The Diary

01 February 2007: Baggies Push Their Luck In A Tense And Fraught Home Victory.

Visibly relieved Baggie, to perplexed-lookng small child, as we made our way down Halfords Lane after the final whistle: ??.That?s what being an Albion supporter is all about, son??.?

And you can say that again, and ?amen?, as well, Vicar. The latter part of that fraught second half tonight, I really don?t want to go through again for a long, long time, and for the simple reason that my nerves simply wouldn?t stand the strain! When the man in black first announced four minutes of added time, we thought he was having a laugh: it was only on belatedly realising we were in very grave danger of the laugh suddenly ending up on us that the grins instantaneously vanished from faces innumerable, to be replaced by one looking about as troubled and anxious as the ones radiating peace and joy to the world just moments before.

Plymouth, the losing side, might well have ended up rueing their rotten luck mightily, once back into the warmth of their dressing room: their current League position completely failed to reflect in a suitably accurate manner just how good they really were. Had a fair few crucial decisions not gone against them, and, in one particular instance, the offending Gargoyle very harshly indeed, they could quite easily have ended up snatching at least a point from tonight?s Hawthorns thriller ? and, had that been the case, I reckon we wouldn?t have considered ourselves at all hard done by.

Plymouth, now gaffered by former QPR head honcho Ian Holloway, of course, put up a really brave show in front of their travelling fans, of which there were quite a few present in the Smethwick tonight: it?s also an pretty significant indication of the immense loyalty shown by their people that they?d elected to come to our place in such large numbers. Midweek, tenth in the table, about to play an Albion side that was hitting real form, at long last ? but still rarin? to go, it would appear. There?s devotion, complete and utter, for you, and their side only a whisker short of actually giving them something to smile about after that long, long coach journey up the M5 earlier this afternoon. A case of ?After The Lord Mayor?s Show?, for us? Nearly, oh so very nearly.

All that was very much in the future, though, as ?Im Indoors and myself travelled the short distance to the ground, around six in the evening. An uneventful drive to The Shrine, a rapid easing of our car into its normal parking spot, and we were in business. Well, ?Im Indoors was: he had to hand over yet another box-file of GD pictures to Albion?s main man with the camera (and working his knackers as near off as dammit, trying to copy them all to a completely different medium, for the benefit of the club?), Lawrie Rampling (may the sun never set on his light-meter, and the moon never ruin his developer!).

My mission, should I want to accept it, was to get the drinks in while my other half did battle with the steward on duty at the Press entrance, a bit like that whopping great dog, Ceberus, really, the one reputed to constantly guard the gates of the Underworld, thereby controlling access to Hades very tightly indeed. Never mind: I?m sure there?s more than a fair share of Dingles out there, ready and eager to make the grade!

So into the Hawthorns Hotel I went, then. And, as expected, there was the Lewis family, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Or something. But first I had to negotiate the bar, something that proved somewhat problematic, as it turned out. The problem lay in the fact that ? err ? they didn?t have an awful lot of common drinks in stock, at that time. Looked as though not one person had used their brains when re-ordering, either.

All they had on sale, by way of branded non-alcoholic rehydrating liquids, was Diet Coke, Red Thunder (don?t ask!), or Lucozade, with only still mineral water on offer for the use of those who wanted to keep their bodies as pristine as a much-loved temple. Sure, they did have some alcohol on sale, but even the choice there was pretty awful: I guess if you liked lager, or champagne ? yep, they had bottles of bubbly on display, price ?30 for white, and ?40 for pink, honest ? then you wouldn?t have had much to moan about, really.

Once I?d sorted out our immediate needs on the thirst-quenching front, it was time to bat the breeze with our Stoke-based chum, of whom we?d heard nary a whisper since the last home game before tonight?s effort. The imminent transfer deadline took up much of my time, amid some speculation as to whether Ellington might still exit to Wigan, stage left. But he didn?t and hasn?t since, so Nathan?s stuck with us for the remainder of the current season, sadly. Not so, sexually-adventurous keeper Russell Hoult, mind. As predicted in this column last night, he?s well and truly out of the club, now. And the Championship outfit wanting to make use of his somewhat dubious services? Stoke City, that?s who. Oh, well, should anyone from there ever ask him to ?talk dirty?, then he?s just the right man to go and do it, isn?t he?

And then there was the very sad tale of our Bluenose Butcher to relate. He went and got hit with a real double whammy today, believe it or not: first off were the problems Blues were encountering as viable promotion prospects, as per last night?s home defeat, and second was the sheer schadenfreude value of their sale of Matthew Upson to Premiership West Ham for around ?6 million. Done totally over the head of a furious Steve Bruce, or so the media asserted: probably the main reason why rumours subsequently swept our ground that an incandescent Brucie had since threatened to resign over the whole grubby affair.

And, what?s more, now we?ve discovered winning ways when on the road, The Noise has threatened to join the pair of us the very next time we go to an away game. Too late for the forthcoming Hull City caper, of course, but don?t rule him out of any others. Mind you, he?ll have to alter his lifestyle somewhat to do it: only one day off has The Noise had since the Leeds game.

Tonight, he should have had another, really, but his booked leave day had to go to make way for someone whose partner had just given birth! We suspect he?ll join the FA Cup Express when it?s time to hit the good citizens of Hull with our various Black Country quirks and foibles, so don?t say you haven?t been warned, OK?

All good things must come to an end, of course, and that was very much the case with our wee pre-match socialising session: bidding everyone farewell, The Fart (a comparative late-comer) included, we then hightailed it over to the other side of Halfords Lane, and to the little coterie already gathering on Anorak?s Corner. And that?s where we first learned that last Sunday lunchtime, Steve The Miser?s son and heir visited Molineux for the very first time in his entire life, making that his inaugural away local derby! Wow, and what an away win to make your first at the Dingles: I?ll bet you any money, he?ll be looking back on that game with fondness, still, come the time when he has to take kids of his own to Albion games. And very, very cheaply, no doubt: after all, there is a certain family reputation to maintain there, isn?t there?

A quick pause while a scowling Steve reluctantly parted with some dosh we were owed, and we were off once more, but inside the ground proper. One amusing touch: as we were making our way along the narrow corridor beneath the stand, where they dispense all the refreshments etc. there was an announcement on the PA system. I didn?t catch the first part, but I certainly did the second: something on the lines of: ??..and I know you?d all like to see those goals from last Sunday again?.? Result? One astonishingly premature mad charge for the entrances leading to the seats, what else!

All those important pre-match bodily functions having been taken care of, time to take our seats for the Championship Quick Step. Very little in the way of team changes, the most important being new import Dean Kiely getting an instantaneous debut, at Zoobie?s expense. A bit unfair, I suppose, coming hard on the heels of a vastly-improved display at the Custard Bowl, but since when has life been really fair in football? One other change, but only as far as the bench was concerned, that one, Sherjil McDonald finally getting the chance to wow the front row of the Halfords with his wit and repartee, while busily engaged in the important process of warming up.

A bitsy more pre-match fussing around, and the ref was ready to make a start. Oh, good, we?d all thought he?d forgotten the real purpose of his visit! And it wasn?t long after we?d started that we began to realise that Ian Holloway?s Devonian mob, 11th in the table before tonight, weren?t content to simply play the role of ?patsy?. They had a very useful outfit assembled there, good in the middle, fairly adept at keeping the supply chain going to their front men, and pretty tight at the back.

But it was Joe Kamara, after eleven or so minutes of tentative probing on the part of both sides, who first chose to test the opposition, breaking free of his minder, then, having done that successfully, carrying the ball right into the box: unlike last Sunday?s heroics, he had no alternative but to take on one defender too many, so he lost possession. Still, the idea was right. A minute to so later, it was Jason Koumas?s turn to try and steal the headlines, his cross, low and nasty, trickling tantalisingly close to the goal-line, then out past the right hand post, with an admiring Smethwick End in complete rapture.

And we were playing some lovely football out there, the whole thing running like a well-oiled machine, as move after slick move quietly intermeshed. The only thing lacking, really, was that elusive ?killer ball?, the sort that transforms good efforts into goals in the twinkling of an eye. With just 18 minutes gone, from a free kick on the right, we nearly set McShane up for a swift moment of glory: sadly, when the ball eventually dropped right onto his eager blonde napper, instead of heading straight for the back of the net, it ballooned right over the Smethwick instead.

But Plymouth weren?t sunk yet, not by a long way. Just a couple of minutes after the ex-Man U lad tried to break the deadlock, they got a free kick, and in a potentially awkward spot, well within striking distance. A first test of Keily?s skills was in prospect: fortunately, after much too-ing and fro-ing on the part of the opposition, the kick was taken, and our new custodian had the ball safely clutched to his receptive bosom.

At that stage in the game, though, Plymouth were playing second fiddle to our own lads, and it didn?t help their cause one bit when they developed a sudden tendency to give away daft hand-ball free kicks at almost every opportunity they could. Their last one nearly cost them a goal, the Koumas shot, taken from about 20 yards out, only just clearing the angle of the right-hand post. And it was Koumas involved in what was, for me, one of the best attacking moves of the entire game, when Koumas sprayed one pass diagonally across the pitch, right to left, where Koren was waiting to receive it, which he did. Never mind that the attack broke down almost instantaneously, the sheer class involved in that particular bit of play was truly awesome.

While all that was going on, the surprisingly large Plymouth lot were giving it their all, from their Smethwick End vantage point. ?Green Army!, Green Army!....? was their battle-cry, as those modern-day inheritors of the Francis Drake tradition laboured mightily in the middle of the park. ?Green Army?? Were they all cultivating gangrene, or something? Nostalgia-time, too, from their faithful. I can?t remember for the life of me the last time I heard a football crowd sing the ?Molly Malone? chant ? aw, you know, the one that sued to be so popular in the sixties, and begins: ?In Dublin?s fair city, where the girls are so pretty?..?

Midway through the half, an outstretched arm invaded my thought-processes, and one bearing sweets, at that. Yep, it sure looks as though the Homer household have still to dispose of their remaining Christmas sweet stock! And, as we chomped merrily, something, I know not what, transpired to upset Ian Holloway mightily. Verily I say unto you, the touchline rantings and ravings were awesome. Time for John to turn to me and ask whether the Plymouth gaffer had suffered from heart disease in the past. ?I think he?s had a bypass, hasn?t he??

And, no ? I just couldn?t resist it: ?Yeah, John ? and a ring-road, too?..?

As the half progressed slowly towards its conclusion, more and more, it was looking as though we?d tried our best to break them down ? ?stubborn? is a woefully-underestimating description for a Holloway side ? and now were scratching feverishly around for further ideas as to how to end the stalemate, finally. Enter, at that point in the proceedings, Lady Luck, voluminous knickers and all.

Remember what I said about Argyle having this tendency to give away daft hand-balls? Well, this time, they did it one time too often, and right in the middle of the box, too. Even the most obtuse of officials couldn?t have missed it, so Plymouth paid the price. Personally, I?d thought the decision a tad harsh on them, but that?s the way the mop flops, sometimes. Up stepped Joe Kamara to take the thing: much screaming and gibbering in the Halfords, as he did so. ?Are you REALLY sure you want to take it, Joe?....? But we needn?t have worried. In it went, and very obediently, too, although a shade too close to their keeper?s outstretched palm for my liking. Still, we were one in front, and right on the break, too.

But Argyle weren?t quite dead in the water. Just before the whistle proper, they grabbed a corner, but we regained possession, then broke as quick as light itself. Should have done much better than we did with that golden chance to really hit them where it hurt. That was the cue for them to grab a whole series of corners, looking increasingly dangerous with every one they took. Fortunately, after the fourth one, the ref blew for the break, and, much to the annoyance of the Plymouth lot, with the ball still in play. Funny, though, I don?t ever recall this ref?s main recreational pastime being listed as ?Serial Onanism?! Can?t think for one moment where that away end got the idea from!

Poor Jean Homer. When your luck?s out, it?s in heaps. Come the half-time draw for the ?1,000 prize ?Baggies Bonanza? lottery, the lad on the mike gave the winning number as 1443. Jean?s ticket? 1433, poor lamb. Mind you, what with that and her poor cat still suffering from the residual effects of the ?snip?, she wasn?t exactly having a jolly old time of it.

Time for the second sitting, then. A penalty with more than a smidgen of Hartley?s Jam about it seeing out the first, but that?s about par for the course, when you?re struggling against a top-six side, unto they that haveth the luck, cometh even more luck! As we remembered from our more recent Premiership experiences, sides doing well got all the breaks, and at our expense, usually!

Within just three minutes of the restart, Plymouth sounded a warning they weren?t going to let sleeping sea-dogs lie. Hales should have done far better for them than he did, after a typical defensive mullock on our part well and truly let the visitors in. Was Robbo the culprit, that time?

But that only served to set up that man Kamara for his second. With just four on the clock, Phillips turned provider, and donated him a lovely ball, right from one side to the other. Off went Joe, then, on the right: first one defender bit the dust, then another. And still he ran with it. With keeper McCormick advancing like a train from out of the box, and everyone there going: ?Will he, won?t he?....? Joe finally let fly, a beautifully placed effort, it was, right into the bottom right-hand corner. Unsurprisingly, the Brummie went completely mental: one hell of a strike, that, and coming at a point where Argyle might well have forced an equaliser against the run of play, at that particular time.

And now, a quick word of praise for Ian Holloway?s Plymouth side. After that, most other sides would have curled up and died without any compunction whatsoever. But not Argyle: for whatever reason, they seemed to take that goal as an affront to their very manhood (or something!). Suddenly, the game was becoming tight, very tight indeed. They were regaining possession of the middle, and as a result, their strikers were getting much closer with their attempts on goal. Nasty, very nasty. And it didn?t help that we were back to our old tricks of losing possession cheaply, despite Chappy?s heroic attempts to put right the damage as quickly as it occurred.

As if by magic, John Homer produced yet more sweets! Yep, he sure knew what a bad case of nerves could do to one?s blood sugar levels. Mind you, ever since he?d first started dishing out the suck ? just after Christmas was the very first appearance of the old Quality Streets, I reckon ? we?d hit that winning streak of ours. Could this be the start of another Halfords Lane Stand tradition, I wondered.

And it was that with just 19 minutes of the half elapsed, that we made what I regard as our first tactical mistake ? taking off Koumas, who?d been an inspiration, and an intelligent one, at that, in the middle, and replacing him with Zoltan Gera. Plymouth, too made a change ? Fallon for Gallon! Perhaps Holloway?s really a poet that doesn?t know it? No reflection on our diminutive Balkans lad implied, but with the departure of Koumas, went most of our midfield drive. That caused the ?balance of power? to shift mightily, and significantly away from our hands, and it was only the skill of Keily that prevented Plymouth making hay far sooner than they did.

We were living on borrowed time, no doubt about it, so it came as no real surprise to see Plymouth finally grab their just desserts, about 15 minutes from the end. And from then on in, they started chucking everything they had in the direction of our goal; say what you like about that Argyle side, they could certainly play a bit when it suited them. Every time we repulsed an attack, we failed to keep the ball sufficiently long enough to negate any remaining danger, so it wasn?t all that much of a shocker to see the visitors chucking the entire contents of the kitchen at our sorely-pressed defence, never mind just the bloody sink! And not just the once, but time and time again: we didn?t half need that referee?s final whistle, and quick, but the tame whistler simply compounded the torment by adding on an unbelievable FOUR minutes!

Not a good moment for those suffering from coronary heart disease, I can assure you. Within the space of that seemingly-elongated period, Albion almost conceded a penalty ? the culprit, subber McDonald, bringing down one of theirs right inside the box: fortunately for us, the ref waved away all the Plymouth protests. Had I been wielding the whistle, I would have given it, no doubt about it. No wonder Holloway was doing his crust on the nearby touchline. But that wasn?t the end of it: right at the death, a Plymouth cross reached its intended target, but fortunately for us, the lad headed straight at Kiely, and not into the back of the net. Phew!

Just seconds after that, we heard the sweetest sound in the entire civilised universe ? that of the ref?s whistle, signifying the end of hostilities, finally. A quick look all around me, to find that not a few old codgers ? and a fair mumber of young ?uns as well! ? were experiencing breathing difficulties of one sort or another, with many holding hand to ticker, so nerve-jangling was that ending.

Fair play to Argyle, though: not an easy team to turn over by any means, they chased us all the way, and some might argue it was jam, pure and simple, that netted us all three points right at the very end. But, as I remarked earlier: when you?re on a bit of a winning streak, luck seems to follow in its wake. Tough on Argyle, undoubtedly, but they?ll live to fight another day. And if Holloway can keep that lot together, it wouldn?t surprise me at all to see them making a substantial impact, either at the fag-end of this term, or the next one to come.

And Mowbray got it absolutely spot-on with his post-match comments to the effect that just six or so weeks ago, we would have finished 2-2, and not 2-1 in front. Reminding everyone that we?d come from behind in the last few minutes versus Luton, to turn it around by equalising, then scoring a third at the very last gasp. ?The character is starting to flow out of this team on difficult nights?? Couldn?t have put it better myself.

That Kamara brace now leaves him with a total of 17 strikes to his name, and the side as a whole with eight home wins in succession. Enough to bring us within comfortable gobbing-distance of Steve Bruce?s lot, their lead having been cut to just one point. Mind you, as I said earlier, Brucie is not a happy Bluenose at all, right now. Brucie threatening to resign tonight, on principle? Oh dear.

Our win was doubly-important because Southampton also continued on the winning trail tonight: had we caved in to that Argyle pressure at all, we?d have ended up dropping a place. And that win gives us a pretty good scoring record, too: correct me if I?m wrong, but is it only Man United with a better one, tonight?

And Finally?.. Spare a thought for the Noise?s eldest, Carly, this coming Sunday. She?ll be at her dad?s place of work on that day, having an interview for the part-time post of staff dining room/bistro waitress, and general factotum. Not a career move as such, more a way of getting some much-needed pazazz into her off-school life via better finances. Shouldn?t be too onerous a problem, that, talking to a load of hyperactive Stokies for 30 minutes or so, and trying so desperately to interrupt the flow of their manic chatter, all at the same time!

 - Glynis Wright

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