The Diary

05 December 2005: A Right Royal FA Cup Draw!

?Now why on earth would someone end up in a sanatorium?? Blimey, the peculiar things people ask me, sometimes, which is why I was taken so completely unawares yesterday morning by that very same question. This, from a slightly-perplexed ?Im Indoors, who had been carrying out more library research earlier that day, and couldn?t quite work out why this particular problem had cropped up in the lives of one of our players, one Ted ?Cock? Pheasant, circa 1909. Ditto what was ?peritonitis?, and why someone else had popped their clogs as a direct result of getting it.

Easy to sort out once you know a sanatorium was a place, usually in the country, where TB patients were sent to (hopefully) recuperate in the bad old days before combination therapy with antibiotics totally transformed the prognosis for that horrible disease, and peritonitis a life-threatening condition brought about by infection getting into the stomach cavity by one route or another (a burst stomach ulcer, or appendix were common causes back then). If not treated correctly, or promptly, then the muck entered the ? normally sterile - abdomen proper, and gangrene set in, more often than not. Again, in those pre-antibiotic days, that meant the relatives discreetly contacting the local undertaker, and letting him know there would be business awaiting him at the house in question very soon. A bit like our favourite football club?s Premiership future, should we fail to get a grip in time, if you like.

What?s important is to remember that ?sanatoria? ? er, I think that?s the plural! ? were places where very sick people could leave the crowded slums, grinding poverty, stresses and strains of work and family life etc., right behind, leaving them fully-able to concentrate on getting well in a secluded and tranquil setting. And that?s precisely what I needed at around three this afternoon, when the pair of us, plus as many resident cats as felt sufficiently-emboldened to stick it out with me to the bitter end, gathered around our TV screen for that charming Albion folk-ritual commonly known to all and sundry as ?Who?s Going To Give Us A Right Old Stuffing This Year, Then??

Having previously described in great detail the devastating effects the Third Round Draw normally has on the Wright household, I wasn?t going to bother setting the scene anyway, but somehow sensing my great discomfiture, the two lads juggling their balls pre-empted our rapidly-worsening anxiety states anyway by fishing our number out from their dinky little black bag the first time of asking. A home draw ? coo! Then, as celebrity fingers fumbled amidst the little receptacle for that next vital ball, disembodied voice solemnly intoning the number, a Eurosize-nine chill entered my heart. Close, too damn close. Was it The Dingles? Nope ? just Reading. Phew.

Even so, it?s not an easy hurdle to straddle, by any means; as ?Im Indoors so perspicaciously put it afterwards, on paper, it?s a virtual re-run of the Sunderland-Albion 3rd Round Excuse-Me we enjoyed so much back in season 2001-02, isn?t it? Consider the evidence, members of the jury: Division One club ? or whatever they (or the sponsors, more like) call themselves these days, changes like the wind, if you ask me ? currently riding very high indeed, and right on target for promotion come the late spring, drawn away to an ailing Premiership counterpart run by a gaffer no stranger to the media himself, an avalanche of expectation building up atop the craggy and careworn peaks of the home side?s confidence, and so unstable, absolutely anything could be enough to set it crashing down among some pretty expensive top-flight hairstyles. Of all the pairings pulled out of that little bag today, ours was the one showing all the classic symptoms of a big-time banana-skin. Please let me be wrong this time.

So what about yesterday, then? Having now simmered down considerably ? ?Im Indoors tells me my language during that awful second half was not particularly ladylike, but then again, I?ve never once said I was a lady in the classical definition of the word, have I? ? the overall emotion I now sense is one of acute disappointment. They really were there for the taking that first half, Fulham, and we should have wrapped it all up in a nice dinky ribbon well before the interval. And serve them jolly well right for trying to kick a number of our lot clear into Earth orbit. Sure, neither of the two sides were any great shakes, but if ever there was a calculated attempt to dissuade people from watching regular Premiership games, then yesterday?s had to be it. The first half I considered well below-par for this level, and as for the second, I reckon the provision of capacious sick-bags underneath everyone?s seat the very least our club could have done to alleviate the suffering.

The longer the half went on, though, the more I felt the shades of other ten-man visiting sides at my elbow. Sheffield United, Wimbledon, both with a man light following a deserved dismissal, and both well and truly stuffed up by us?? And that?s just for starters; I?m sure everyone can cite even more horrible examples from our past, if they really put their minds to it. With Kanu taken off, Inamoto was virtually our only remaining hope of making the vital breakthrough, but so thorough was their lockdown, our chances of actually doing so remained pretty remote.

Earnie or The Horse? The choice is somewhat academic now, of course, and hindsight a wonderful thing, but in retrospect, it might have been better, perhaps, to go for the speed, not to mention sheer unpredictability, of the lad Earnie instead. Not that I?m criticising Robbo too much, mind; I could see why he was changing it, the hope The Horse?s vast experience in holding up the ball and bringing other players into it would reap dividends. Difficult, that one, though, with every Fulham player in sight pulled back and grimly determined to hold onto the point at all costs, but there you are.

The thing that really worries me, is now Fulham have shown how to stop us effectively, others will be taking heed of what they did, and benefiting from their example. Take our next opponents, Man City. Sure, a funny club to play, even at the best of times, on account of their sheer unpredictability alone, world-beaters one week, absolute garbage the next; the thing is, I can?t believe there was no scout watching yesterday and scribbling furiously into his little notebook. Snuff out Kanu ? who may not be involved anyway, as he has a dead leg ? and we?re stuffed. Evolution is the name of the game at this level: just as in the wild world of biology, new challenges bring new pressures. Just ask the dodo. Which you won?t, because it?s extinct. In other words, Albion have to become the Great Peppered Moth of the footballing world; just as their protective camouflage, formerly light, darkened in response to urban pollution caused by the Industrial Revolution, we have to change things also, and quickly.

Rootling through all our mails prior to penning this piece, my curiosity was aroused considerably by something in yesterday?s Daily Express to the effect that Robbo was allegedly holding talks with Roy Keane tomorrow about signing for us. Aroused, because just as we were about to enter the ground yesterday, we?d heard similar from someone else. Then laughed, somewhat sardonically, which wasn?t quite the reaction our little informant expected of us, but there you are. Whether they were just quoting the Express or not, I?m not quite certain, but if it?s pukka, it would certainly tie in. Mind you, when looking at that Express thing more closely, it seems to me there?s a bit of an auction going on out there right now. If the paper?s to be believed ? and as they?re somewhat prone to getting the important political stuff wrong, never mind the football, I?ll respite judgment for the moment ? then it all boils down to a couple of important issues.

The first? Assuming Everton have now ruled out an approach, as stated ? again, something I?m not inclined to accept at face value ? it?s reportedly down to ourselves, West Ham, and Real Madrid. (the late Laurie Cunningham apart, bet you never thought you?d ever see Albion mentioned in the same player-transaction breath as Real Madrid, did you?) Given the light-years disparity that separates potential spending power at both clubs, and forgetting West Ham who, if this is on the level, are throwing a ?40K offer into the ring, you don?t need to be Einstein to work out who?s going to win this one, do you?

The second? The small matter of a reported ?70.000 per week asking price, coupled with a guaranteed 18-month contract. That much, for a bloke who?s 34 years of age? Yeah, right, and I?m the Queen Of The Fairies. Toadstool appointments strictly by negotiation, mind. Talking of ?negotiation?, maybe that?s what our gaffer might want to do ? negotiate, in order to bring down the asking price, and maybe, just maybe, chuck in the offer of a bit of coaching experience for him as well.

The important question I?m asking myself here, is not so much ?Is the asking-price a good deal?? as ?Is the potential deal a good one for the future of West Bromwich Albion Football Club?? Some might think I?m splitting hairs there, but there is a subtle difference between the meaning of both sentences, I promise. As far as the first one goes, it?s an answer to our immediate problems that may or may not provide a quick fix, but it would be a bloody costly one, and, if it then went pear-shaped, could badly affect our wage structure. Keane wouldn?t be all that bothered, either way; ?Someone else?s problem, now - I?ve done my bit. Ciaou!?

On the other hand, if those doing the negotiating can leave short-term considerations aside for the moment, look at the overall import for our medium-term future as a Premiership club, not to mention the long-term, then it might just be a ?goer?. By that, I mean assessing the guy?s overall character, his potential influence on our dressing-room, positive and/or negative, and use that as the basis for an informed decision. As we?ve seen at Man United, and with the Eire national side, the bloke can be absolute dynamite when it comes to correctly managing his strong (some would say ?over-inflated?) personality ? and that?s why we really do have to call this one right.

At present, whatever our faults on the actual field of play, one thing we do seem to have is a happy dressing-room at long last. You only have to talk briefly to some of the old pros to realise how vitally-important that could be to any club, never mind ours. I don?t get to speak to the current bunch all that often these days, but from what little I do pick up, I get the overall impression they?re now gelling as a team; additionally, they seem to be mixing socially far more, which leads one to assume they?re good mates off the field as well.

That?s the sort of thing that augers well for team spirit; the certain knowledge that should you get into a mess on the park, there?s the certain knowledge a mate will be there in a flash to retrieve the situation. Or at least strive manfully to try to. Shove what amounts to an expensively-paid and much-publicised cuckoo into the nest, not to mention one with an ego seemingly a mile high, and you stand a very good chance of stirring up a whole welter of trouble in there. Is that really what we want?

Oh, Whoops! Another tale related in the dimly-lit pre-match fastness of the Hawthorns Hotel, folks. This one concerns Wednesday night, more specifically those who went to Old Trafford courtesy Baggies Travel. Getting there was no bother, apparently; a lot more cars and stuff around than us usual at that time of the afternoon, but that was it. But then again, they do get a police escort in and out, which is why the traffic volume?s impact upon their existence was minimal. Not so for the return journey, though. The ?embuggeration factor? they encountered on the return journey, not the traffic volume.

The first the occupants of two coaches knew something was up was when some noticed an all-too familiar place beginning to take shape in the late-night murk outside. ?No ? it can?t be?? they whispered among themselves, then, as its architectural features began to assume more distinctive form, realisation finally dawned that Something Was Ever So Slightly Wrong. Sure, they were passing a football ground all right, which you wouldn?t consider at all surprising, both vehicles having a coachload of football supporters on board: the problem was it was gone eleven at night. Not only that, the ground in question was the JJB, the home of Bolton Wanderers, and situated in totally the wrong direction! Yes, questions were asked later, and it transpired both drivers, fairly new and not being familiar with all matters Manc, had taken the wrong turn-off! Oh ? and for what it?s worth, both hailed from Dingle-Land. Now there?s a surprise!

 - Glynis Wright

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