The Diary

27 April 2005: Baggies Blown It? It's Certainly Looking That Way.

?IT?S ALL YOUR BLOODY FAULT!? That?s what we both screamed at our poor traumatised tabby cat the minute we walked though our front door following tonight?s cruel disappointment. That?s his major role in life, you see, to act as a lightning-rod for our volatile emotions; no surprise, then, poor Tigger got about a million volts-worth of pent-up angst, and so quickly. And who could blame us? There we were, facing a Blackburn side not exactly noted for soiling their score-sheet away from home, well, not on a frequent basis, at any road, and despite taking a lead courtesy of a Kieran Richardson free-kick that really was a top-drawer strike, we just couldn?t hang onto it to save our lives.

Fair play to Rovers, though; sure, they were ?in our faces? for most of the game, and never gave us an inch. Surprising that, as they were safe anyway, and had practically nothing to play for themselves, not even the chance of moving further up the table, and collaring a bigger share of the prize-money come the end of term. What did for us, though, was, their rough-house stuff apart, an incredible ability to pass and move the ball around we found difficult to match. Just getting the ball off them would have been nice, sometimes! I suppose you could argue a draw was a fair result, given the ebb and flow of play over the whole of the 90 minutes, and Rovers might well have got a winner at the end, but as far as our fight to evade the drop is concerned, the loss of those vital two points was nothing more than a complete and utter disaster. Well, can you see us picking up points against The Arse, on Bank Holiday Monday? Or at Man U, the following Saturday? Yes, and my garden?s got fairies in it as well.

Not the most ideal of ends we would have wanted to what was a pretty hectic day. The plus point was our crowded programme gave us little time to dwell on forthcoming events. First of all, early afternoon found us in the middle of Harborne, sorting out two new rear-wheel tyres for The Dickmobile ? I also purchased another book, but that?s another story altogether ? then, later still, it was down to the sheep-shearing station aka our hardresser, to shift from our barnets a winter?s accumulation of excessive thatch. Not only did we both get our locks chopped, we were ?treated? to a blow-by-blow account of her King Charles Spaniel having all its gnashers out last week, poor mutt. What with that and the tyres, we were then left with but a brief moment or two to grab some nosh before setting out for The Shrine.

Due to the above, we were a tad late parking up at our usual place, but never fear, The Noise was here! And, as we walked up Halfords Lane, because I had asked him for a price-list for some pottery I?d taken a shine to, I was then treated to a blow-by-blow account of how the stuff was actually made. Ironstone, apparently, a sort of ware that had ? yep, you?ve guessed it, iron! ? incorporated into the stuff before firing. Personally, I?d have said it was having treatment for anaemia, myself, but apparently not, according to our fount of all knowledge concerning all things pottery-related! Suffice to say that had I been revising for an O level in the subject, by the time I?d reached the top of Halfords Lane, I could have walked the exam, no bother!

Leaving His Nibs to go meandering elsewhere, I hunkered down into my usual spot, and just in time to enjoy the struggles of an Express And Star vendor trying to tie a poster to the lamp-post over the road ? and a valiant effort he was making of it, as well, but for one small snag. Yep, the thing was completely upside-down, thereby creating a situation where only an Olympic standard gymnast could have read what was written on it. I?d just finished chuckling over that, when ?Im Indoors came along. Couldn?t find any programmes, and couldn?t find Alan Cleverly, supporters club head-honcho, to pick up the ?40 they owed him from the last home game, when he?d won the card. Oh, well ? time for me to have a go, then, wasn?t it?

And, as luck would have it, I scored on both counts. By the time I got to the top corner of the ground, there was a nice chappie selling there, so that was Problem Numero Uno sorted, then. One-nil to me, so on to my next destination, the supporters club premises, to try to excavate Alan from there. And yep ? he was in there, but desperately busy, juggling like crazy to keep dozens of ?balls? in the air, he was, and in between coming on all forceful and martial in front of his band of troops, he managed to shoehorn in some precious time to sort out the money my beloved was owed. Cheers for that, Alan, much appreciated, mate.

Back as quickly as I could ? and ?Im Indoors still wondering where I?d gone, but when I finally came clean about the purpose of my mission, he was most gratified, and quite right, too! Also cause for some gratification was the fact we?d managed to shift the greater part of our remaining fanzine stock by then. Even by dint of my other half going to another seller and grabbing some stock from him, we were still able to go through the turnstiles with a good 30 minutes to spare before the start. Luxury!

A quick pause to grab what has now become my mandatory ?lucky? hot chocolate from the bar ? exorbitantly priced, but not wishing to put the mockers on a decent streak of good fortune of late, I was most reluctant to risk breaking the sequence. Yes, I know, totally-irrational, but if anyone can come up with something better, then I?d be most interested to hear from them, believe me. Hot drink sorted, time to grab our seats much earlier than usual. And, once there, news of some changes to the starting line-up that had prevailed at Boro. Back on the bench went Earnie, as did Kanu, and that cleared the way for The Horse and Campbell to renew their striking partnership once more. Chaplow still there for the suspended Greening, but Kieran Richardson back from injury, which was a bonus, as his superb form and sublime skills had played not a small part in our recent revival. Pretty much as things had been for the start of the Spurs game, in fact, with more striker-power, aka Earnie and Kanu, left on the bench should a change prove necessary.

Not for the first time in recent weeks, this was truly a game where you could really whiff the fear from afar; so much riding on this one, and so important we got off to a good start. At least our followers were up for it; the ground rocked as Matthew belted out the theme music from ?The Great Escape? over the PA system, and just about everyone, young, old, boardroom to boot-room, joined in, and all whistling or humming manically. By way of reply, what we had from the Blackburn fraternity in the Smethwick was the predictable ?Going down, going down, etc?.?, but compared to our rocking and rolling faithful, they only had bit-parts in this particular performance ? well, there?s not much you can really do with around 700 in an away enclosure designed for almost three times that number, is there?

So off we went, then, in a stadium that positively reverberated with the sound of Baggies trying to roar their favourites on. Spine-tingling, truly it was. It didn?t take long to realise what the game plan of the visitors was going to be; contrary to popular expectation (Blackburn had started with the necessary 40 points, therefore they were safe and, in theory at least, had no axe whatever to grind with the hosts), they not only played it hard and rugged, whenever they got the ball from us, they quickly put together a series of skilful passes that had our performers pretty banjaxed for most of the time. Dangerous, they most certainly were, so whatever we did to try and wheedle this three points out of Rovers would be very much on our own merits.

Not only that, we had the capriciousness of the match officials to reckon with as well. Within a couple of minutes of the start, The Horse ended up in the ref?s book, that gentleman having ruled he was ?diving? on the edge of the box to wangle a free-kick. True, The Horse did make a bit of a meal of it, but not that much ? hell, I?ve seen people do far more, blatantly so, and totally con the man with the whistle into awarding the set-piece, so you just can?t win, can you? A few more exploratory moments, while both sides tried to get the measure of each other, then it was The Mighty Zoltan, with just six minutes on the clock, who could have got us off to a sizzling start. The shot, when it came, was from about 30 yards out, and Friedel was mortified to see the effort whiz just past his near post. Although there was nothing in it for Rovers, nervousness among our lot made for an error-ridden first half, one in which silky skills were most certainly not on display, but frustration among our followers most certainly was. Poor John Homer; the way he was flailing his arms around and sending horrible Black Country curses soaring skywards, it became abundantly clear that whatever hair still remaining on his head would be long gone ere the final whistle was sounded. And as for The Bloke In Front Of Me, who regards a mere Albion dispossession as yet another step down the slippery slope that leads to perdition, such was the volatility of his reactions to events, I reckoned he was about to go ?critical? on us, mushroom-shaped cloud, the works ? which would be totally in keeping with the 20th ?anniversary? of the Chernobyl nuclear reactor fire, of course.

Totally oblivious to the angst being generated off the pitch, on it, the game proceeded apace. It was around this time a certain Mr. Savage began to feature quite prominently in various incidents. Not long after The Horse?s three-point landing had resulted in a yellow card, at the other end, our flaxen-haired chum put on a show worthy of a Royal Command Performance, and was spoken to by the ref as well ? so where was the booking, then? Onwards, ever onwards, marched time, the play wildly swinging from one end of the park to the other, with the roar from Baggies situated on one part of the ground or another providing a constant backdrop. Of one thing we were certain; whatever Rovers had wanted to do tonight, it didn?t involve rolling over and letting us tickle their tummies; they were determined to scrap this one out, get something from the game. Why? Dunno, perhaps Mark Hughes would be the chap to provide answers to that one. Certainly, our caginess on the field was reinforced substantially by supporters? nerves off it ? and it showed.

Not only that, there was a measured nastiness about Rovers that was so unnecessary. One example was The Horse, who was clattered over on our side of the park well after the ball had gone. Most certainly a booking, that one, but nothing given, as far as I could tell. But the resultant set-piece was really something special; a nasty, vicious curler that had Friedel groping for thin air, and only just went wide of the target. Such were our nerves, though, there was a time when even Gera came back very deep indeed to give us a hand in our hour of need, his calm and collected trickery with the ball ? losing it in our box, then getting it right back again ? removing us out from what could have been a threatening situation, something for which he was richly applauded by the Brummie. The Bloke In Front Of Me? Going off like Krakatoa, he was!

Come the half?s two-third mark, we were rapidly running out of ideas. Rovers had matched us, kick for kick ? and I?m not necessarily talking about the ball, here. Neither of us could see where the vital goal was coming from, so it was with relief we saw The Horse get a free-kick right on the edge of the Blackburn box. About the only thing the sodding referee gave us all night, but that?s the football business for you. Several minutes elapsed while the ref explained to the defenders what his interpretation of ?ten yards? was - those in the Smethwick giving the guy some chanted ?assistance?, as he paced out the distance for the benefit of his disbelieving audience ? but then things calmed sufficiently to allow our lads a sight of the ball. The honour of applying boot to ball was between Clem and Richardson; both were behind the ball; cue for me to tell ?Im Indoors: ?This is going to be a turkey, this? ? and how wrong can you be? Instead of the ball introducing itself to some long lost brethren in the Smethwick, Richardson?s belter, probably dangerously close to Mach One, ended up in the top right hand corner, and with their keeper rooted to the spot. One-nil it was, and never a more welcome goal have I seen, just when we really needed something going for us.

That certainly livened the game up; almost immediately, both lots of home supporters embarked on a massive ?boing?, closely followed by yet another evocative rendition of the 23rd Psalm. The much-sharpened tempo had also exerted a somewhat deleterious effect upon John?s vocabulary, which, at times of great stress, tends to revert to the natural savagery of the area in which he was raised. To a referee?s assistant, who had flagged The Horse for offside, and wrongly, in John?s opinion: ?YOW BLUDDY GREAT TWONK, LINO!? No ? and before you ask, I?ve absolutely no idea what a ?twonk? is either!

Just before the break, Rovers stepped up a gear, and we were finding ourselves a tad stretched at the back. With around seven to go to the interval, what an almighty let-off we had. Rovers were donated the ball courtesy of Albrechtsen, the surprised lad let fly (marking, what marking?), Houlty was beaten all roads up ? but instead of crossing the line, the ball thunked against the far post, then, amazingly, ran across the face of goal for a goal-kick. Luck? That?s not the half of it. And, just at that precise moment, a comic interlude ? a notice on the TV screen, in mile-high lettering, imploring Baggies everywhere: ?NO SMOKING!? Blimey, a few more hairy moments like that, and it wouldn?t be tobacco the club would have to worry about, those shady lads down the road in Handsworth could have made an almighty killing, and in seconds flat. The biggest cheer thus far that night was reserved for Savage, who totally stuffed up a free-kick, which nearly ended up at the back of the Smethwick.

Half-time, at last, and some really clever PR from Albion. The club?s Under 8 side, well, some of them, were paraded on the pitch, and their names read out on the PA by Matthew. Then, following that, an elaborate ?signing-on ceremony? was laid on, each lad being called individually to a desk set up for the purpose, and given a document to sign, just like their senior counterparts. Well done, Albion; those kids were made to feel truly special tonight, and part of the club. This is the sort of stuff we?ve been wanting to see at that level for years; lads who are treated in that manner are less likely to go when the blandishments of other clubs are laid at their feet once they get older. Well done.

Back to the senior stuff again, and as both lots of players emerged from the tunnel, there began a downpour that would have dispirited poor old Noah, even. But the show must go on ? and it did. Five minutes gone, another Albion corner ? and Clem going wide from point-blank range, almost. Then, just minutes after that, the lad almost redeemed himself, with an almighty belter that Friedel could only parry away ? and very grateful to, I?ll wager. As far as I was concerned, I could only sit and pray we weren?t going to be punished for such wasteful behaviour.

Then, what I thought was the fatal decision ? to defend, but very deeply indeed. The problem with that sort of thing lay in the fact that Rovers we no mean passers and movers of the ball themselves. Lose possession, and it was the devil?s job to win it back again. And, with 57 minutes gone, we nearly paid there and then; yet another almighty mix-up between Houlty and his rearguard, with the former only just regaining possession once more. That sort of thing didn?t do anything for my blood pressure problem at all; the Bloke In Front? He?d given up on his fingernails, and was now starting on the lining of his coat.

Much concern for Houlty when he was injured while going for one of those fifty-fifty sort of balls you sometimes see through a combination of defensive inattention, and the rough-house behaviour of the attacker, which, in this case, wasn?t that of a gentleman, shall we say. Much treatment for the ?wounded soldier?, but he did regain his feet, eventually. Couldn?t have helped his pre-existing groin troubles, though. Not long after that, Robbo decided to change things: a double-subbing, off came Chaplow and Campbell, and on came Kanu and Scimeca. A dodgy time to swap, as during the minutes immediately preceding the subbings, Blackburn had been getting the lion?s share of the play, and thanks to that, ominously, much closer to the target.

No surprise, then, that we conceded before our fresh blood even had time to get bedded in. Around 63 minutes of the match gone, by my reckoning; Clem?s clanger unfortunately, his failure to get near the ball meaning the Rovers lad was free to send it scooting across the goalmouth to a handily-placed Ewood Parker. He missed the ball, but it dropped to Emerton instead. Not an Albion defender within miles, sadly; all he had to do was belt it like blazes ? Houlty never stood an earthly. To no-one?s surprise in particular, the ball ended up blasted into the top corner of the net, to the general discomfiture of the Smethwick.

Still, you couldn?t argue we hadn?t seen it coming. We, in the seats, and supposedly less knowledgeable about the game, had seen it coming for ages. The thing was, not only were we much less robust than Rovers, once they got the ball, they hung onto the blasted thing like a limpet onto rock ? and there was sod-all we could do about it. Even the introduction of Earnie, with about ten to go, added little to our overall firepower. And, when Robinson tripped up at a particularly crucial moment not long afterwards, they could quite easily have got a second. The rest of the half mostly consisted of us trying to keep Rovers from snatching a lead, but come the fading minutes of the game, we might well have nicked it from them. Enter Clem once more, villain of the piece. The preliminaries consisted of an Albion free-kick, won just outside the Rovers box. Ronnie Wallwork was the lad taking it this time, and when it came, the ball was mean and nasty, a horrible ?curler?, that completely fooled the Rovers defence, and fell, most invitingly, to Clem, situated at the near-post, so bereft of attendant defenders you wondered whether there was a personal freshness problem at work there. Only about six miserable yards stood between Clem and glory, just him alone to do the biz ? only to blast the wretched thing right over the bar and halfway into Bradford?s Bakery over the Brummie Road, for all I know. AAARRRRGH!

That was arguably the best chance we had the entire game ? and we completely stuffed up. Oh, whoops. Not only had they let us down again, with just the one point to show for the night?s work, we could only assume both Palace and Norwich were laughing their bloody socks off at us right then. Sure, and inexplicably so, there were four minutes chucked onto the end by the ref, and we did bust a gut trying to get that elusive winner, but our bolt was well and truly shot. Quite an anti-climax when the ref brought proceedings to a halt for the last time, and as our faithful drifted away, the only thing we could discern from those many pursed, angry lips was just five short words: ?That?s it, all over, then?.? Sure, we knew it was always going to be something of a battle, this one, but what we didn?t account for was the fact that once more, we had an excellent chance of giving the remainder of our relegation rivals a bit of a bloody nose, and we couldn?t hack either the game, or the tensions generated as a result of it. Did it hurt? Too bloody true it did.

Well, it?s now level points with Norwich and Palace, with Saints trailing just behind, two points light, and all of us on equal games. We now face an horrendous run-in; on Bank holiday Monday, we face The Arse at our place, and I can?t see us getting anything from that one. Oh, maybe a point, if we?re lucky, but better than that, we?ve got no chance. Then, it?s chance for Robbo to have a bit of a ?family reunion? with Fergie; as they?re still very much in the chase for automatic Champion?s League qualification, we?re going to get loads from that one ? I don?t think. We may get lucky and both Palace and Norwich drop points also, but I would be at the bookies putting my shirt on it, if I were you. Better to accept we?ve had it, and treat anything else that comes our way as a bonus. ?THEY ALWAYS LET YOU DOWN???.?

And finally?.. We all know how loyal and devoted some of our hard-core support can be, at times, and everyone?s got their own pet tale to relate in this department, but what I heard tonight really took the biscuit, I reckon. Take a bow, then, that mother/daughter Supporters? Club combo, Jean and Michelle, because it?s your tale I?m relating tonight! To start with, Mum Jean, a few weeks back, had cartilage removed from the interior of her knee-joint, and the innards tidied up, with the aid of a little inert gas pumped into the joint-space, and one of those dinky fibre-optic cameras. Very similar to what some of finest have had done, really. You won?t be too surprised to hear that the op left Jean with a grossly-swollen knee, limping very badly indeed ? and as for the pain, better not go there. But did that stop her from going to three away matches on the bounce? Did it hell! By dint of grabbing spare coach seats to rest her leg on, and by asking fellow Baggies to give up their aisle seats so that Jean could stick the injured member out into the gangway, she attended every single one, Boro included. For her actions, clearly above and beyond the call of duty, she deserves a bloody big hand, which I?ll give her right here and now. A shame she won?t get similar from our favourite football club, but there you are.

But that wasn?t all. Her daughter Michelle (with Mum), got back from the Spurs game at approximately 1-15 am, was in beddy-byes by 1.30 am, her alarm rang just an hour later, she got up, got dressed, was out of her house come 3 am, and starting work by four! Having done similar myself when I was young enough to cope with such things, I can tell you it?s no mean feat, depriving yourself of sleep, and for so long a period. It?s something we should all be shouting from the rooftops, the fact that so many are putting themselves out to watch eleven men who earn considerably more in one week than most pocket over the course of a year. Remarkable, it truly is: Albion, you just don?t know how bloody lucky you are!

 - Glynis Wright

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