The Diary

07 March 2005: Albion's Three-Point Turnaround!

Well, at long last, a three-pointer, and one well deserved, as well. Oh, sod the restraint, the measured use of euphemistic words and phrases ? ?WHOOPEE!? There, that?s what I really meant, and I don?t half feel better for having typed that!

Since the start of the current year, Albion games have quite often been frustration personified insofar as we?ve usually played the opposition off the park, taken an early lead ? only to see us go on to stuff up quite spectacularly, and usually over the course of the last ten or so minutes of the game. Games that looked dead-cert three-pointers then become ?two-points-dropped? matters, which are no use whatsoever in our current plight. Frustrating? Yes, because we all knew what we were doing out there was heaps better then the lamentable state of affairs that existed prior to the coming of the present incumbent: a bit of luck, a following wind, even, and things could have turned out rather differently ? but Lady Luck spurned us, the breaks went against us, and we?re now on the verge of being kicked out of the nation?s top division.

But that?s in the medium-term future, come May, when apple blossom graces the bough, and sweetly scents the springtime air. Right now, it?s January weather in March, and thanks to the bitter wind currently howling cross-country from North-Easterly directions, freezing cold temperatures, snow, sleet, hail, the lot; sure, as per the attitudes shown by the Aussie protagonists in Neville Shute?s post-nuclear-apocalypse story ?On The Beach?, the chopper?s going to fall eventually, and there?s little we can do about it, but in the meantime, let?s have a bit of fun while we can, hey?

I?m still quietly mulling over this afternoon?s performance and trying to decide whether Blues really were as bad as they seemed out there, or whether or not the whole thing was simply a variation of what?s sometimes called ?The Old Pals? Act?. Steve Bruce and Robbo provide the Man Urinal connection, of course; was it me, or did that game have a liberal gobbet of ?end-of-season? feel about it? Even the noise made by both sets of supporters seemed somewhat muted for most of the time; normally, Baggies-Blues encounters are occasions when decibel levels zing right off the scale.

And in another way, ?end of season encounter? is a highly-apt way of describing it. Barring a miracle, Blues will finish mid-table, or thereabouts, and our fate is sealed, more or less. Sure, I realise the gap?s now down to five, and we?re off the bottom now, which is psychologically beneficial, plus we?ve a game spare over the rest, but when you consider our own run-in, and what the other relegation candidates have to face, I still contend it will take much more than a written Papal benediction to see us out of it. That?s not being in any way negative, by the way, it?s being pragmatic, and there?s one hell of a lot of difference between the two. But, hey! We?ve won a game, finally, against decent opposition, and deservedly so. Let?s not knock the fact. There?s a whole bundle of positives we can take from today?s performance, so stay my typing finger from damning us with faint praise, from hereon in!

Midday kick-offs have always been a difficult concept for me to get to grips with; it just doesn?t feel right, somehow, watching a game in progress when, by rights, one should be heading on out in search of a decently-cooked roast-and-two-veg Mothers? Day treat. Or sweating over a hot stove cooking the damn thing for yourself, come to think about it. And all the rozzers, tooled-up, and clearly anticipating fun and games of a totally different nature, haunting the streets and thoroughfares surrounding the ground. And it?s a policy that quite frankly mystifies me; as I remember things, the last time we played the corresponding fixture, two seasons ago, we played on a Saturday, at the normal time, and there was very little trouble to speak of after the final whistle. But at least the sun was out, alleviating slightly the stonking wind-chill factor emanating from The Urals, or so it seemed. And that wasn?t the only thing I noticed in the sky, because as we approached Smethwick Town Centre in the Dickmobile, I managed to clap eyes on a strange flying object indeed.

White, it was, and whatever the nature of the celestial interloper, it was most certainly positioned right above the Shrine! Being somewhat distant, identification proved a problem, but once we?d drawn nearer to the flying enigma, the light began to dawn ? what we were looking at was a small version of what was commonly known during the Forties as a barrage balloon, no less. In those days, they were deployed to combat aerial threats, but not for one minute could I believe our manager had put it there in an attempt to see off the opposition?s headed menace.

And, once at the ground, I realised the thing (much smaller than a manned version, once you?d got close) wasn?t actually parked on our property, but that of The Hawthorns Hotel. Hanging in the sky completely devoid of markings or advertising, merely intensified the mystery. Mind you, I reckoned GD?s tame Awful Pun Creator, Norm Bartlam, had the right idea about the thing when I spoke to him about it: his unsolicited opening question, ?Has Terry brought out his World War Two transport for this one?? did have a certain something about it ? but Norm made one fundamental error, there. He?d mistaken the true age of the dirigible concerned. Come on, everyone knows The Fart would insist on nothing less than the actual Zeppelin that did so much damage to Walsall and the surrounding area back in 1915!

Because of the early kick-off, we?d turned up at around half-ten, without any chance to meet up with chums in the boozer. That?s why the plods insisted the whole shebang took place on a Sunday, and early, in the first place, remember? Never mind, though; by the time we pitched up outside the Smethwick, there was The Noise and Carly, plus The Fart, ready to greet us ? and because I?d mentioned the fact yesterday, much curiosity about the precise nature of my other half?s ?war wound?. But once we?d sorted out stock with them, it was then a case of getting on with it, which in my instance, meant walking around the ground looking for suitably photogenic subjects. Although I knew the walk would probably make my back throw a tantrum, I can?t say I was sorry to go mobile; the problem was that while out of the sun, my fingers had totally disowned me, numbness ruled OK, and being a case of constricted small blood vessels causing the problem, bloody painful as well.

On return, and after flogging for a while, the aforementioned Norm Bartlam turned up. The Zeppelin stuff apart, he also had a sad tale to tell. It?s his Chelsea ticket that?s the problem.. Having stumped up the necessary forty quid for a seat when the match was advertised as being on a Saturday, now it?s been switched to midweek, because of work commitments, he can?t attend any more. As he said to me today: ?If I take it as time off, my life won?t be worth living?.?. The ticket office won?t give out refunds, so as you?ll readily appreciate, the lad?s options are diminishing by the day. Unless someone out there can help, of course. If you think you can, get in touch, and I?ll pass your details on.

One highly noticeable fact about today?s selling-spree prior to going in was the distinct lack of optimists loudly declaring we?d get something from the game, and from then, go on to gain a late means of escape from our relegation woes. Sure, the sunshine was brilliant, but the only event to ruffle my present state of quiet resignation was the sight of five or six magpies scrapping like hell among the branches of the tall trees that stand outside the junior school opposite. Which brings me to yet another topic; finally, work has started on demolishing those premises to make way for the much-vaunted specialist academy building of which Albion are but one of the partners in the somewhat ambitious venture. I can only assume that now the old school has met with the ball-and-chain treatment, demolition of the old Throstle Club premises won?t be all that far away.

But that?s the future. As far as the present went, the lack of queues meant we didn?t have to go in until about five or so minutes before kick-off. But with a difference; this time, our normal C3 entrance talisman was non-functional, so another turnstile it had to be. A quick pit stop to grab some hot chocolate (yet another daft pre-match routine of mine right now), and I was ready to sit down. Funny, though, to emerge from beneath the Halfords, a scant minute or so before both sides took to the field of play, only to find a bare minimum of background noise prevailing throughout. Of passionate song, of fervent chanting, even, here was not a sausage in evidence at that point in the proceedings. Now you know why I likened today?s proceedings to that of a meaningless end-of-term encounter.

And even when our favourites did emerge, massed expressions of support ? and I?m talking about both sides, here ? were still somewhat restrained. As a prime example of the passionate emotions generated immediately prior to local derbies, it was a complete non-starter, a damp Bonfire Night squib, even. To be perfectly honest, I?ve heard people kick up more of a racket outside the local play-school, at chucking-out time, but before all the Ritalin?s dished out to the kids. If this encounter had been meant to have an electric atmosphere about it, then clearly, someone had neglected to pay the bill. Not the sort of ambience conducive towards getting redress for the almighty tanking we suffered at the hands of the Bluenoses earlier in the season, really, but it only goes to show how dead wrong you can be, sometimes.

As far as we were concerned, there was only one change, and that was in the striking department, Earnie sitting this one out, and The Horse being shoved out there instead. Easy to figure out why, of course; even the most half-baked psychology student would have sussed it. Having been denied the chance to strut some stuff up front for the St. Andrews instalment, the decision to include the guy this time made perfect sense; he?d be absolutely bursting to show his erstwhile team-mates a thing or three, which would make him quite a handful to sort out in front of goal. As for Robbo?s opposite number, Steve Bruce, he?d rung the changes by bringing back Emile Heskey after suspension, with Salif Diao brought into the side as well. Jermaine Pennant? Well, whatever he was doing right then had very little to do with football, and more to do with the metallic sound of keys being inserted into locks; presumably, the entire experience will prove a salutary one for the lad.

So off we went, then, but apart from an early panic when it looked as though Diao might gratefully grab the chance handed to him by his manager, there was very little of consequence to be seen from the visitors. Soon, Greening imposed his hirsute presence upon the occasion, as from his cross came Gera?s (mostly) guided missile; even The Horse had one belatedly shifted away for a corner, and on another occasion, the only thing that stood between our players and the back of the Blues net was the almighty deflection that sent the header sailing over the bar.

No fluke, this; we were outclassing our rivals in just about every department you can think of, and with almost 15 minutes gone, we saw their keeper whack yet another effort away, but straight to Kevin Campbell; normally, potting the black would have been a no-brainer for the former Everton marksman, but this time, in rushed a Blues defender, seemingly from nowhere, to apply an almighty boot to the ball before it crossed the line. Now I could see why they?d curled up and died so badly at Palace last week ? they sure as hell didn?t like it up ?em, and not having the naughty Mister Pennant around simply compounded the problem.

Three minutes later, it was Richardson?s turn to blaspheme mightily on the Sabbath, his blockbuster hitting not an empty net, but the woodwork, and with an almighty ?THWACK!? that must have reverberated throughout the entire region. Quick pause for thought, here; this guy gets better and better with every game he plays for us; with regular progress reports no doubt winging their way to Old Trafford on each occasion, how long will it be before the kid?s name finally becomes a household one, I wonder? Well, when it does happen, at least we Hawthorns regulars will be able to listen to the pundits pontificating, nod sagely at the TV screen, then retort in mightily condescending tones: ?Huh! That?s nothing! I remember Kieran Richardson when??? Good also to see Big Dave, well and truly back after that lengthy spell off injured, warming up on the Halfords touchline. It?s solid dependable players like him we?ll need to carry the torch when we drop into the Nationwide, or whatever label they choose to stick on it next year, and I suspect the rest of the crowd had that in mind when they chanted a welcome within milliseconds of the guy shifting his bum from off the bench preparatory to commencing the warming-up exercises I mentioned earlier.

But back to the action. At the time, I was squawking in panic-stricken tones just about every time Blues came anywhere near our box ? that?s what an entire season?s worth of subliminal indoctrination along the general lines of ?We?re s**t, and we know we are!? does to you, I?m afraid ? but when viewed in retrospect, I genuinely do feel our dominance of the entire first half was of a much more complete nature than we?d appreciated at the time. I can only assume that the subbing of the injured Lazaridis for Tebily with about ten minutes remaining of the half must have contributed towards wrecking their pans a tadge. For whatever reason, Blues simply weren?t at the races, and I still reckon The Bloke In Front?s terse summation of the state of affairs that existed as the half-time interval approached ? ?Cum on Albion, yow con cowin? beat these, they?m bluddy C**P!? - was as good as any I?ve seen or heard since. They were distinctly second-rate, and a token couple of bursts of their Harry Lauder-inspired trademark song apart, their followers seemed to scent it as well.

Half-time, then, and a highly-satisfactory one to mull over for fifteen minutes or so. Would Robbo change things, we wondered, or chuck Earnie or Kanu on from the bench to give the old strikeforce a bit of pacey pizzazz? Well, there was nothing doing as far as the crew out on the pitch was concerned, so presumably, it was going to be more of the same for the second half ? or until events dictated otherwise. The subs apart, another visitor to the playing surface was none other than Derek Kevan, aka ?The Tank, who was to give the Baggies such sterling service over the course of the late fifties and early sixties. A teensy bit before my time ? he was transferred to Palace about the time I first started going to games ? but, on the evidence, one of the most gifted strikers we?ve ever had at the club. Seventy three, he is now, and still finds time to watch the Baggies. Cor, I bet The Fart wasn?t half drooling from his lofty East Stand perch!

So on with the second helping, then, and once more, it was the lad Richardson?s turn to teach our neighbours a few manners. How the hell that goal remained pristine on each occasion he let fly in the box, I?ve absolutely no idea whatsoever, but this time, the Blues custodian, Taylor, unsportingly stuck his body in the way of what was proving to be a repetitive series of events for the lad, so once more, he was denied the glory he richly deserved. Curiously enough, it wasn?t all that long afterwards that Blues actually looked dangerous, and for what had to be the first time in the game. What happened? Well, the ex-Liverpool lad let fly with an absolutely stonking effort from a very long range indeed. If truth were known, I?m damned sure Houlty was mightily relieved to see the shot narrowly miss the woodwork, then end up on the running-track behind him.

But that was something of an anomaly as far as this game was concerned; that goal attempt from Blues came at a time totally distant from the overall run of play. Still the Albion incursions came, wave upon wave of them. Something had to give, and with just about ten minutes of the half gone, that?s precisely what happened. Thank not the scorer, bit The Mighty Zoltan?s skill in diverting an Albrechtsen ?nowhere ball? for a corner in the first place. It was Kieran Richardson who took the set-piece; not only was it travelling at a fair lick, it was unerringly accurate as well. Straight on to the unmarked Clem?s nut it dropped ? and the net shook. One-nil it was, and the Brummie, badly out of practice though they were, ?boinged? enthusiastically ? even a steward in a fluorescent green jacket, about halfway up!

No question about it, the strike was richly-deserved, and worthy of prolonged celebration ? but we?d all been down that road before, only to see us cruelly denied at the last gasp. Unsurprisingly, cynicism still reigned, and nowhere more so than in the bit of the Halfords we occupy ? and, as it nearly proved, rightly so. Within about a minute of Clem?s header, Blues nearly smash-and-grabbed an equaliser; somehow, Heskey?s existence was left momentarily untrammelled by the attendant worry that his movements and intentions would be closely tracked by his markers, so when the cross came over, he rose to take due advantage of the situation with a header ? which unfortunately left Houlty clutching at thick air. Just as well the post was there, then, wasn?t it? And not only that, the fortunate bounce afterwards that prompted Clem to belt the thing halfway to the ionosphere in sheer gratitude at the magnitude of the let-off.

It?s at moments like that, you really do appreciate the pressing need for a bigger winning margin, and our finest were no exception to that rule. But we needn?t have worried; about ten or so minutes after the first, we were witnessing the arrival of the second in the back of the old onion-bag, and special delivery, it would seem. The ?postman? was Campbell, and the provider of the cross that totally ruined the Bluenose day for them was the excellent Greening. It was only after their deficit doubled that Blues seemed to stir, finally, from the torpor they?d fallen into. Suddenly, they were banging awkward balls at our nervous rearguard; that, plus a totally unexpected and mystifying tendency on the part of the ref to award a series of free kicks of distinctly-dubious origin their way, and a brace of abortive Bluenose efforts on goal that only made to crank up the old nervous tension-levels a couple of notches. Cue, also, for what had to be one of Campbell?s most ghastly misses in front of goal; it really does take true genius to rise to meet a header from six yards out, with the keeper floundering, and not a single marker in sight ? only to see the blasted thing bounce past the near post. I couldn?t believe it ? and neither will Campbell, when he finally gets to appreciate the true magnitude of the ?one that got away?!

But, justice prevailed for once, and we didn?t concede. In fact, those few mad moments apart, I really don?t recall feeling particularly threatened by even one tiny particle of what Blues were getting up to out there. Had Campbell been able to shove that late one home, I reckon we?d have been hearing of a lot more traumatised Bluenoses than we have since the final whistle. As things stood, serve the sods right for farting in church the last time we played them, at their place. ?Everything that comes around, goes around? is the old-fashioned way of expressing such thoughts, and looking upon events from the relative fastness of the three points gained, I now reckon that saying has it absolutely spot-on.

Overall thoughts? It?s gone, of course, but at least today?s performance demonstrated we don?t necessarily have to drop in a welter of self-pity, and prolonged lamentations of ?What if?? When watching today?s game, I?d scribbled in my notebook a remark to the effect that Albion constantly reminded me of a party political broadcast; much promised, but when it finally came to the crunch, was totally incapable of delivering to the electorate. And, until today, that was an accurate summation of the state of play at our place. Now we?ve shifted the hoodoo, though, I?d like to see us regain a not inconsiderable amount of lost pride by going for more wins in similar vein to today?s. And, if our improved form has the distinctly-beneficial knock-on effect of making both Palace and Southampton end up looking nervously over their shoulders, quake further in their boots, even, then fine. And, what?s more, it?s entertaining. What have we got to lose?

And Finally?.. One. A large dollop of sympathy to the chap sitting next to me, who had backed Clem at 80-1 to score the first and only goal of the game ? by the ?cat-that-swiped-all-the-cream? look on the face of the guy, I can only assume that he?d wagered a not-inconsiderable amount on this eventuality occurring ? so it was a real shame to see all his hopes of largesse in quantity turn to dust when Campbell shoved in the second. A big ?D?oh? to me when I started to yell ?TWO, TWO!? into the guy?s lughole ? it was only a minute or so (incorporating some pause for thought) later, I realised how badly my ?tact and diplomacy? hormones had performed!

Two. Just to let everyone know, Kiddy Branch have a meeting this Wednesday evening, and it?s hoped some of the youth team squad will be attending. More details tomorrow, once I can properly excavate ?em, so, until then, tara!

 - Glynis Wright

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