The Diary

17 September 2003: Baggies Blow Wigan Big-Un!

I?m typing this in the wee small hours of the morning partially to maintain my normal service to those Baggies who can?t get to games as often as they?d like, and partly to assuage my fury over what happened at the JJB tonight. Some people resort to kicking their pets or children when confronted with some testing problem or another; I simply take it out of the keyboard, big-time. At least no-one gets hurt that way, unless you want to count ?injured pride? in on the deal. Perhaps someone more conversant with the tactical side of the game can put me right on this, so here goes with the question: just why was it that we forsook what was clearly a winning formation last Saturday, and instead, adopted a six-midfielder-one-striker (Hulse) diamond-shaped thingie? I?d have understood the change if it had really given Wigan some headaches, but all it seemed to do was confuse our players, and set up a frenzy of head-scratching among our supporters that must have left piles and piles of dandruff for the cleaners to dispose of come the morrow.

I?ll have more to say on this subject later, but tonight?s result really was the cherry that topped the cake of what was a pretty frustrating night all round for us Dick Eds. I can only assume the great gob of ill-luck that came whanging our way tonight came about as a result of the telling-off one of my black cats got just before we disappeared for Northern climes, because from the moment we set forth from GD Towers, absolutely nothing went right for the four of us. First of all, The Fart had bus trouble, which meant the time of his arrival at our place cut things rather finely; panicking, I rang is missus to elicit what time he?d left, only to hear him banging on our front door as I was talking to Dot. That problem done and dusted, we then headed in the general direction of the M6 and The Noise?s pick-up point, not far from Keele Services. Or rather, we would have done so had the motorway not been so thrombosed with traffic. Where the hell did it all come from? The upshot of all that stop-go stuff was we were around 30 minutes late picking up our ?in-car entertainment system?, which, of course put us behind on our timetable generally; after all that, we finally heaved into Wigan around seven that evening.

No time to lose, then; on to the (free) car park adjacent to the ground, then straight into selling-mode. We would have sought other moorings, but the lateness of our arrival firmly knocked that one on the head. Mind you, we weren?t half as confused as one flustered-looking Baggies supporter, shortly after we took up our flogging-position. ?Hurry up, you lot,? he said to his companions, ?We?ll miss the kick-off!?

Then, to us: ?What time is it now??

Us: ?Ten past seven.?

Him: ? Eh?? Then, when realisation set in, ?Oh, blimey, the clock on the coach was an hour fast!?

Confused, you will be!

It was while we were flogging our wares with gay abandon (ooer!) that we heard the news regarding those astonishing tactical changes. Only Hulse up front? A six-man midfield? Just what the hell was going on? Still, give the bloke a chance, we thought; this formation was certainly innovative, and if we couldn?t fathom out what the hell was going on, it was a dead cert Wigan couldn?t either. So, on we went with the old selling lark, with visits from many old friends during that time. Lancashire Baggies in abundance, of course, including the redoubtable Kev Buckley, and, of course, Anc and his retinue. Sadly, he didn?t bring that bloody rugby ball with him this time; my recollection of last term?s visit was of Clem getting most confused with the appearance of this ovoid interloper on the pitch during the pre-match kickabout! Not long after Anc and friends departed, we then spotted Laraine Astle heading in our general direction and wanting our wares. Cheers for the fiver for those three Dicks; this being our ?good cause? this year, the excess money will, of course, go towards the day-centre where Jeff spent so much time during his illness.

Finally prising The Fart away from a couple of nearby police horses ? I have to say the gee-gees were marginally more good-looking! ? we then chucked ourselves through the turnstiles and into the stadium proper. Much the same as last time, which will come as no surprise; it?s only a year since our paths last crossed, but compared to our followers, I have to say what an inert lot they were. Should they actually hit the big-time come May, they?ll certainly feel right at home in some Premiership stadia; were the stewards handing out Mogadon at the turnstiles, or something? To use that age-old Black Country expression to fullest advantage, I?ve seen more life in a bottle of pop.

On, then, to the game proper, and that bloody strange ?diamond formation?. This was supposed to be a top-of-the-table clash, not a ?Nervous Nellie? end-of-season relegation decider, so why do it this way? I know that the usual tactic away from home is to let the opposition pile into us for the opening 20 minutes, or so, then try to sneak one when they?re least expecting it, but this was well and truly taking the biscuit. Only one up-front, and a packed midfield? You might as well have picked up a megaphone, and shouted through it ?WE?RE DEAD FRIGHTENED OF YOU LOT ? CAN?T YOU TELL?? and directed the remarks at the home dug-out, because that was the message we were giving to the other side, make no bones about it. And, because of our lack of firepower, it was hardly surprising our goal came under siege for the greater part of the first half; Wigan could have notched up their opener well before ex-Bluenose Horsfield did the damage. Houlty had to be at his talented best on several occasions to deny the home side an opener. Conversely, we were really unlucky to have a Gregan shot headed off the line following one of our rare corners, but banging the ball into the stratosphere for Hulse to latch into isn?t the most constructive thing to do, as that sort of caper isn?t the lad?s game at all. Oh, and the linesman on our side of the pitch seemed to have a strange interpretation of the offside law; his maxim seemed to me, ?If in doubt, flag for it? but that?s by the bye, really; we were quite clearly second-best tonight. Despite some heart-stopping moments during that opening 45 minutes, by the time the whistle was due to blow, I?d genuinely thought that our goal would still be pristine come the half-time whistle ? until a certain Mr. Horsfield decided to impose his presence on the proceedings!

What happened, I think, was this: somehow, I know not how or why, just on half-time, Horsfield managed to latch onto a header from one of his own side who?d intercepted a Hoult punt up field. He then fought off the attentions of one of our rearguard, and then smacked the ball over the line, no messing. Houlty did get a hand to it, but the momentum of the thing was too great: Wigan 1, Albion 0, and what an awful time to concede. It?s fair to say that the question on everyone?s lips as the players left the field was: did we have a Plan ?B?, and if so, what was it?

Come the start of the second 45, our questions were partially answered: Off went Sakiri, and on came Hughsie, to help Hulse add some much-needed pazzaz to our almost non-existent strikeforce. And, for a while, it seemed to work; suddenly, we were playing football again, balls to feet, getting it behind their defence, and giving them something to think about. Hoof and hope abandoned. We even started to look quite dangerous on the attack, but this bright spell was short-lived. Gradually, Wigan crept into the game once more, and poor Houlty found himself rather busy; certainly, we could count our blessings our goals-against tally hadn?t increased. Then, midway through the half, it was Dichio on for Hulse, and AJ to replace Volmer. Not a bad idea, as it turned out; with around 20 minutes to go, our lank-haired midfielder nearly struck oil when a pass from Hughsie found ?yer man? lurking with malice aforethought. The rasping Exocet of a shot brought out a full-length save from the Wigan keeper, and many imploring glances skywards from us!

That was about our best ? and last ? real chance of the night. In lieu of anything more constructive, we seemed to revert to the hoof-and-hump tactics of the first half, which left Dichio running around like ?a fart on trespass?, as my mum used to say. Sure, there were chances, but of the fleeting variety only. As the game neared its end, it?s fair to say that the only people looking likely to find the net that night were the home side; as for their supporters ? those who bothered to turn up, that is - they were crowing about being ?top of the League? and who could blame ?em?

Disgusted, we left the scene of the damage at the end, shifted ourselves into the nearby car-park - then sat twiddling our thumbs and fuming in The DickMobile for the next hour or so! Wigan might be a smart sort of place to go to for a game, but it?s sheer hell to get away from afterwards! Oh, and while we were waiting, we discovered that thanks to that West Ham win, we?d slipped down to fourth in the heap. Bugger. And that wasn?t all; the motorway system, capricious at the best of time, reserved its worst horrors for the journey back. Not long after we?d dropped off The Noise (who, by that time, had been rendered temporarily noise-less by our defeat!), we ground to a halt once more, this time just before the M54 turn-off. It turned out our progress had been halted by a lorry that had chosen that particular time to spontaneously self-combust; by the time we neared the scene, the conflagration had been sorted by those nice blokes from the Fire Service, but rubber-neckers being what they are, everyone and their dog had to slow down to take in the whole spectacle. Nice for some who are of a pyromaniacal bent, I suppose, but for those who wanted some sleep this side of midnight, not good at all. As things turned out, by the time we dropped The Fart off, it was gone half-one, which is why I?m presenting this for your delectation at some ungodly hour in the morning.

As I sit writing this, some five or so hours after the final whistle, a couple of observations come to mind. The first? Simple: whatever happened to that great maxim, ?If it ain?t broke, don?t fix it!? What we did tonight was take a pretty serviceable (and winning!) formation and muck about with it. Why? My second? Having made the decision to embark upon this wholesale upheaval, were those players drilled sufficiently to be properly aware of their respective roles in this Great Plan? It certainly didn?t seem to be the case to me; half the time, they simply didn?t seem to know what they were supposed to be doing. Wigan are a side that do what they do very well, but they don?t come across to me as an outfit ready to take up the onerous task of coping with Premiership football next term. Had we gone at them hell for leather, I suspect they wouldn?t have liked it one little bit. Our first testing game thus far this season, and we blew it. We showed them far too much respect, and paid the penalty. You can?t blame the players; they were, to use that trite phrase, ?only obeying orders?. Come the Palace game, we have to get it right once more ? and there?s only one person who can do that.

And finally?.. According to today?s Guardian, he?s the secretary of the Hutton Inquiry, and he?s going to be called to give evidence next Monday, the 22nd., which, I suspect, will come as a considerable shock to everyone connected with West Bromwich Albion F.C. because a certain Mr.Gary Megson might well want the presence of his company on the team coach to Hartlepool that day. Who am I talking about? Why, none other than a certain Lee Hughes, that?s who ? and if you don?t believe me, have a look for yourself!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index