The Diary

10 May 2003: Going Up Donny Style

Psst? Want to know a secret? Come on, don't be shy, get a bit closer to your PC screen and then I can whisper it in tones so hushed, even your missus won't be able to hear what I'm about to electronically impart unto you. Sitting comfy, now? Good. OK, then, this is the deal. Today, the mould was well and truly broken, insofar as the side I most wanted to see in the Football League next season actually managed to make the quantum-leap to the 'other side'. Quite a novelty for me, really, also a relief, as my track-record when attending last-gasp relegation deciders as a neutral hasn't been good at all, which is no sort of track record to have when attending these things; first of all there was Hereford versus Brighton a few seasons back, that ended in a 1-1 draw, which was just peachy for the South Coast lot but not for The Bulls, as it tipped them out of the inner sanctum in distinctly unceremonious fashion, much to the annoyance (and dismay) of my other half.

Fast-forward two or so seasons, and it was the turn of poor old Chester to get the bum's rush, at the hands of Barry Fry's Peterborough if you really want to know, and on their own muck-heap as well, which gave their League exit added poignancy; among the numerous saddened spectators that scorching hot day were none other than myself, 'Im Indoors, and The Old Fart. Not only could we thoroughly identify with City, we were also somewhat mindful of the fact that history might repeat itself some twenty four hours later when we were due to meet Division One champions Charlton at The Shrine in broadly similar circumstances. Just as well we escaped by the skin of our teeth, really, as Chester's unexpected exit spooked me rather badly the night before our crunch relegation decider. The third element of this awful footballing triptych we completed last week, of course, when we witnessed poor Shrewsbury's ignominious exit from the big-time versus Carlisle at The Gay Meadow. At least this time, we were going to a vital game safe in the knowledge that the final whistle would bring nothing but pure unalloyed joy for one set of supporters, which would make a rather pleasant change from the end-of-season-cliff-hanger norm for us. In fact, you could say that the pleasant change WAS Norm, the Bartlam variety in this case, he of the Dick away-match reports, and Donny Rovers lover manqu?, but of that, more later!

I did mention that this inaugural Conference Play-Off final was held in Stoke, didn't I? No? Oh, dear, I must be suffering from mental ossification, or something; anyway, take it from me it was, and the two competing sides were Dagenham And Redbridge (some might remember that last season, the Holy Grail of League football was denied them thanks to some skulduggery on the part of the promoted club, Boston), the other lot being Doncaster Rovers, who, of course, were a League side not that many moons ago. They were also responsible for such Albion luminaries as Paul Holmes, Paul Raven, Ian Banks and Saddam Hussein, but I lied about the last one. Oh, and there was yet another link - Norm first took a shine to Donny while he was a student in the area (When? Oooh, around the time Winston Churchill was Prime Minister, I reckon!) and has retained something of a soft-spot for then ever since. A bit like this column and Crewe Alex, really.

Returning to the present again, as this was the first ever Conference play-off final, we weren't sure what to expect, but once we arrived at The Britannia Stadium, it was pretty evident both sets of supporters were enjoying the occasion immensely, and milking it for all it was worth. Donny, resplendent in their red and white finery, which contrasted pleasingly with the prevailing slate-grey overcast and drizzle, seemed to outnumber their Essex counterparts, not to the same degree as we did Port Vale at Wembley a decade ago, maybe, but the disparity in numbers was evident, all the same. It wasn't quite Cardiff, but the same expectant buzz was there; whole families, three, sometimes four generations of smiling faces, all determined to enjoy their day, come what may; garishly-coloured wigs, replica kits, those bloody trumpets hawked by sellers in close proximity to the stadium, chequered flags in abundance; more of a carnival atmosphere, really, which was what you'd expect on an occasion like this. We had originally planned to sit in the 'neutral area', but in deference to Norm - after all, Rovers were 'his' club, if only by adoption - we elected to sit with The Donny aficionados instead. No bother about tickets, by the way, paying on the day wasn't an issue, so it was quite easy to flash our cash and become Yorkshiremen (and woman!) if only for a couple of hours or so!

Inside the ground, then, and a visit to the refreshments for some victuals; the other two bravely opted for chicken Balti pies, while I stuck to the tried and trusted bag of chips. Mind you, Gawd alone knows what Stoke put in their brown sauce on matchdays; when I opened the sachet provided, I discovered the stuff to be somewhat akin to crude oil in appearance and consistency (any chance of George Bush invading Stoke City, and citing their brown sauce as an excuse for doing so, I wonder?) and tasting almost entirely of vinegar. OK, it most definitely wasn't, in more ways than one? Still, at least it (and the chips) filled a hole, which is all you can expect from football ground catering, I suppose. On then, to our seats, which were most handily placed in a corner, giving an excellent view across one goalmouth and free-range along the touch-line to the other end of the field and its goalmouth. The bonus was that as we were situated right above one of the entrances, unless they'd somehow mastered the secret of antigravity, there was absolutely no chance of some ignorant jerk or another obstructing our view at a vital moment.

As for the game, to say it was a cracker would be a gross understatement of the truth. From the moment proceedings got under way, Donny went for the Dagenham jugular with a fervour that was almost frightening at times. How the hell Daggers kept them out during those opening twenty minutes or so, I do not know; talk about the Alamo, time and time the men in red and white rushed their opponents' goalmouth in unstoppable hordes, only to be denied by some fortuitous act on the part of the defenders and/or keeper. Had Daggers employed a Star Trek-style deflector beam in their six-yard box, I wondered. It certainly seemed so at times; either that, or their jammy custodian had signed a pact with the Devil. Eventually, though, Donny got the breakthrough they deserved. A wicked-looking cross, some hesitancy from the Daggers rearguard, a Donny header - and the whole place erupted. One-nil, ten minutes from the break, and thoroughly deserved, too.

Not long after the interval, it seemed as though Donny had won the encounter game, set and match. A corner from the far side of goal, an obliging Yorkshire nut to receive it on the near post, and they'd doubled their lead. Much rejoicing around us, it has to be said, including a Donny-ite who, by way of celebration, promptly emptied the whole contents of a lager bottle over his head, much to Norm's surprise. Some might have contended that to do so was a waste of a bloody good drink, but who am I to argue?

Now they'd gone two up, a case of Rovers simply going through the motions until the final whistle, surely? You would have thought so , but unfortunately, Donny and our favourite footy club have certain characteristics in common, one of which is to convincingly attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Now they were safely in the driving seat, they took their foot off the gas pedal, and this exposed some nasty-looking deficiencies at the back. After a couple of close shaves, I could see precisely what was going to happen, and told 'Im Indoors as much - and blow me down dead, I was right. A moment of defensive inattention saw the Daggers pull one back, and Donny began to rock. Albion syndrome began to set in, and, to no-one's surprise in particular, the Essex side then snatched an equaliser around ten minutes from the end, to stunned silence from the massed ranks of Yorkshire people around us. Oh, whoops.

So, extra time it was, then, but with the cessation of the normal ration, there came a bit of a shocker. What Norm and I hadn't realised was the fact that although there were an additional thirty minutes allotted, there was the additional 'embuggeration factor' of what the organisers coyly termed 'the Promotion Goal'. Just like that other abomination, the 'Golden Goal', and equally deadly to the hopes of the side conceding; once in, that was it, game over, finis, the end. Sure, the principle - settling the issue without the need to resort to penalties unless absolutely necessary - was sound, but in practice, mutual fear of failure made for a fraught, mistake-ridden, and cagey first period, which was something of a contrast to the open sort of play we'd seen and enjoyed over the whole of the previous 90 minutes, and totally contrary to the overall spirit of the game. With nerves strung out like piano-wire as they were, something had to give, and around ten minutes from the end of extra time, it did. Another Donny cross from the left, into the box, an obliging boot - and the Yorkshire club were back in the big time, as the late Tommy Cooper would have said: "Just like that."?

Cue, of course, for a massed pitch invasion; it was around 20 minutes before the stewards shifted all the bodies off the field of play, and the award ceremony could get under way, a somewhat drawn-out affair as it happened. Was I right in thinking that those organising the event weren't totally clued-up as to what was required on these occasions? As Rovers celebrated, I stole a glance towards the Daggers contingent ranged at the other end of the ground, all their players slumped in a dejected heap in close proximity to the goalmouth, as were their followers in the seats behind. What rotten luck for them; not only did they dip out under somewhat dubious circumstances last season, they were denied this time round by sudden death. A bloody awful way to go out by anyone's lights; I wouldn't wish it on anyone, to be truthful. I wondered whether they would summon up sufficient reserves of strength to have another pop at the prize next season, and if so, whether we'd be there to watch it. As for Norm, he was more than made up to witness his second love finally earning the right to play with the big boys again, and good on him. As for us, we'd found the whole encounter a fascinating one, and excellent value for the ?20 we'd stumped up for the tickets. What a shame we have to return to reality tomorrow, and our Premiership final curtain-call versus Bobby Robson's Newcastle United; I'm willing to bet anything you care to name that in terms of honest endeavour, excitement and sheer value for money, what happens on the pitch during that game won't come anywhere near the passion and sheer excitement of what we witnessed today, which is more the pity, really?

And finally? One. Just when you thought it was safe? Yep, not long after Donny scored their first, we were visited by that bane of modern sporting events, the Lesser-Spotted Bloody Streaker. About six feet tall, male - were female exhibitionists a dying breed, we wondered? - as thin as a rake, and because of the unseasonably-chilly ambient temperature, as far as the 'naughty bits' were concerned, not worth a closer look at all! Spoilsport! Not long afterwards, I heard a Donny lad bragging to one of his mates he was the one who'd put that idiot up to it in the first place! Two observations: firstly, as he'd kindly 'volunteered' his mate for the task, I hoped he'd offer to pay the inevitable fine as well! The second? Simple. With loads of other easily-led mates to choose from, from my own somewhat selfish viewpoint, he could have picked someone rather better endowed where it mattered (and less receptive to chilly climes!)..

Two.. This one concerns The Old Fart. Apparently, prior to tomorrow's game, the E and S have set up a meeting between our vintage co-editor and Newcastle manager and ex-Baggie Sir Bobby Robson. For the benefit of those who don't know already, when the Toon gaffer was an Albion player, in his spare time he acted as coach to The Fart's supporters' side, the West Bromwich Albion Nomads. In fact El Tel can claim, with some justification, to have given Sir Bobby his first ever managerial job! Will this meeting result in Sir Bobby returning the favour by giving our pensioner pundit free reign over the Newcastle dug-out for the duration of the entire ninety minutes? If so, look out for the sudden return of the leather case-ball, ankle-hugging shorts, players suddenly billed as 'inside-right', 'left-half', 'centre-forward' and 'right-full-back' - but definitely no substitutes. A reduction to 1950's admission prices as well? About as much chance as Bob Taylor being invited for a friendly pint at Meggo's local, I reckon..

 - Glynis Wright

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