was there, really; within a matter of seconds, I had a pretty close approximation of Dartmouth Park boating lake on the utility-room floor, and barely enough floor-cloths to mop up the awful mess, once I?d managed to put a stop to it, finally. First our fridge, and now this; it couldn?t be God has Dingle sympathies, or something?

 - Glynis Wright

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