The Diary

01 April 2006: "Wisisz Nam Duzo Za Ten Blad!" Mister Pole In Goal!

Whilst assisting ?Im Indoors in his book material-grabbing efforts over the course of several months, now, one fundamental difference between Albion ?then? and ?now? has stood out for me in particular ? the almost bacterial increase in the number of backroom staff over the course of the last forty years or so. Take the simple job of treating injured players on the pitch, for example. Back in the sixties, when I first began my supporting career, the only ?medical aid? deemed necessary by the trainer, (the post then filled, more often than not, by a medically-unqualified old pro) was a large metal bucket containing just two essential items: ice-cold water, and a large sponge. Oh ? and somewhere about the old curmudgeon?s person would be secreted a large bottle of smelling salts, should the ?patient? prove tardy in resuming consciousness after being clobbered on the head during the course of a game. Quite a contrast to the situation found today, of course, the contents of our physio?s bag now comparing pretty favourably with those routinely carried by paramedics.

Having said all that, back in the days when Harold Wilson was busy telling the entire nation devaluation wouldn?t make a scrap of difference to the pound in your pocket, honest, cross my heart and hope to die, head injuries weren?t treated with half the seriousness they are now, the predominant philosophy then being ?get the player back into the land of the living by use of the aforementioned hi-tech treatments, then let him run it off.? As subsequent events have all-too tragically proven since (e.g. as per The King,) not the wisest thing to do at the time, but as most people, including a significant proportion of the medical profession, really didn?t know any better back then, what can you say? That emotive phrase ?I told you so? is a wonderful thing in retrospect, but small comfort to those ex-players later affected.

Nowadays, of course, the complete opposite applies; just a casual look at the inside cover of our very own programme will amply demonstrate this. Not only do we have a qualified physiotherapist on first-team medical duty (plus, of course, reserves and Academy equivalents), there?s a team doctor present in the stands, should the problem ever need a ?bigger ?ommer?!), also coaches of all descriptions, ?goalkeeping?; ?strength and conditioning?; ?defensive?; ?attacking? ? and that?s before I even begin to get started on dieticians, and all the other peripherals that comprise Robbo?s backroom support these days. Some of the bigger clubs even have X-ray facilities in-house, so no more slumming it in Casualty any more for some of the Prem?s more famous pampered (and expensive) darlings when they go and ruin an expensive perm, or whatever.

Additionally, once-trivial concepts such as those concerning adequate pre-match nutrition and hydration are now taken very, very seriously indeed, and woe betide the player who either eats or drinks anything he shouldner oughter be doing during the season, not to mention the summer recess. Pile on the blubber, and you get fined. End of. Even the total nutritional, calorific and energy content of that all-important pre-match meal is calculated to at least two decimal places prior to ingestion these days, and nothing else whatsoever allowed to pass through players? digestive tracts in the meantime. Complex carbs rule OK, so there.

Having said all that, modernity, coupled with this increasingly-scientific approach to sport dietetics, have served to deprive we long-term supporters of some quite remarkable ?Blimey!? moments over the years. Team coaches stopping, post-match, outside quiet little chippies, and a player being duly despatched to enter said establishment, and request of the astonished proprietor: ?Cod and chips twenty times, mate, and plenty of salt and vinegar on top, please!? for example. And no more will I ever witness again the astonishing sight I did when watching a game between Scarborough and Hereford, as recently as 12 years ago.

Sliding out of my seat to ?powder my nose? midway through the second half, then making my way towards the Ladies situated in a separate block at the back of the stand, I had to pass a mobile burger bar doing duty as a matchday refreshment point. So far, so ordinary, then ? but what really made me do a double-take that night was the sight of one of the Hereford substitutes, still in full kit, queuing up for his share of the action, just like all the rest! And, as ?Im Indoors reminded me tonight, at Newcastle Town, around 1989, in a pre-season friendly; their catering also did extremely well, thanks to heavy-duty patronage from more or less our entire subs? bench.

How times have changed. A visit, sneaky or otherwise, to the burger chain place situated on the other side of the Brummie Road is now considered ?streng verboten?, and God help the player who breaks that rule and becomes slightly porky as a result of such sinful excess. In fact, it wouldn?t surprise me in the slightest to learn that Albion routinely employ someone in a lab coat to hang around during training, solemnly checking then meticulously analysing first team squad poo every single time they go and take a dump. In the modern game, money talks, and loudly ? that?s why most Premiership outfits leave so little to chance these days.

Contrast that analytical approach with what used to happen just forty years ago; what I?m about to relate is genuinely true, and I know because Laraine Astle, no less, told me this story just a few months back. On the Saturday in question, Albion were at home, Sheffield Wednesday providing the opposition. Anyway, on the morning of the game, the Astles decided to go shopping, in Bilston Market, of all places. Their mission? To purchase a wooden rocking-horse for their eldest daughter?s birthday, one parent or the other having seen these toys on display during a previous visit. The deed having been done, finally, they then journeyed back to West Bromwich, but as they neared the town centre, Laraine suddenly declared she felt really peckish, so they pulled up outside a Bull Street chippie ? in that part of the town where The Drunken Duck now stands ? and purchased their wants.

While Jeff was queuing for Laraine?s fishy goodies, his tum started to rumble something awful as well - it was the vinegary pong as the stuff hit the batter that did it, Laraine said - so he purchased an extra battered cod portion for himself, thereby making it two massive pieces of fried cod, and one huge bag of chips in total. Not forgetting those scrumptiously-crunchy bits of batter they used to give you as a matter of course in those days. Back then, no self-respecting chippy owner would dare contemplate inflicting stuff done in oil on his clientele: it had to be best beef dripping, the purer the better, and nothing else would do. I genuinely feel sorry for kids these days, whose sole(!) experience of such places (plaices?) revolves around their meal routinely coming coated with enough oil to keep an entire Arab state happy for several months. But I digress. Sitting in their car afterwards, and having demolished his own cod portion with unceremonious haste, The King suddenly realised he was still hungry, so ? yes, you?ve guessed it ? there was no help for it but raid his wife?s stash as well!

I really dread to think how many artery-clogging calories there were in that little lot ? this particular chippy (long-closed, sadly) was considerably more generous with its servings than most, apparently ? but shortly after that, and now loaded with enough arterial and venous fatty cholesterol and carbohydrate to give the average cardiology consultant instant apoplexy, Jeff set out for The Hawthorns. And yes, fry-up or no fry-up, he duly went on to score a hat-trick! Somehow, I can?t imagine our present-day lot doing similar. Or the club allowing them so much as a sniff, even. Can you?

Tomorrow, it being April The First, the genuine one this time, we?re scheduled to meet Liverpool. Note my careful omission of the word ?play?; the way The Reds have been performing of late, we?ll turn up, of course, and from then on in, the amount of meaningful input we?ll bring to the occasion, will, to all intents and purposes, cease entirely. I genuinely wish I could predict better with any sort of confidence, but for the life of me, I can?t. Not with any great degree of honesty. Sorry.

At least we?ll go into that game knowing how Blues have fared in their own epic struggle versus Chelski, at Small Heath. And Pompey at Fulham, currently nigh-on impregnable on their home turf. And I?d thought our task near-impossible? Sometimes, it?s good to know there?s someone faring considerably worse off than you somewhere. Team news, then. The good news? Joe Kamara has now recovered from whatever it was ailed him before, and will be fully-fit for action again tomorrow evening. Huzzas all round, then. The bad? Nigel Quashie is still suspended, although this one (I think) should be the very last of the stipulated five. The Scouse fraternity? Their captain Steven Gerrard will be serving a one-match ban for his sending-off against Everton last week. Djimi Traore? The silly name apart, his thigh problem is still considered to be a tad dodgy, so it could go either way with him. Oh, yeah ? and just to cheer you all up even more, our old mucker Uriah Rennie?s the duly-appointed man in black tomorrow. Be afraid. Very afraid.

Incidentally, apropos our very own Pole In Goal tonight, there?s an intriguing article courtesy BBC Sport to the effect that according to what appears to be his (now-former?) agent, the delightfully-named Shep Messing, our lad still owes his concern approximately ?100K for work done to facilitate his transfer from Hertha Berlin to the Black Country back in 2004, an accusation our lad most strenuously refutes, apparently. The blurb also states FIFA have now been dragooned into investigating the case, also that the wonderful Mister Messing stresses that his quarrel is not with Albion, or Jeremy Peace, for that matter, just with our Polish custodial chum. Now, forgive me if I?ve got this wrong, but I was always led to believe that transfer fees/personal terms normally incorporate what the agent?s owed for setting up the deal in the first place ? so what?s happened to make this one any different? The plot thickens.

Interesting to see in the Guardian earlier this week that Sir Alex Ferguson, no less, was waxing lyrical on the subject of diving. Apparently, it?s a very, very naughty thing to do, children, and should be stopped at once, before it sends you blind, because if you don?t, you?ll go straight to bed without any supper, and that Sunday trip to the zoo will be cancelled as well. So there.

By the time. I?d picked myself off the floor, and removed all the obvious signs of risibility from my face, I could almost believe in the guy?s sincerity. Well, after all, there are fairies at the bottom of our garden, aren?t there? And even Patrick Moore will tell you the moon?s made out of green cheese. Mind you, he was right about one thing ? Fergie, that is, not Patrick Moore, although the idea of the amateur astronomer managing a Premiership football club is a pretty amusing one when you come to think about it - such naughtiness certainly isn?t new. As Fergie quite rightly pointed out in that piece, players in this country have been doing similar for around twenty years, now. In fact, you can go as far back as 1969-ish, around the time when Manchester City?s Frannie Lee was first let loose upon an unsuspecting footie-watching public, not to mention any number of gullible refs; so partial was he to this lucrative pastime, you really had to wonder whether he?d been a German U-Boat captain in a previous existence.

Having seen that lot in print, and Fergie actually sounding dead serious about what he?d said, I didn?t think anything could possibly top that bit of monumental cheek ? but I was dead wrong. On Wednesday, I opened my morning paper, as per usual - and what did I see inside the back cover? Iain Dowie, Crystal Palace?s head honcho, solemnly declaring that he believed managers alone should decide on disciplinary action for those players found guilty of penalty-box (or elsewhere) thespian tendencies. Doo wot? At that point, I really had to check my calendar to make dead sure it wasn?t April the First already.

This, mind, from a bloke who has in his side one Andy Johnson, one of the most prolific spot kick-getters known to Premiership football. Or at least last season, he was. How many penalties did the guy achieve for the South London club back then? 12, was it? Reprehensible though his antics were, one really had to admire the guy?s technique. Perhaps Chelsea?s current thespian-in-residence, Didier Drogba, watched the master?s performances from afar last time round, learned much ? and subsequently vowed to do even better the following term?

Returning to our last-minute White Hart Lane shocker once more, a fiasco for which the fickle finger of responsibility principally pointed in the direction of The Pole In Goal, the other day, I had a mail from reader Cyril Randle, who wishes to ascribe guilt elsewhere. According to Cyril, the blame lies entirely with ?the man who passed it back??? Paul Robinson, was it? ? ?and the people who encourage such brain-dead, stupid, idiotic tactics.?!

?The goalkeeper does not run around to keep his feet and legs flexible to receive the ball, the outfielders DO! When the goalie could pick up the back pass, it made good sense, it is something the goalkeeper excels in, gathering a ball with his hands. I have never seen a goalkeeper who could not be distressed by a really fast forward, (Defoe for instance) and a long back pass, which this one was. When a goalie makes a mistake, it's usually a goal against, so why take the risk? Robinson, I think, made the back pass, and he could have cleared into Arsenal's ground had he so wished. So, why not?

?In my view, it was the coaching staff primarily (to blame) for this mindset, then the outfielder in question, and our Pole.about 5% blame. In our day, a back pass to the goalie, (rare) was always greeted with a unified crowd jibe of 'WINDY' which meant ?scaredy-cat? in kids? language.? After getting that little lot off his chest, finally, you?ll be pleased to know that Cyril spent most of the remainder of the week in a suitably-darkened room, and is now deemed fully-fit to face the rest of humanity tomorrow night!

And, talking about our Polish custodian, many thanks to the appropriately-named Steve Mole for the following: ?In answer to your query...?You owe us one big-time for that mistake,? roughly translates into: ?Wisisz nam duzo za ten blad.? A Polish colleague of mine put me right ? so there.? Er ? thanks, Steve. Sounds more like two coughs and a flaming hiccup to me, to be perfectly honest, but I?ll take my life into my hands, and risk using it as the title piece for tonight?s offering. If it does turn out to be something wildly obscene, then I?ll know who to blame, won?t I?

And now for news of another Baggie, Gareth Stubbs, of 164 Birmingham Road, LICHFIELD, WS14 9BS, who will be participating in the Flora London Marathon on 23rd April 2006. The reason? On Monday 8th August 2005, his one-year old daughter, Ellen, was rushed by ambulance to hospital with suspected meningitis, and was kept in an isolation room whilst tests and treatment began. As can well be imagined, both parents spent a very anxious week there before she was finally given the all clear. Meningitis in small children can be a real sod to diagnose correctly, even at the best of times ? not every child gets classical symptoms, such as a body rash that won?t go away, even when pressed against a glass - and it?s not entirely unknown for genuine experts in the field to get it tragically wrong, sometimes, never mind tired and hard-pressed junior doctors.

As a result of their worrying experience, Gareth is now running this year's London Marathon to raise money for the Meningitis Research Foundation, who fund research projects, and support families affected by meningitis and septicaemia. And that?s why these few paragraphs are here, folkies - to assist in raising money for this worthy cause. Obviously, Steve would really appreciate any donation you feel able to make. Please send cheques to the above address, and made payable to the Meningitis Research Foundation, not to me. I?m just the messenger. For pledges of similar online, go to www.justgiving.com/gareth-stubbs

And Finally?. One. Bobby Gould. Eeek! We all knew both he and his issue were absolutely barking mad way back in 1991-92, of course, but John Wile?s newspaper column of October the 14th 1972 seems to provide incontrovertible proof this was the case long before then ? so take it away, John?..!

??.Bobby Gould?s son, Jonathan, provided us with the smile of the week after the United game. He and his mother were waiting for Bobby when George Best walked in. Jonathan looked, smiled - and said: ?Hello, Jimmy Hill.?

Two. So Jonathan Greening?s two small sprogs are called Sydney and Troy, are they? No wonder he thinks them both in need of ?toughening up? ? with monickers like that hanging around your neck in much the same way the Ancient Mariner?s Albatross did, you can only go one way, can?t you? Any other Baggies players out there with an equally-bizarre penchant for giving their children silly names, I wonder?

 - Glynis Wright

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