The Diary

05 April 2005: Post-Toffee Talk

?It?s not what you do, it?s the way that you do it ? and that?s what gets results!?

Bananarama, back in the dark days when Maggie Thatcher ruled OK, and some of our current playing squad were but little pieces of germ plasm safe in the fastness of their mothers? ovaries. Or their dads? dangly bits; you pays yer money, and takes yer choice.

If ever there was an optimum time to have what I like to call a ?YEEERRRSS! moment? then yesterday?s astonishing game, and the incredible result that prompted it, had to be the one. I don?t know about everyone else out there, young, old, or whatever, but over the course of my lengthy experience in such matters ? OK, I?m a trainee Old Fart and I freely admit it! ? I?ve quickly learned that the odds of encountering such sweetly-sublime Albion moments as that over the course of an average lifetime are about as remote as those of coming across an honest politician lurking in The Palace Of Westminster. Certainly, the times when I?ve felt suitably constrained to dance up and down the street (or whatever), delivering a knock-out blow to the surrounding air whilst doing so are sadly few and far between ? but it has been known.

Exam results are always good for a bit of good old fashioned al fresco jubilation, of course, but it?s in the furtherance of supporting our favourite football team where I really manage to score in this particular field. 1968, and our Cup win was a dead cert, of course, and so was our 1976 Oldham triumph. More recently, our 2001-02 game versus Crystal Palace gave me ample cause to let the adrenalin and happy hormones really flow, and the Bryan Robson connection?s easily forged with our complete and utter 5-3 away stonking of Man Urinal deep in the Winter Of Discontent. Cold? What cold? Should I take sufficient trouble to sit and ponder a bit longer, I daresay I could come up with even more mind-elevating examples, but as a rough guide, that little lot will do quite nicely for starters, thank you very much.

While we?re all celebrating, reliving that magical 90 minutes via the dual media of VCR and DVD, let me chuck yet another thought at all you lot our there. If you?re like me, and happen to (sometimes) believe there?s far more to the human race than just constantly scheming to make a fast buck, allowing countries (and statesmen and women educated enough to know better, sadly) to stomp savagely on age-old written guarantees of human rights for those taken in war, or finding yet more clandestine ways of despoiling our planet?s natural resources at an increasing rate of knots, then what happened at the Hawthorns yesterday should be right up your street.

Call me naive, or whatever, but I am firmly of the belief that sometimes, it?s good for the little guy to be seen to make it against the odds. Everyone loves an underdog, and how right, how apposite, it was for our Everton win to be witnessed also by a good proportion of the nation?s football followers on TV. Quite a contrast to the more usual Sky Sunday bill of fare, which normally involves one or more of the Midas-infested top six sides battling it out for the right to dip their mucky paws into that malodorous money-pot even more the following season. I?m damn sure that even the most ardent armchair glory hunter gets bored with robotically-achieved success, so our game, and its refreshing outcome must have felt like a cobweb-shiftingly strong gust of fresh air out there.

When you sit and think about it, ours is a ?feelgood? tale that would have surely had Hollywood?s finest queuing up to grab the screen rights, had it taken place in the context of top-flight American football, or The Land Of The Free?s very own answer to rounders, rather than a somewhat run-down part of the industrial West Midlands. Come on, our triumph ticks just about every moneymaking box you can think of. Unfashionable side, with very little in the way of genuine top-flight talent at its disposal, newly-promoted, but battling against an ever-mounting avalanche of adverse results and insuperable odds, relying principally upon what some would regard as Premiership cast-offs and Continental fag-ends to stay up, things look dire as we hit rock-bottom, old gaffer gets the bullet, new gaffer steps in, things are touch-and-go at first, as the new broom fails to change things sufficiently enough to stem the tide, supporter discontent increasing in heaps by the day ? then, what about that momentary defensive lapse in the City Of Manchester Stadium, of which comedy duo Laurel And Hardy would truly have been proud to call their own? That enabled us to snatch the unlikeliest last-gasp equaliser and Prem point we?re ever to get again in another fifty years of trying ? and I still laugh like a drain every time I think about it.

Although we didn?t realise at the time, that was the turning-point. Then came the slow reversal of the tide, the gradual winning over of both hard-bitten pros and frankly sceptical Black Country folk, who are to a person more than capable of sniffing out insincerity and/or duplicity at fifty paces, and all that coupled with a total resurgence of confidence and sheer pride on the playing side ? and the climax featuring our recent renaissance, the full implications of which we?re all striving manfully to come to terms with this unseasonably-chilly April Monday evening?

The sub-plot, the ?human interest? stuff, involving diminutive Balkan striker and part-time gymnast Zoltan Gera, who, in the past, has had personal demons of his own to battle with, and yet still emerged standing loud and proud? Robbo himself, a former Hawthorns great, leaving the place under acrimonious circumstances some two and a half decades ago, but unable to land a plum managerial job ever since lowly Bradford dispensed with his services for financial reasons? How many other top-flight outfits are now indulging in ?Kick Me Hard? boardroom sessions after giving his job applications and CV?s the bum?s rush, I wonder? I guess only Robbo can answer that one. And then there?s our support, you, me, everybody, the fervour, the dedication, the passion, the pride, the songs totally unique to the rest of the game at that level. Lots more, of course, but when you think about it, you have to agree that our football club, and those who play for it certainly bear out the sentiments the slogan The News Of The World habitually employed back in the days when it was considered somewhat infra dig to indulge in sleazy journalism to land a front-page story ? ?All Human Life Is There?.

I?ll leave it to the reader to play the role of casting director, of course; a few minutes of harmless fun guaranteed for all by the exercise of a vivid imagination in that direction, I promise. Come to think about it, any suggestions gratefully received, so we can all share a few good laughs among ourselves. Continuing my blockbuster film analogy a little further, though, the final reel has yet to play, of course ? but whatever the outcome, good, bad or indifferent, at least we?ve gone out there and given it our very best shot, and the very least we can do by way of reply is continue to show our appreciation of Robbo and the lads, right to the very end. It would have been more than the Baggie soul could have reasonably borne to pay to watch a 90-minute long funeral rehearsal every week, so thanks for everything.

Returning to yesterday once more, on my return from the ground, once the adrenalin had subsided, I discovered our Halfords Lane Stand exertions had brought about a curious physiological quirk; every muscle in my body becoming very stiff indeed. At first, I couldn?t work out what had happened, but after deep consideration, the answer to the mystery was easy to work out. For the whole of that game, although not on the pitch in person, every single part of my body had unconsciously fought for every single loose ball, dodgy tackle, impossible header, shot, set-piece, impossibly-curving goalmouth cross, even, the game had chucked up on the pitch. ?Isotonic exercise?, of course, the main principle behind ?Bullworker? the popular 50?s and 60?s gymnastic gadget, whose manufacturers? sales pitch revolved around ?six-stone weaklings? using their product to gain sufficient muscular strength to see off blokes who liked nothing better than to kick sand in other people?s faces. And it wasn?t just me ? precisely the same thing happened to ?Im Indoors! The aches and pains, I mean, not the kicking of sand in each other?s mushes.

Today meant I had to journey to The Shrine yet again, my mission this time being to pick up Man United tickets for all four Dick Eds. I?ll tell you what, though, astonishingly, the change in the atmosphere at that ground was palpable the minute I stepped off the bus, despite the fact it set down a considerable distance from the ticket office. A swift stroll through the Astle Gates (Laraine?s latest bunch of flowers there highly visible, as per usual) that lovely morn quickly brought me to my destination, where no less a worthy than our old chum Ritchie Ryan was engaged in a purchasing pursuit very similar to mine.

Naturally, the conversation quickly turned to yesterday?s events, and while we both awaited our turns, it was a pleasure just to simply stand there and relive in gory detail just about every single kick and pass of yesterday?s game. At the counter, even the lady serving radiated goodwill and general bonhomie from every pore. And we weren?t the only ones, either ? after we were both sorted out, on exiting the ticket office, we happened to bump into yet another Albion supporter I knew by sight ? and yes, off we all went again, being quickly joined in conversation by yet another follower who just wanted to unburden his soul after yesterday by batting the breeze! There are some memories you truly have to cherish, then share, no matter what, and what transpired yesterday was most certainly a prime example of the genre.

Looking at yesterday?s performances from the safe haven of 24 hours distance from events, it?s good to luxuriate at leisure in the memory of good things happening on the pitch, especially from Paul Robinson (the player, not my Halfords Lane Stand seated next-door neighbour!), who, for the most part, strutted his stuff to perfection. The Horse also performed to a very high standard indeed, as did Biblical Nazarene look-alike Jonathon Greening, miracle working on the flank. Tommy G, an unfortunate mix-up early doors apart, had a pretty solid game, and what little Houlty had to do was solid.

Strange about Richardson, though ? I thought he had a bit of a patchy game by his normal standards, yesterday. Or is that just me being a bit picky? As for the rest, it?s hard to believe these are the same players that were constantly playing like a manky bag of squid just a few months back. As one of our players pointed out in a local newspaper tonight, maybe it is the very fact players are now treated like adults, solicited for their opinion on matters affecting them, asked, rather than be told, what to do on the pitch, that has made possible the cataclysmic transformation in our fortunes. If you respect those above you, and they show respect for you, you?ll pull out all the stops every time.

As the weeks and months elapse, though, my admiration for Zoltan Gera increases by leaps and bounds. Not exactly what you would describe as the biggest presence on the pitch, though ? how tall is he, exactly, I wonder? His ability to get to headers some players of much greater stature would have simply given up as a lost cause, never ceases to amaze me. How the hell he managed to beat Everton?s Yobo to that vital headed ball will be an eternal mystery to me. As will his gymnastic ability ? at this rate, we?ll have no alternative but to employ a panel of Olympic judges to sit on the touchline, and all toting scorecards signifying artistic impression and technical ability every time he manages to notch up another. And if that happens, God help us all if Earnie?s picked for the same side!

Mind you, from what I?ve read about the guy, at one time, he was mixed up in some very dubious doings indeed back in his native land, but eventually managed to conquer those demons and make himself employable once more. Fair play to him, he?s certainly done that ? and in the process, Albion managed to pick him up for a song. And by scoring so prolifically, he?s repaid our faith and trust in his abilities with compound interest. Interesting, though, to read in the media his solemn declaration that he?d be a Baggie next season, no matter what the outcome of our current struggle.

Sure, if you want, you can take the news at face value and rejoice in the streets of West Bromwich until chronic drunkenness supervenes, but I do feel morally obliged to chuck at you one cautionary note. Zoltan might well be saying that now, but we all know the vultures are gathering in anticipation of our fall from grace ? and in expectation, perhaps, of getting the lad to switch allegiances even should we avoid the drop. Footballers, even those coming from the most philanthropic and non-mercenary of backgrounds, all have their price, and it?s not exactly unknown for other clubs to lure stars belonging to lesser breeds away by the offer of filthy lucre in quantity should they subsequently bring about an agent-inspired move to a ?better ?ole?. So, the moral of the story is this ? never count your ?Geras? before they?re hatched!

Back tomorrow, hopefully, with a brief account of what happens at tomorrow night?s Supporters Club meeting, where both Bryan Robson and Nigel Pearson are the guests. Should be yet another re-enactment of a 1930?s-style Nuremberg Rally, minus the lit torches, leading Nazis, and rife anti-Semitism, of course. Can?t wait. Oh, and a bit of a request of anyone reading this who?s going also. Because my other half is going to see Hereford take on Carlisle instead ? it is a ?crunch? play-off-decider for them, so don?t be too hard on the lad ? I?m on the lookout for a lift back to Bearwood. The alternative?s taking a taxi, which I?d much prefer not to do at that time of night, because of twin security and price considerations. Just look me up on the night if you can assist.

And finally?.One. Interesting to see today a most surprising message in our inbox, from the editor of The Zulu fanzine, no less. For those who don?t know, the publication of that name is a Bluenose one; I don?t think anyone will argue the toss too vociferously if I say that The Zulu is, to English literature, grammar, spelling and punctuation, what Typhoid Mary was to the catering business. They want us to stay up, bless their bone-headed little skulls, and battered bail documents ? aw, isn?t that nice!

Two. Regarding the minute?s silence, and the idiots who tried to ruin it. I?ve since discovered Everton are the protestant half of the Merseyside footballing bargain, but sadly, it seems the noise was created not by them, but by those of the Albion persuasion who seemed to confuse respect for a world-famous dead pontiff with active support for the IRA.

While I don?t condone such things in any way, shape or form, perhaps, when considered in retrospect, the decision to mark the Pope?s passing in this way was a flawed one. John-Paul II?s reign was not without controversy, particularly regarding such contentious matters as contraception (especially within the context of an AIDS-ravaged Third World), abortion, and the appointment of women priests. And, in any case, the well-known stricture not to mix sport, religion and politics still rings true; rightly or wrongly, there were always going to be some in that 25,000-plus crowd violently opposed to the Catholic faith and all who sail in it. Maybe that?s one our board ought to just put down to experience, and not seek to repeat the idea when, say, Ian Paisley finally shuffles off his mortal coil.

Three. Your fanzine needs you! Opinions, feedback, that sort of thing. Want to wax lyrical about our recent smashing turn of form, or just indulge in a bit of harmless Dingle-baiting? Go on, have a go, you know you?ve always wanted to. Last date for publication is April 15th, so if you want to send us stuff, get those pens out, and start scribbling NOW! Email just as acceptable as conventional methods, just in case you were wondering.

 - Glynis Wright

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