The Diary

03 December 2006: Hartson Rams The Mesage Home For Derby

As far as unlikely events go, this one just had to be up with absolutely anything the human race could manage to conjure up: why, even that well-known arbiter of unlikely occurrences, Ladbrokes the bookies, hadn?t bothered to include his name on their advertising blurb at the back of the programme. Well, we couldn?t find his monicker there in lights ? unless someone else (very wealthy indeed?) out there knows any different, of course! As for Hartson himself ? well, until that life-saving strike, he?d done some pretty useful work in the ?supplying flick-ons for other players to do with as they wished? and held his own in the ?holding up the ball? stakes, but hadn?t really distinguished himself ? until the time came for his true moment of glory. A deflected strike, methinks, but they all count, and I didn?t see anyone in either the Brummie or Smethwick taking issue about it ? too busy ?boinging? and giving The 23rd Psalm some big licks, I guess.

What a day. And yet it didn?t start very well for this column and His Nibs. More boiler trouble, I?m afraid. Having waved Norm a cheery farewell and sent him on his way with something highly alcoholic last Thursday, we didn?t expect to see him again for a long time, but ?that boiler? had other plans in store for Chez Wright. It all started when we returned from the Astle party: while on the bog contemplating my navel, I noticed that the pressure gauge on the thing (the boiler, not my navel!) had dropped into the red. No immediate problem, but I did tell my other half about it, and suggested he check again when he got up. Which he did ? and bad news. Even more ?in the red? Fortunately, the problem was curable, and consisted of a short pipe-tightening session conducted by our former Army veteran-cum-gas-fitter-cum-plumber-cum-cook-cum just about anything else you can think of. Hot water again ? hoorah! In the nicest possible way, we just want Norm to stay the hell away from now on!

So ? back to today?s game, then. Having done what is now our customary round of drop-offs to do with Si?s book, it was then into the now-even-more-revamped Hawthorns Hotel. We didn?t have any problems seeking out The Noise ? we could hear him well before we could figure out at which table he was sitting. But with just Bethany, and no Carly? Turned out that Big Sis had gone to Nottingham, shopping, with her mum. Now that?s something I really can?t get my head around, no matter how hard I try: go to any big shopping precinct anywhere in the blasted country, and they?re all the bloody same! Sure, the surroundings might differ slightly, but as far as stores are concerned, it?s always the same ?cast-list?. Marks and Sparks, Top Shop, Dixons, Boots, W.H.Smith, and so forth ? and all selling just the same lines you?ll find at home. What is the bloody point of paying good money to bus yourself somewhere else? Perhaps some eminent psychologist or other will sit me down, one day, and explain the whole thing in terms even a Dingle would understand ? but until that happy day comes, I reserve the right to regard those who indulge in such activities as being in the same peculiar bracket as, say, gricers, or twitchers.

It was while I was plonking myself down that my attention was drawn to another group of blokes sitting with us, and their story proved quite fascinating, actually. Two or three of them, there were, and all down from Inverness to see the game, would you believe? Me? Wicked thing that I am, I simply couldn?t resist it: ?Hi, chaps!? I said. ?The last time I heard about people coming down from Inverness, it was part of a very long but rude song, involving ?four and twenty virgins?!? Yes, I got a laugh out of them, but just in case you?re wondering, the ditty referred to is ?The Ball Of Kirriemuir?, and it?s about 70 verses long (full, unabridged edition, which I?m NOT familiar with, honest!), and most certainly NOT to be sung where there?s children or easily-offended maiden aunts present!

And there was more: did you know, for example, that there?s a Culloden Branch of the Supporters Club? No, and neither did I, until today. (The place was also the scene of an almighty Scots versus English battle in 1746. The English won - just ? but it?s not a campaign in which most English regiments care to trumpet their involvement these days, and is something best skipped over for now!) Their branch currently boasts some 21 members, who try to attend at least two or three times a season ? they?d flown down today ? one of the reasons for them being there was they hated Scottish football. It was The Noise that got me all the gory details, as you might expect: two of those present hailed originally from Northern Ireland, having fled The Troubles young: once in Scotland, they then palled up with some Albion-supporting Scots. For one member in particular, it all started with Subbuteo: when ?transferring? new players into his side, he got to bringing ?flick-to-kick? Albion equivalents, the likes of Bomber Brown for example. Unsurprisingly, Ade Chiles turned up later to have a natter with the entire bunch; either they?d got in contact with him beforehand, or some mate or other had told him there was a good story to be had there. Which there undoubtedly was: before today, I?d never realised they existed, even.

So what else did we get up to in there, today? Well, in the absence of Carly, we appointed young Bethany Soft-Drinks-Fetcher-In-Chief, an office she performed with great distinction, for which naughty hubby taught her how to send text messages from a mobile phone to a landline. Direct all complaints to him, not to me, right? Then, some 20 minutes after our arrival, in walked The Fart, telling everyone about the big Albion flag on display at the current Test Match in Oz ? our chum had been watching it very early this morning, apparently ? but have it sitting right next to a bloody great Dingles flag? Have you no moral scruples left at all, you guys? Oh ? and Tel was still moaning his bag off about last Tuesday night: that, I can genuinely understand. I didn?t exactly go a bundle myself.

It was about then that a total stranger ? apologies for not asking your name, mate - introduced himself to me (ooer, missus ? remember what yer mum said about not talking to strangers!), saying: ?I read your diary, and I know you?ve been a bit down about our latest results, but I?ve had a T-shirt especially made, see?.? Then, opening his coat in true ?flasher? style, there it was, in all its glory, with the following logo: ?The Good Times Are Just Around The Corner.? Then, directly underneath: ?Tony Mowbray 7.11.06.? You had to giggle. And, in a ?sort-of? way, Tone was vindicated today, but I?d much rather be seeing much more of a sea-change in our fortunes some three or four games further down the line. Know what I mean, like?

By then, time was getting on, and kick-off drawing nigh. The way we all saw it, only a summons to a place of execution could have hung heavier on our hearts, so we bade our farewells, then headed on out to Anoraks? Corner, where Steve The Miser And Co ? but minus the still-elusive Mister Wilmore, sadly ? awaited our arrival. What a gut-wrenching task for The Meanest Man In West Bromwich to perform ? getting His Nibs to sign documents to do with money! While Steve?s fingers writhed in pure agony, I took the trouble to look around a sunny Halfords Lane; the weather pretty good ? it had only recently stopped raining - and the temperature extremely mild for the time of year. Just the other day, I?d seen, in the Guardian, pictures of someone actually picking raspberries in the open air, and in Northumbria, of all places! Not a good omen at all for the planet, I suppose, but in the short ? and extremely selfish ? term, not a bad sort of day for a football match, really.

Once inside and plonked in our rightful sockets for the full 90 minutes, two thoughts immediately struck me. The first? The Derby end, packed to the gunnels, and very, very noisy. The second? The complete contrast seen when looking elsewhere in the ground: very little in the way of noise to be heard from either Smethwick or Brummie, and the leaden, turgid, almost, sort of accompanying atmosphere one tends to find on occasions of great sorrow. I don?t rightly know about our finest, but as far as group morale went, that of the majority of our followers was truly shot to hell.

As far as both teams were concerned, Derby had both Big Dave and Peschi-sodding-lido participating, but only on the subs? bench, which, in the case of their Canuck Baggie Enemy Number One, suited me just fine, 60-minute ?battery time? when let loose onto the pitch, or otherwise. As for our finest, some changes were in evidence. In was McShane, after Tuesday, and rightly so: his type of hard-tackling, gritty action was the sort of thing sorely lacking in our side up to now. Also there were Zoltan Gera (the genuine article, and not Jean Homer?s lovely cat, the one with the bottle-brush tail!), and Nigel Quashie, now fully-recovered from a bad back, it would seem. Oh ? and one other thing: it was bloody good to see once more, on the bench, Neil Clement, now well on the way to recovery from some pretty heavy-duty surgery he?d had recently. Welcome back to the Baggie fold, Neil. And, of course, the ?surprise? I?d mentioned previously, the inclusion of John Hartson in the bench-bound ranks.

With so much at stake for either side ? Derby wanting to keep their momentum going, and we wanting to spark our bid for promotion back into life once more ? it wasn?t at all surprising that things got a little fraught ere too many minutes had elapsed after the start of hostilities proper. Just minutes into the game, Jonathan Greening tried to get West Bromwich?s first ever moonshot underway, by blasting the ball high over the bar, and not into the net. But just a scant minute later, that was capped by Joe Kamara ? and how! Jason Koumas was the man to do the most damage, setting up a nasty looking cross which their keeper then made a complete pig?s ear of dealing with: as a result, the ball then dropped straight to our hero, who then nutted with all his might ? but past the upright, and not straight into an unguarded net, which is where it should have gone by rights. And, as it did, was that an agonised sort of groan I heard from Up High? The King, watching proceedings from the comfort of some celestial ?stand seat? or other, and ?back seat driving?, as per usual? Just you watch out the very next time there?s a thunderstorm and you?re in the open, Joe, my lad!

Great groans from all round the ground as that happened: was this going to be another repeat of the recent Pride Park caper, we wondered? Those opening flurries seemed to set the tone for the entire afternoon: we had our chances to put some scores on the doors, but so did our woolly and horned counterparts, one effort in particular, from a free-kick, almost giving Russell Hoult something to think about along the way.

The end-to end stuff was also animating both sets of followers. ?Stand up if you hate Brummies!? sang the geographically-challenged Derby crowd ? not so many GCSE?s in the subject passed with high grades in that city, I?ll wager ? which they followed up by letting forth with ?Boing, Boing, bag of s**t!?, so The Smethwick simply had to retaliate with ?Sheer, sheep, sheep s******s, didn?t they? So far, so predictable, then.

Meanwhile, out there on the pitch, it was becoming uncomfortably apparent that Derby were getting far more shots away in danger zones than they should have done, by rights. Once more I was getting the same sort of black mood envelop me that I had at Sheffield just the other night. It didn?t help either that it was at that moment I saw Kamara manage to miss a shot from about six yards out, a nailed-on goal, if ever I saw one, the ?ammo? coming, once more, courtesy of the Jason Koumas supply-line. And, just seconds later he did it again, but this time, Derby?s salvation lay in their keeper?s agility and not purely down to the shortcomings of our forwards.

Not long after that incident, Derby were forced into a change: injured in that little melee, their lad Johnson had to exit stage right, with Big Dave taking his place. It didn?t surprise me in the slightest to see and hear the whole ground, away fans, their home counterparts, stewards, the club cat, for all I know, cheer him roundly as he took to the field of play: Big Dave is one of the nicest and most genuine people I?ve ever met in what can be one of the most shitty of occupations when it comes to acting generously towards your fellow man. How much better would the game be if everyone in it were as honest and straight as he, I wonder?

Following Big Dave?s re-appearance upon the Hawthorns swarth, the game continued to proceed in the frenzied, frenetic end-to-end fashion it had before: had there been League points awarded for ?near misses? I reckon both sides would have racked up plenty, with the Baggies just about edging it, I?d say. Some of our moves up the park were pure footballing poetry in motion, one such enterprise, involving a total of four or five Albion players using the entire length of the pitch, and the ball finally coming to Gera, ending up with the diminutive Balkans lad skying the thing right over the crossbar ere he pulled the trigger. After that, it was Quashie?s turn to have a pop, closely followed by Curtis Davies. Even the distinctive blonde head of McShane was to be seen at the sharp end at one point.

All that excitement was far too much for The Bloke In Front Of Me: ?CRAP!? was his verdict on the proceedings thus far. Mind you, considering we?d got as far as 25 minutes before he?d elected to open his trap meant we must have been doing something right, at least! Meanwhile, at the other end of the park, Derby weren?t allowing the grass to grow beneath their feet either: with around 15 minutes to go to the break, a nasty looking effort from them brought Houlty not just into a cold sweat, but a pretty classy-looking stop from him as well.

And then came what just had to be our best chance of breaking the deadlock that half: Kev Phillips, put through courtesy a perfect ball from, I think, Robbo, found himself one-on-one with their keeper. All the advantages lay with him, and not the Derby shot-stopper, so why was it that instead of rounding the blighter, then tapping home the easy goal, he then decided to take the ball the ?pretty way round?? Result? Predictable, their lad getting a fist to the ball, and him well and truly off the hook. Commented an agonised John Homer: ?Just yow soddin? well watch, they?ll ?ave just the one chance, then?? No, he didn?t need to finish the sentence, we all knew what he was going to say, even if he didn?t say it outright. ?Semper Te Fallant?, anyone?

Meanwhile, the agile mind of the erudite Mister Homer was being occupied in other spheres, mostly to do with the referee, whose decision-making thus far had seemed ? well ? erratic, shall we say? Our bespectacled chum?s mood wasn?t helped either by the sight of Kamara getting booked: this, mind, in a game where the opposition had tried just about everything in their armoury, legitimate or otherwise, to gain the upper hand, some of their tackling being of true Hammer Horror standard, and now it was one of ours finally incurring the ref?s wrath. ?Bile yer yed twoice, ref!? he roared ? then, by way of afterthought: ?Twoice!? Life really is a sod, sometimes.

The interval was marked by the appearance of the moon, nearly full, peeping coyly from behind the roof of the East Stand. Meanwhile, on the pitch, there was entertainment of a different kind, as former Albion favourite Richard Sneekes, hate figure for bookies the length and breadth of these sceptred isles when he played for us, tried to land the ball on the crossbar in true ?Soccer AM? style, along with two of his sons ? and all of them failing dismally on both occasions! Mind you, the fact he actually landed the ball in the back of the net was enough for John Homer to urge our hierarchy to restore him to his former stripey glory, as a matter of great urgency!

Back for the second course, then, and just as the first half had been, the general cue for an outbreak of missed passes, cheaply given-away balls, and all the rest of it. We continued to plug away gallantly, but with around ten of the half gone, we very nearly paid the price for our repeated tardiness in front of goal, when one of the Derby lads failed to pot a ball that came to him from only a couple of yards out, if that, the effort sailing high overhead instead of right in the back of the net, where it should have rightfully gone had their lad got his wits about him. Talk about ?riding our luck?: the burning question was, of course, would it hold?

With the stepping-up of the game?s tempo, plus that horribly-missed chance of theirs, both lots of supporters were giving it big licks by then. Time for a change, said Mogga, with around fifteen minutes gone, so off came Kamara, and on came John Hartson instead. Greeted with something of a mixed reception, I would say, and by some with outright hostility. ?You fat b*****d!? chorused the Derby lot. ?Yes ? we know!? snarled a distinctly-unimpressed His Nibs! There then followed a bit of a purple patch from the visitors, and for a while, things looked distinctly sweaty out there. Strong visions of them nicking it again filled my eyes: surely there had to be a limit to the number of times a side could completely stuff up while in the ascendancy?

Then, on around 75 minutes, came what has to rank as one of the worst-ever misses I?ve ever seen in well over 40 years of watching the Baggies: so dire, so awful, it even eclipsed the famous ?Kanu moment? versus Middlesbrough when we were in the Premiership and losing 2-1, with only a minute or two remaining, and our lad firing right over from about a couple of yards out, when it seemed much easier to pot the blasted thing and be done with it!

What happened? Well, it was like this, Yer Honner: once more, we were on the attack, a veritable cavalry-charge upfield, but with stripes on. Albrechtsen had the ball in the box, and squared to Kev Phillips, who had the net gaping before him, and totally undefended by Man, Beast, or any other form of keeper, come to think of it. All it needed, in fact, was the obligatory tap-in, to send the sphere rolling gently across the line, and into our collective Baggie hearts: in fact, both myself and ?Im Indoors were already on our feet, and ready to celebrate the return of both sides to the centre-circle after we?d gone one up ? but it never happened!

Somehow ? no, maybe Derby really did have the equivalent of a Star Trek-type deflector shield craftily installed that close to the goal-line, as I suggested afterwards ? the rotten thing then contrived to stubbornly remain the wrong side of that little white line running ?twixt both goalposts, giving the visitors the chance they needed to successfully clear the danger! As for John Homer, what little remained of his hair was now stuck in a sad, shredded heap on the floor in front of him! The BIFOM? Well, you work it out for yourselves: after so much practice, you must have got it all word-perfect by now! Oh, yes ? and, lest I forget, who should take to the field of play around that time, but our old chum Peshcisolido: what that did to the collective mood of our supporters, who scented disaster the very moment he stepped onto the Hawthorns turf, I?ll leave to your fertile imaginations!

After that colossal clanger from Phillips, I reckon our lot must have mentally settled for just the one point, which wasn?t a lot of good to us, as far as our continued hopes of upwards-mobility were concerned, but better than shipping all three, I suppose. Trust John Hartson, with but a minute or so remaining on the clock, to upset the applecart, and in such unlikely fashion, too. As I said in my opener, his contribution to the proceedings had been more or less unspectacular, thus far, which is why just about every Baggie in the place ended the game with their mouths still gaping around the region of their metatarsals, and the local A and E to be put on full cardiac and stroke alert.

Robbo was the provider, and Hartson the deliverer, the final shot taking ? I think ? a bit of a deflection from Big Dave as it went in, but sod all that: the ball was well and truly in, and what?s more, the ref was pointing to the centre-circle! Yup, the goal stood, thereby negating instantly my fleeting thought the ref ? he?d been an absolute sod all the game, giving us very little, but allowing their lot to get away with murder, almost ? would rule it out through sheer perversity. Nope, one-nil it was, so now we had to defend the sodding lead ? for HOW MANY MINUTES, REFEREE? FOUR?

Where the hell he?d got that figure from I simply couldn?t imagine; even the great Einstein himself wouldn?t have dared, Relativity time-dilation effect, or none. Oh, well ? best buckle down to it, warmly welcome the introduction of Clem as a time-wasting change, with Jason Koumas getting the marginally-early finish to his day?s labours, then ride out the bumps, which we did quite comfortably in the end, thankfully. It?s been one hell of a long time since I?ve been so glad to hear the man in the middle blow up: you could see most of our neighbours visibly deflating also once they?d realised it was all over!

Thoughts? A bloody well-deserved three pointer for us, and one very much dug out of bottomless pits innumerable. Not a game I?ll forget in a hurry, that?s for sure, and not just because of that almighty miss of Phillips?s, either. Well done for hanging on in there, chaps: that was true grit in action. It also shows we can play with a bit of ginger injected into our game when we put our minds to it. The big thing, now, is to translate all that to our next outing, to Barnsley, come Sunday next. We really so have to get back into winning ways on the road once more: manage that, and our future should be looking much brighter come the onset of the festive season. Heading into relatively calm waters would also take the heat right off Mogga, who must have been under quite a considerable amount of pressure to get things sorted these past few weeks or so. The thing we need, and most of all, right now, is CONSISTENCY. Get that, and the Baggie future will be looking much brighter once more. Stuff up, and ? well, you lot can complete that sentence better than I ever will.

And Finally?? One. On our way down the steps, I felt a sharpish tug on the back of my coat, indicating someone wanted to hang on to it very grimly indeed. Turning around, who should I find there, but the gnomish figure of old Vic Stirrup himself, all eighty-odd years of him and still going strong! But hanging on to me, of all people, to keep his balance? ?Just a minute, Vic,? said I, ?This is a bit like the blind leading the blind, if you know what I mean?.?

Two. Everyone ready for the Annual Public Torture commonly known to all and sundry as the FA Cup Third Round Draw, then? Much to my other half?s pleasure, he heard of Hereford?s 4-0 second round stuffing of Port Vale while in the ground at half-time, the game being an early kick-off for some reason or other. Me? I groaned ? and not with delight at seeing him so happy, either. How many of you remember the time we drew the Bulls in the League Cup, then?

Yes, and lost the home leg 1-0 after drawing away bloodlessly. Don?t remind me. The fact we didn?t have a forward line to speak of that night had an awful lot to do with it, mind! By now, you?ll have sussed the general direction in which my mind is working: yes, I know, I stand more chance of getting four balls up on the Lottery than the FA pulling out the ball marked ?The Bulls? in conjunction with that marked ?West Bromwich Albion? tomorrow ? but remember, I?ve managed to get the four balls up no less than three times in recent years! Oh, well, at least the ?cabaret? will be good while we?re waiting for our doom to come upon us ? the eccentric behaviour of ?Im Indoors when the draw is made really has to be seen to be truly believed, trust me on this!

 - Glynis Wright

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