The Diary

13 January 2007: It's Getting To Be A Real Deja Vu Ardiles Season!

Having lived with the sound of his strident tones holding forth against all-comers for such a long while, I sometimes fail to notice the crux of what the Noise is actually saying, conversationally, pre-match. Especially when you?re in a crowded pub, and my hearing not being of the best these days. But I have to admit his words hit me like a half-brick donated by an angry Dingle tonight, the reason being, of course, that once more, he was dead right. His remarks about our current season bearing remarkable similarities to the Ardiles one, 14 years ago, I mean.

Just like now, we were banging those balls in the back of the net with a profligacy few other sides could match, but leaking goals something awful at the back, as well. Having got back from tonight?s game, I remembered what The Noise had said, looked up that season?s results in the reference books ? and there it was. Final position fourth, played 46, won 25, drawn 10, lost 11. Goals for 88, against 54. Points? 85, a total that would have seen us up automatically in previous seasons, but for that particular one, we were up against Stoke, Bolton and Vale, who finished on 93, 90 and 89 respectively. Still, we did get there eventually, and with a super day out thrown in for good measure, also. Not that Port Vale would agree, mind.

Just like now, we were a formidable outfit at home, but on our travels, distinctly patchy, losing around eight, that season, and drawing quite a few as well. And, just like today, there were the high-scoring thrillers, such as Preston, at home, which we won 3-2, and Bolton, where the final score was also three, with only one by way of reply. Lots of others, also.

The fundamental difference between then and now lay in our ability to go to a much smaller club, completely take over their ground ? sometimes having as many as three entire sides given over to Baggie-travellers: their bank managers must have really loved us ? then proceed to tater ?em in as clinical a way as you?d ever want to see. Example? The fine demolition job we did on Chester at their place, very clinical, very cool, but a real joy to watch, will remain in my mind for a very long time indeed.

Right now, our away form is shocking, and that?s the real difference between the two: only one win on the road thus far is not the sort of thing you?d expect to see from a side with promotion firmly in its sights. The real problem? We currently lack a defence with any sort of ?bite? to it, of course, as tonight?s events proved quite conclusively, but other than that, yep ? I reckon The Noise has something there. Go on, dig out your old programmes, and you?ll see precisely what he meant when he said it.

Before that, though, we were very much in the business of looking for The Fart, who?d agreed to meet us outside the Ticket Office at half-six. Our mission, should we decide to accept it? To purchase Leeds and Hull tickets ? both myself, ?Im Indoors and The Fart will be attending both ? and, in the case of the Hull caper, some coach travel. But first, who should I bump into, but my niece, Donna, out on her usual matchday mission of flogging fridges to Eskimos, or its modern-day equivalent, getting people to sign up for credit cards whether they like it or not!

A few friendly exchanges of words with that lady, and she was homing in on yet another possible sales target: think ?charity muggers?, or the sort of ambulance-chasing accident lawyers that home in on anyone walking with a stick in the town shopping precinct, like radar-assisted jet fighters, and you?ve just about got it! Fair play, though, she is bloody good at what she does, so I can?t really knock it, can I?

Eventually, we did find the old sod and made our purchases accordingly: after that, it was a temporary parting of the ways, as ?Im Indoors went to the Press Lounge, in search of Lawrie Rampling yet again, and we two in the direction of the Hawthorns Hotel. One sad little note: speaking to a supporter I hadn?t seen for a while, and discovering his wife had cancer: not only that, her sister had also been diagnosed with the same awful disease, but in a different part of the body. The real stunner was learning that a cousin had the disease also. Talk about bad luck going in threes: some lucky families go through life completely free of such things, while others suffer multiple agonies, both physical and psychological. Life seems so unfair, sometimes.

Into a very crowded pub, then, grabbing some drinks along the way ? only two people running the bar, chaps? - and finally plonking ourselves down on a nearby table, where The Noise plus kids were busily holding forth. Only to be expected, really. That?s when our garrulous chum came up with the little niblet of profound thought I mentioned in my opener. I even found time to have a little natter with Carly about whether to go for four A Levels next year or not: were I in her talented shoes, I?d go for it, which is precisely what I told her.

Rightly or wrongly, there?s much more emphasis on coursework than there was in my day ? those marks count towards the total grade awarded, which they didn?t back then - and there?s no longer a strict quota placed on numbers awarded each grade. Before 1980, if, say, you?d done enough to get an A, but you?d taken the exam along with lots of other bright kids in that year?s national crop, then you could end up getting marked down to a B, say. Think of it as an ?overflow?. Conversely, if you were in a year that threw up fewer bright sparks, but you didn?t do quite as well as expected on the day either, you could find yourself marked up to get an unexpected A, because of insufficient numbers above you reaching the required standard to fill the quota. Today?s way of doing things is about the fairest shake one can get, as I see it.

But enough of that, and on with the show. In this case, stepping out into what was a very warm night for the time of year. Amazing, but when you put it into the context of Moscow, only just experiencing their first snow of the current winter, crocuses already blooming on the Continent, and ski-runs having to import artificial snow to get some much-needed revenue, you can certainly see a pattern developing.

Oh ? and even the US of A has had to stop and think, at long last: after all, it?s not all that often you see New York basking in 22 degrees of January heat, and Japanese cherries flowering like mad in their parks. Their President might well be as thick as a Dingle on a bad day, but even he?s starting to get wise, I reckon. Looks like we?re all going to be headed for some pretty sweaty seasons in the not-so-distant future, and not the sort caused by nervousness, either!

Just blame this year?s lot on El Nino: no, not a footballer of Spanish extraction, but a periodical heating of the Pacific Ocean, and one affecting weather systems all over the globe every time it happens. (Wicked thought: I wonder if we could somehow persuade our moronic near-neighbours that a player bearing that name actually exists, and desperately wants to have a trial with the Molineux lot? I?ll leave far more devious minds than my own to sort that one out: just don?t tell ?em I give you the idea, when you get rumbled?.)

At first, it seemed like we?d walked into a reserve game. The crowd, I mean, or the sparseness of it, to be more precise. And only about 400 in that away end looked a pretty poor show: admittedly, all four sides did fill considerably more just before the start, but it was clearly evident that tonight?s gate (19,927 was the final total) wasn?t exactly going to break any records.

Team news? Darren Carter, well and truly benched, and Chaplow strutting his stuff out there instead. Steve Watson slotting in to replace Paul McShane, who was suspended. Also missing was Alby, still suffering the effects of a groin problem, by all accounts. The Chaplow thing a stiffening-up of our midfield after coming so close to stuffing-up the Leeds game, just a few days ago? If it was, it wasn?t very successful.

Oh ? and another thing. Welcome to the 21st Century, West Bromwich Albion! Well, I think it?s a ?welcome?. The newly-installed moving advertising hoardings, I mean, one at each corner of the pitch facing the Sky cameras, perched in their gantry high above our heads. The Luton travelling persuasion, bless their straw hats, were clearly miffed by the recent sale of Rowan Vine to Blues: ?NO MORE SALES!? thundered two large printed banners erected on the wall separating the front bit of the stand from those seats ascending the rear. Oh dear.

Just before the start, there was the spectacle of Jason Koumas being presented with his Sunday Mercury Goal Of The Month Award by Gary Newbon, who?d tipped us off about it yesterday, at the Sutton Branch meeting previously described. When both sides came out, quite a startling contrast, the sponsor?s magenta flags, and Luton?s bright orange strip. Or were the visitors merely trying to aim for that currently fashionable ?Just been let out of Guantanamo Bay? look, instead? And, not long after that, all the adverts on Sky having been dispensed with, and their little man on the touchline having given the ref the nod, off we went.

And, with only three minutes on the clock, nearly went in front, the almighty Chaplow effort, struck from all of 20 yards away, I reckon, screaming just past their keeper, then hitting the outside of the post, and with their entire defence still wondering precisely what was going on. That was the start of some pretty lively approach work from our stripey chums, one of which was scuppered very late on, by the light bulb finally going on inside the lino?s head that there may have been an offside in it, somewhere! Couldn?t see it, myself, but then again, I am as biased as sin itself!

But there was still lots of poison to be extracted from Luton: they had two creditable attempts at opening the scoring, with the game still young. All stemming from a weakness of ours that was to give us a lot more grief later on in the game: our unerring ability to misplace what should have been the sort of pass players at that level execute in their sleep. That, plus our inability to stand up to rough treatment from the opposition, who seemed to force us into losing possession more times than we?d really like to see.

With ten minutes gone, and no sign of the expected Baggies breakthrough, it was time for John Homer to indulge in a bit of a break himself. A Cadbury?s Roses, one, yet again; once more his plastic bag bulged with the toothsome sweets, and once more, everyone sitting on their row got far more chocolates down them than their post-Christmas diets would really allow for! I passed on that occasion, as did the others in our row, but indulged just before half-time ? with remarkable results, as you?ll see presently! As for John, miffed by our row?s failure to ingest the things and make a dent in what was clearly a ?chocolate mountain?, all he could say was: ?Oh, sod it ? I?ll take ?em down to the bench instead?.?

With just 15 minutes showing on the clock, it had to happen. Remember what I said in yesterday?s offering about all our players hovering around the four bookings mark? Not any more, well, for one, at least. Jason Koumas was the one to incur the ref?s wrath past the stage of a warning, so into the book he went. Bugger. That means he?s going to miss Leeds away, along with John Hartson, as I understand it. A pretty big blow, that, especially when considered in context with Jase?s outstanding performance tonight. Oh, well, at least we?re getting the worst over quickly: maybe the loss of our classy midfielder might have affected us far more had we been nearer the finishing line when he finally notched up the fifth.

Then, not long after that, what appeared to be a real body-blow, in more than the usual sense of the phrase. Curtis Davies, injured, and having to leave the field of play as a result, Jared Hodgkiss coming on by way of replacement. The strange thing was, as he left the pitch, in no way did I see a foot injury ? or, to be more accurate, anatomically, one to his toe. The look on his face suggested slight concussion, to me. But whatever. Just before the break, the chap next to me was informed, via his mobile (clearly, some mates were watching the whole thing on the box, and feeding him with their own views, plus those of the commentators, on what was happening out there), that our defender had been taken to hospital for X-rays, with a toe fracture suspected.

Much gloom in our part of the Halfords, as the grim news spilled out further still, and by a process not far short of osmosis. Yes, said my other half, but hadn?t he walked off? Surely the toe couldn?t be broken, if he could do that? Time for me to point out that it was a well-known phenomenon in military circles for people to carry on normally, even in the face of what were, by anyone?s standards, pretty awful wounds. Adrenalin can do remarkable things to someone?s pain threshold, as witnessed by numerous accounts of squaddies taking out entire machine gun nests, despite being riddled with bullet wounds that would have finished off any normal squaddie: just read some contemporary accounts of soldiers actually winning the Victoria Cross, and you?ll see what I mean straightaway.

It wasn?t long after that we got our first Dire Warning, a precursor of what the opposition could do to defences that weren?t entirely on the ball, in a literal sense. All at sixes and sevens, we were, as Luton suddenly found sufficient space to cross from the left, the shot skittering right across an unguarded goalmouth, Houlty having been left clutching thin air. All it needed was the slightest of pokes from a Luton boot, and they would have been in front, but try as the lad did, his flailing foot couldn?t stretch the extra six inches or so to make it count. More jam than Hartley?s, you had there, Albion ? so sort it. A shame we never heeded the warning later on.

From then on, the game proceeded in a pretty even-handed manner, both sides having decent chances to get off the mark: for our part, the approach work was, in the main, superb, evoking gasps of sheer delight from the home crowd time and time again. Our problem, as ever, lay in actually converting all that spadework into scores on the doors.

For their part, the visitors swiftly discovered, much to their surprise, no doubt, a somewhat over-generous attitude on our part, when it came to cocking up their passing of the ball to a colleague wearing the stripes: time and time again, we saw moves break down for the very same reason, and the opposition not only in possession, but bearing down on our goalmouth like a steam train with the business-end valve jammed well and truly open. But it wasn?t Luton that were destined to open the scoring, strangely enough.

It all started just before added-on time, coming just after the Bloke In Front Of Me?s first cry of ?RUBBISH!?, that game, remarkably late for him, the moment when John Homer decided to shove the old chocolates round again. Suddenly remembering that the last time I?d indulged, versus Leeds, we?d scored, I decided to grab one ? and with that, just seconds after I?d taken off the foil wrapper and shoved its contents into my capacious cake-?ole? Yep - Jason Koumas got the ball, accelerated past a couple of Luton defenders as if they weren?t there, then fired, low, mean, nasty, right past their keeper?s flailing arms, and into the bottom right-hand corner. Truly the Power Of The Cadbury?s Rose smiteth all adversaries, Amen?

Wow, what a strike: pure class, undoubtedly, and well-deserved, too. It?s the hallmark of a really good player, that: to take a mediocre game by the scruff of the neck in such delightful fashion, and by doing so, bring a real buzz back to the crowd once more. A real professional job, and one I would have never expected to see last summer, when he was having that almighty spat with Robbo. Unless he?d ended up wearing another club?s shirt entirely, of course.

That put an entirely different complexion on things, of course. Come the start of the second sitting, Luton, clearly miffed at going behind, tried their best to redress the balance, and as quickly as they could. With just 2 minutes gone, they?d earned a corner, with Houlty on his best form to punch the thing well out of danger. Sure, we were also seeing more classy stuff from Jason Koumas, with some truly wonderful stuff from Kev Phillips, on the flanks, too, but the visitors were sniffing out weaknesses in our middle like a pig rooting for truffles.

Yet again, our main weakness, a tendency to lose the ball cheaply, coupled with more than one Condor Moment at the back, made it look as though our lead would always be a precarious one. The fact we were always trying to lay the ball off, when near the box, instead of doing the simple thing, and banging it straight into the mixer, where it would do far more good, also led to our eventual near-demise. Frustrating? Not half, and after the third or fourth example of such shocking ball-work, most of the crowd were getting a trifle overheated.

I wasn?t all that surprised, then, when Luton finally equalised with just 59 minutes of the game gone. The chance came about as a result of our failure to close the visitors down properly: the lesson from such gross defensive carelessness was driven well and truly home by their strikers, what they had left, of course, which made conceding that goal even more indefensible ? in every meaning of the phrase.

The very moment the ref pointed to the centre circle, you could almost hear the atmosphere in the ground change to one of faint hostility. Pegged back by a side with virtually no forwards to speak of, and in highly-predictable fashion, too. And even more fury when, just two minutes or so later, John Hartson had one ruled out courtesy of an offside flag raised a little late, for my taste. I was to learn, later, that Sky replays proved the goal to be perfectly kosher, which sounds about par for the course.

Mind you, I do have to say it must be an awful job to have to not only watch what the forward?s doing, but also have one eye towards the precise moment the ball?s actually struck. Given the phenomenal speed with which the game is played these days, and how quickly players can accelerate, I?m not too surprised when linos get it wrong. I read a piece of research, once, that came up with the finding that our flag-waving friends got it wrong around 40 per cent of the time. A clear-cut case for the introduction of modern technology, in my view: if the Wimbledon tennis finals can sort out the ticklish question of dodgy line-calls by means of electronics, then surely our game could also benefit?

But that?s by the bye, of course. Right now, Luton were my main preoccupation: that goal had given them renewed hope, the prime consequence of this being their willingness to take the game to our end, have a go at our defence. To no-one?s surprise, we were buckling under that onslaught, and badly, too. Some relief was gained courtesy of a trio of Albion corners, but once more, we managed to apply gun to foot, then pull the trigger, by giving the ball away, yet again, with our badly-executed third, then seeing Luton break right out of defence, to go on the rampage once more.

This was getting to be a real comedy of Albion errors: from being in an ideal position to put them under the cosh, we were now feeling the pressure something awful. Some really shocking defending later, and we were behind, and for the first time in the game, too. They?d literally carved us wide open, leaving their lad Feeney the oh-so-simple task of banging the ball into an unguarded net. Oh dear. One in front, and only 20 minutes remaining: around ten later, Luton almost made it three and out, their effort only just scraping past the post, fortunately for us.

With time fast running out, and the entire ground, bar for the away end, of course, remaining wreathed in sullen silence, I turned to a clearly narked ?Im Indoors, prophesying gloomily that I just couldn?t see where the much-needed equalising goal was going to come from. And, my other half included, neither could anyone else sat in our immediate vicinity, too. With just 15 to go, a double subbing: Hartson and Kamara off ? to be absolutely fair, tonight wasn?t really one of Joe?s finest hours ? with Gera and new-boy Koren on to replace them. At first, we all thought our manager had finally flipped: what the hell was the point of taking off two strikers when we were desperately chasing the game?

The superb skills of Jason Koumas apart, our attitude seemed all wrong. Where was the urgency, for goodness sakes? No fight: no drive: no grit ? and, as I saw it at that time, no guts. Then with just three minutes left, we finally got the ?Get Out Of Jail Card? we so fervently desired. It all started with Zoltan Gera winning the ball, then laying it off to Kev Phillips, right in the middle of the box, and only a matter or ten or so yards out. But with one vital difference: all round him, and trying like stink to get the ball off him, were most of the Luton defence.

Despite any number of flailing opposition boots copping him on the ankles and elsewhere, he still kept the thing: more importantly, he then managed to wriggle his way past them, then somehow - don?t ask me the precise ?whys? and ?wherefores?, of what happened after that, because I simply don?t know! ? contrived to bang the ball right into the back of the net. Bedlam in the Brummie: suddenly, there was a faint glimmer of light to be seen at the end of a very long tunnel indeed, and we surged, from the restart, in an all-out effort to finish the job off properly, albeit rather belated.

A minute or so later, we nearly repeated the feat: that was to be our last chance, or so we thought. Not as far as our lot were concerned. Up went the board, then ? FOUR minutes added on? Blimey! Cue for an almighty roar from the Brummie they must surely have heard in Smethwick High Street. Blues had forced the issue in similar manner when they?d crossed paths with The Hatters: could we do the same thing?

With half the extra ration elapsed, we got a free-kick, and one not all that far from the edge of the box, too. Up stepped Our Jase to take the thing, over into the box went the ball, up rose the head of Kev Phillips ? and, as sweet as you like, in went the bloody ball. This time, the place really went wild: oh, so satisfying, to do unto others what numerous sides had done to us both last season, and the one before that. John Homer was leaping around like a thing demented, as was his missus: even the BIFOM felt suitably constrained to let a faint smile escape his lips! Blimey, that goal must have been really good to make him do that: the last time I?d seen him do similar, Megson was in charge, and Supes banging them in for us with regularity. And I didn?t escape, either: nearly crushed the life out of me, did ?Im Indoors, when that ball finally crossed the line!

Our first win, having come from behind, since Autumn 2005, when we did the same to The Arse, no less, thanks to a real stunner of a winning goal from young Darren Carter. And tonight?s beano bringing Kev Phillips?s goal tally to eleven this season, no less. That?s quite enough excitement for one night, mind: can you please make sure, Albion, that you finish off the opposition in a more conventional manner, next time out? I seriously doubt whether my frazzled nerves will stand the strain again, never mind those belonging to my seated neighbours in the Halfords! One good thing, though - the word from Sky was Curtis Davies didn't have a fracture, after all! Phew!

Just one more thought: with the final whistle fast approaching, all those Blues, Preston, Burnley, Southampton and Colchester supporters ? and some Dingles, no doubt - watching us on the box must have thought we?d had it. I can just picture the almighty groan that must have erupted from their mouths the precise moment Phillips put us in front. Yep, that win puts us fourth: a temporary state of affairs, presumably, what with everyone else bar Blues (I?d laugh like a drain if they got points docked for their idiocy in trying to re-lay a pitch right in the middle of winter: it?s not going to happen, mind, too much clout, and money to pay for good lawyers, too, but it would be nice to see ?em squirm, if only for a short while!) playing tomorrow, but a nice position to savour, even for just a fleeting moment. Make the most of it: next week, we?ll be Koumas-less, and Hartson absent also. Leeds, it might just be your day to shine!

And Finally?.. One. There was one steward really cussing, last Saturday ? and it was nothing whatsoever to do with the behaviour of his Baggie charges, good or otherwise, either! What happened? In a fit of incurable optimism, the guy went and placed a pre-match bet: Albion to win 3-0, and McShane to get our first. You can probably see where this is going, by now, but I?ll carry on to the bitter end. 175-1, the lad got from the bookies, so imagine his surprise when not only did McShane pot the first, come the end of the normal ration, we were three in front, and very much looking to keep it that way, too.

Oh dear ? Semper Te Fallant, yet again. Deep in injury time, Leeds went and scored, wrecking our chum?s dreams of a huge cash payout, at Ladbrokes? expense, completely. I?m not sure what he actually said when he saw the Yorkshire mob grab their very late consolation, but I?m more than willing to bet it wasn?t very pleasant to listen to!

Two. An interesting exchange of views when both Vic Stirrup and I made to leave the ground after the final whistle. Apparently, it was ME (one walking stick only to my name) holding HIM (one stick also, but a couple of hip replacements well and truly under his belt!) up on the gangway. So, once I?d got to the bottom of the stairs, I said: ?Tell you what, Vic, let?s make a race of it, then we?ll get to see who?s really the slowest, eh? My walking stick against yours?.?

Replied our elderly chum: ?You?d have to give me a bit of a start, at my age, mind??

?No problem, Vic,? said I, now full of the joys of spring, ?For you, my love, ANYTHING!? Just as well I didn?t hang around to hear his reply to that one!

 - Glynis Wright

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