The Diary

28 February 2007: Boro Bash Baggies On Pens.

So that?s the end of our involvement in the FA Cup for this season, then ? and in the most heartbreaking way possible, too. Penalties have never been a totally satisfactory way of resolving such issues, nor will they ever be, but that?s how the mop flops these days, I suppose. Perhaps we should have sewn the whole thing up in the first 90 minutes: that?s why first my other half, then Mogga, in his post-match TV interview, quite independently of each other, for obvious reasons, declared the whole messy business to be ?worst case scenario?.

There were some pretty tired legs out there, yet again, as the clock inexorably ticked its way towards the end of the full 90 minutes, after which those players who stood their full spell on watch had to dredge even more fuel from the bottom of the tank to go the extra thirty minutes on top. And that certainly begs of us one awfully big question: after that stamina-draining marathon, can we then raise our game sufficiently enough to see off Sunderland, this coming Saturday?

It?s doubly annoying to lose the services of Duke Ellington, red-carded about two minutes into extra-time, for a tackle that, although hard, looked relatively innocuous on the face of it. Three games, will it be, for something like that? I was certainly surprised when the referee waved the red card, and so were those Albion supporters sitting much nearer the action. Come to think about it, so was Mowbray, who took the opportunity of giving referee Mike Riley some pretty detailed advice concerning what actually constituted a sending-off offence, come the break at the end of the first fifteen minutes.

Still, disappointing though it may have been, that result now leaves us in pretty good shape to contemplate the next item on the agenda, which is Sunderland, of course. Plotting their destruction won?t be easy, by anyone?s lights, so we?ve just got to get on with it. Time, tide and Blues ? who won their game with Leeds easily, tonight ? wait for no men. Or woman either, seemingly enough.

Having said all that, I was extremely apprehensive about which way the game would eventually go, and all that, not to mention downright ambivalent. Just what did we want? To win this, then sort out Sunderland this coming weekend, despite any nasty knocks that might come our way? Then, forsaking the Dingles game to see us do battle with Man U, as per the outcome of the sixth round draw? Then, go out of the Cup as per United?s well-thumbed script, at which point problems concerning morale would rear their ugly heads, and we?d end up dipping out anyway ? and with the end of our promotion dreams would go any possible chance of hanging on to our better players? In short, have us play any more Cup games on top of the ones we already had, and I could easily see our entire promotion bid crashing about our ears, so maybe tonight?s cruel Cup exit was for the best, really.

Mind you, had I tried to put the case for the defence to my fellow supporters that way earlier tonight, I very much doubt whether they?d have given me much house-room. Certainly, for my generation, at least, what?s popularly termed ?the magic of the Cup? still rings true. Its carelessly-scattered fairy-dust reaches some pretty unlikely places, at times, and none more so tonight than The Hawthorns pub. Tell most people in there we?d quietly reached an agreement with Boro for them to progress, and I know what the reaction would have been. No, football supporters, being the fickle lot they are, want it every road possible, and sod all the subsequent complications such eventualities cause for everyone.

By the time we?d arrived, no crafty nipping off to see Lawrie Rampling for ?Im Indoors, this time, but there certainly was one hell of a lot of conversation to be had with The Noise, so while Old Bugger Lugs was doing that, and with the assistance of Mart?s Number One Daughter, I sorted out our drinks. Once we?d both sorted out everyone?s wants between us, The Noise then regaled me with a tale concerning how rapidly Carly is having to get to grips with modern management skills, as practiced by Wedgwoods. Not.

As his machine-gun delivery word-assault got into its stride, my first thought about the matter in hand was: ?how typical, nothing changes?. Apparently, her supervisor had called her into the office the other day. Nothing about how hard she?d worked that weekend (and The Noise knew for a fact she had, because several of his little spies had told him!), or praise for how she?d put herself out to minimise the effect of existing staff shortages, just a tirade of negative comments about her simply asking to go off for lunch, in all innocence, on one particular day ? ?you go when I tell you, not when you want to go? ? and very little opportunity for the girl to put her side of the story.

But she?s learning, Martin tells me: that?s the last time she ever goes the extra mile for that person, and for that, I don?t blame her one little bit. One of these days, industrial relations in this country will finally drag themselves out of the Stone Age ? or is it just that particular firm? The Noise tells me that on his section, there?s three of his colleagues off long-term sick with stress, and several more with back trouble, ditto. Add to that a regime that squashes dissent flat by threatening to take the entire operation to Indonesia, and there you have it: man-management, UK plc-style.

But enough, enough. On a different theme, I also heard from Carly about how her English class is currently pulling poems to pieces in order to more fully explore what the blasted things are supposed to mean. And Bethany has her Parents Evening tomorrow: just as well tonight?s game wasn?t switched, then, wasn?t it? And that?s when Dawn Astle appeared on the scene, doing the nearest thing to a Jonah impersonation I?m likely to see this side of the Brummie Road.

While Dawn had been pouring out her heart and soul to me, I?d vaguely noticed ?Im Indoors texting someone, sort of half-wondered ?who the bloody hell?s getting that??, then put the thought aside. It was only when we left the pub for the wold and woolly wastes of Halfords Lane I found out what was going on. Carly, it would seem, had texted a male friend of hers, and upon seeing what she was doing, my other half had asked to have a bit of the action, all for his little self.

?OK?.? said Carly, poor deluded fool that she was, not knowing of my other half?s horribly-warped sense of humour. So, what did he send? A missive, purporting to come from Mart?s eldest, saying: ?I?ve just gone and bought a bag of fertiliser?.? Not surprisingly, that quickly brought about what you might like to call a ?pregnant pause?. Nothing on Carly?s mobile for several minutes, then, what sounded very much like a very puzzled reply: ?Thanks - I?ve just had my tea?.?

You can?t take him anywhere, can you? Except to apologise, I suppose. But there was a game we had to go to: through the turnstiles, both of us, without knackering up the electronics ? it has been known ? and nicely in time to hear all the team news, too, despite having to barge our way through the crowds supping their ale below, in similar fashion to an ice-breaker negotiating a safe passage through Arctic polar waters: slow, but sure.

Basically, our game-plan was to go one only up front, with Kamara on the bench, with Koren keeping him company there. Much to my surprise, Kev Phillips had been given the evening off, or so it seemed. He certainly didn?t figure anywhere in our line-up. That left Duke Ellington as our main man, with Darren Carter and Zoltan Gera taking the other two vacant slots. Well, it was certainly different ? and, I suspect, it threw Boro a fair old bit as well. We hadn?t expected it, so it was a fairish bet they hadn?t, either. As for the opposition, only one real change from the outfit that faced us at The Riverside, and that was in the custodial department, the injured Mark Schwartzer being replaced by Brad Jones.

And so the stage was set: both sets of supporters ? Boro had filled the away end, as near as damn it - well up for it, and the dubious pleasure of opposing Man United the likely reward for the victors. Funny, though: just before we kicked off, John Homer said to me: ?What would you rather do? Get promoted, pay ?48 quid to se us lose 4-0 to Chelsea, or spend ?28, and see us win 5-1 at Ipswich?? Seems to me as though we two aren?t the only ones sniffing what?s blown in on the wind, and not liking the scent it brings one little bit; when you hear an incurable optimist like John address the question of promotion in such depressing terms, you sure as hell know we?ve got a motivational problem.

Finally, we were away, then ? and nearly got caught out in the first minute, when our offside trap went a little pear-shaped. Fortunately, we were able to retrieve the situation quickly once they?d taken the corner, but it didn?t do the old ticker one bit of good at the time. Several minutes later, though, Albion almost drew first blood themselves, courtesy Chaplow, bless his little floodlight-reflector dome, when his shot, mean and nasty, ended up in their keeper?s arms.

So far, so good ? and for a considerable period of that opening half, Albion played some of the most attractive, free-flowing, attacking football it?s been my privilege to see in an awful long time. And Boro? They sure as hell didn?t like it, constantly being forced back into their own half to defend against the annoying Championship upstarts opposing them. Maybe not quite in the true spirit of those wonderful floodlit Cup replays I saw back in the Sixties and Seventies, but we were sure making a darned good fist of trying to emulate such delights.

Wonderful to watch, simply wonderful, especially for old gits like me, and fare to make even the most one-eyed apologist for The Greed League seriously wonder why they ever bothered. And who was the latter-day Malcolm Sargeant conducting that multi-talented Hawthorns symphony orchestra? Why, Jason Koumas, of course, who ran the visitors completely ragged during that opening spell.

And, as the minutes fell away, it wasn?t long before we were getting the benefits of John Homer?s considered thoughts about Yakabu, his newly-acquired thespian talents, and a seeming continuance of them for the duration of this game. ?Yow chatin? git!?.? Mild, for John, and relatively colourless, compared to his many more imaginative insults, but the night was still young, and Mowbray?s unusual line-up completely banjaxing them, still.

It seemed that just about every player wearing a blue and white shirt was wanting to have a piece of the action for themselves: first of all Ellington shot narrowly wide, then, just minutes later, so did a Gera effort. To be perfectly honest, I don?t think Boro had managed even one shot on goal before we took the lead, halfway through the half, if you get my drift.

And what a strange goal it was, too. Not in the manner of its execution, just that when Carter hit his low drive from way, way out, the Boro keeper seemed to react in much the same way as a rabbit caught up in car headlights ? wide eyed, and powerless to move. Whatever the reason for his inaction, we certainly weren?t complaining: no sooner had the ref given the strike, the entire place erupted in a crescendo of ?Boinging?. And I don?t think Boro could have complained, either: that had been on the cards ever since the kick-off, more or less.

It speaks volumes for our complete superiority at that stage of the game that Boro only managed to register their first pukka shot on goal in the 29th minute of play. Sure, Kiely had to dive to negate the threat, but he certainly didn?t do so at full-stretch. A minor inconvenience for our keeper, at best - and still the quite brilliant Jason Koumas waved the baton summoning our midfield string section to even greater creative heights. This game was certainly turning out to be a wonderful showpiece for his many talents. ?But not too much of a showpiece, I hope!? was my grim follow-on thought.

It was about that time our concentration was broken by a party of three blokes, all total strangers to us, belatedly seeking their seats. And, as they passed by, it didn?t take John long to suss that one of them was sporting a traditional Soviet Army-type fur hat, the sort of thing you see those guarding The Kremlin and Red Square wear come the first Moscow winter snows. Said John, sotto voce, as they were now situated only a couple of seats further down the row: ?Blimey! I think ?ee?s lookin? ter buy the bloody club?.!?

Energy billionaires going incognito or not, I could only hope they were enjoying what they were seeing - but not what Boro were trying to do at that precise moment. Kick everything in a blue and white striped shirt that moved, that is, Boateng being the prime offender, and, just like last Saturday, suddenly discovering that the match officials had unanimously elected to ?cock a deaf and blind ?un? to all our protests. As for our supporters, they certainly made their views known, a state of affairs that saw them loudly informing Riley that it was all down to the principal offender being of the Witton Lane persuasion, many moons ago. Said John, by way of further comment: ?You can detect a certain antipathy towards Villa, can?t you?? Er, yes - you could say that!

Not long to go to the break, now, and at that stage in the game, one thing above all stood out like a shining beacon: the fact we had eleven blokes out there, all of them working in complete harmony, pass and move, pass and move ? and every single one of those guys enjoying himself enormously out there. Not too often you can say that about professional footballers, but there was certainly evidence in abundance to support that hypothesis, should Mogga ever need it.

Oh ? and yes, we knew it. The first Albion foul of note, and one of our players went in the book, no arguments. Never mind Boateng, who?d spent the entire half, almost, trying to give gravity a bit of a helping hand when it came to stopping our players. Yet again, a clear case of referees not supplying forwards with the protection they so badly needed. You really have to wonder, sometimes.

Then, right on time, something else popped into my busy little head: had we now accrued more bookings than goals, tonight? Sudden silence, from John. It was pretty clear from the body language that he wasn?t all that sure either himself. ?Ooooh, I can hear the cogs grinding!.....? was Jean?s non-committal reply to that one. The came the announcement about the ref only allowing a minute for stoppages. After the nonsense at Leicester last Saturday, I was certainly wondering. ?Now, let me see?, I said. ?Would that be GMT, BST ? or maybe Uriah Rennie Time?

A pretty uneventful interval, then ? unless you were listening to Jean Homer, and her serial professions of support for Albion?s reserve keeper, young Luke Daniels. ?Ooh, look at Luke ? he?s only a baby!? was her exclaimed remark as she made ?rocking? gestures with her hands. Some ?baby?, that: six feet dripping wet, more like than not!

With the start of the second half, came the realisation that Albion were going to continue in much the same attacking vein they had before. Certainly, they seemed to get into one almighty mess when we charged at them, ex-Boro old boy Greening eventually firing at their keeper, who must have been pretty glad to see it disappear over the horizon. And Jason Koumas also wanted to further strut his stuff in front of what was most of this country?s top media representatives, in this case by setting up Ellington, for him to drive over the bar.

But Boro were quietly working their way back into it: first of all their efforts were barely worthy of mention, but as the half advanced, they were getting ever closer, ever more dangerous. They then tried a change of personnel; with fresh legs now very much into the fray, things were becoming slightly more sticky for us, out there, Boro growing stronger by the minute, almost. That was when I first realised that the night was now taking much more out of our lads than they could possibly give: in short, it could only be a matter of time before the visitors hit pay-dirt. And, no sooner had that thought escaped the confines of my brain, and with the Brummie bellowing ?HANDBALL!? for all they were worth, Boro went and scored the equaliser.

That successful strike changed everything: now, I could only see Boro finishing the process they?d started, and by virtue of greater skills and stamina, picking us off in the long run. Just a minute before they?d scored, I?d commented to my other half that they were trying to pass us to death ? and that?s precisely what they did. Oh, and another miracle transformation. Their supporters, who suddenly surged back into life as quickly as if someone had thrown a switch.

Time for Plan B, then. A double subbing, in short, Kamara and Koren getting their chances to shine, at last, with Chaplow and Koumas benched. Blimey, it really looked as though we were going for the winner. Mind you, it didn?t half take an awfully long time to get them on: about five minutes all told, and due to us not getting a break in play where we could effectively make the change. And, with that, John at his insulting best! ?Goo ?an bile yer yed, Riley!? Then, in another barb directed towards a Boro player of Australasian extraction: ?Yow bluddy Antipodean tosser?..? You always get a better, more erudite, class of insult with John!

More attacking from Albion, and more dogged defending from Boro as the half progressed, but the writing was on the wall. Well, it was for me: Boro would take this to extra time, then pick us off at leisure, just like they had Bristol City in the last round. You could see it coming. Another frenzy of subbings, what seemed like ?Oo Flung Dung? on for them, and Shergar on for us. In fact, it mightn?t have got that far, even: twice in the closing minutes, Boro nearly nailed us on the break. Rocking on our heels we were, and most certainly up against it. Thank goodness when the ref finally blew for extra time.

Oh, brother. The longer this went on, the more rapidly increasing feeling I had that there could be only one winner ? and it wasn?t the blokes in the stripes. And the news from elsewhere wasn?t exactly uplifting: Blues beating Leeds with just minutes to go, and Man United having seemingly overcome Reading. ?Oh, well,? I said, ?Didn?t want to play them, anyway!?

Off we went once more ? and then, about two minutes into the first 15-minute period of this coda to our Cup existence, it finally happened. Not the winning goal, which was what I had been expecting for some time, now, but Nathan Ellington getting a red card from the ref. To be perfectly honest, I didn?t get a clear view of what happened, what with the incident taking place quite near the Brummie, and everything, but my overall impression had been one of a tackle going in, hard, sure ? but nowhere near that flaming hard! And, having not seen any replay of that incident, I?m still none the wiser, really ? but of one thing I was sure, as Ellington walked: we were buggered, completely and utterly.

Sure, you can have eleven men, reduced to ten, and every single one trying like stink to carry the day despite such a shocking setback. But, as sure as eggs is eggs, the side with the extra man will always triumph. It?s the additional holes that appear at the back when a side goes one short that does for them, eventually. Fair? Whoever said anything about life was ?fair?? That?s the law of the Universe, and until someone better comes along and changes them, that?s the way it?ll be for evermore.

But the sheer injustice of that situation must have hit our lot like a ten-ton truck. They might have been one light, but they sure as hell weren?t playing like it. All our defenders stepped up a gear, defying and denying their tormentors in magnificent fashion. Now, it was more about the self-pride that goes with not accepting your lot, of not passively waiting for the executioner to apply noose to neck, and more about fighting back.

In the middle, we fought like tigers for every single ball, while up front, the zippy Kamara gave their defenders a pretty torrid time of it. But it was Koren that got closest, I reckon, with an almighty humdinger of a strike, from way, way out, and one that their keeper didn?t enjoy stopping, one little bit. Would those steel-hard Cup fighters of a totally different generation have approved? You bet, and with sticky pink spots on, too.

Come the end of that 15 minutes, we had to do it all over again. And while everyone was changing around, there was the sight of Mowbray, clearly upset, remonstrating with the referee. Whether that was about the Ellington dismissal, or on account of Carter seemingly having a good shout for a penalty, but getting booked instead, I can?t honestly say. At first, I thought Riley had shown him a red, but nope ? there he was, his head just showing above the dug-out, and no longer taking such an active part in proceedings. Was that just a way of calming down, or had he received the ?gipsy?s warning? from our tame whistler, I wondered?

Once more, Kamara weaved his own particular brand of magic down the flank, on one occasion beating about six Boro players before pulling the trigger ? no wonder they professed to have designs on him ? but it was gradually becoming apparent that this one was going to penalties. For the first time ever, at The Hawthorns, as far as the FA Cup was concerned, too: sure, there had been other occasions in the past, of course (the Watney Cup, circa 1970, anyone?) but never in this particular competition.

At first, all the signs seemed positive ones. We managed to win the toss for ends, and claiming the Brummie for our own within seconds of coin hitting deck. A long confab with the referee then ensued, giving names of penalty-takers, we assumed. Eventually, after about five minutes, everything was declared ready. As far as I was concerned, I knew by the sickening feeling in my stomach what was going to happen, and I guess the same applied to poor old John, going through absolute agonies in front of me. ?Argh! I cor watch?.? But he watched anyway. The first two, Greening for us, readied themselves, then it was on with the show.

The first two efforts for both sides behaved themselves perfectly. Then, it was Lee?s turn for Boro ? and he hit the post! Now we were cooking on gas, and it was all up to Clem, the next man there. Oh, whoops ? right over the bar, better than a rugby conversion, in fact. Then, Morrison and Carter went head-to-head ? and no, we didn?t get a quick burst of ?Riders Of The Storm? from the unfortunately-named Boro player, just the pair of them potting their pens impeccably. Ditto for Arca and Robbo (who conveyed his delight to the crowd courtesy some really ostentatious badge-kissing antics), then it was Yakubu?s turn. Would he stuff up as he had versus Bristol City? No chance: away it went, sadly. Which left Joe Kamara to do the biz, which he did.

Now for a big dollop of ?sudden death?. Boateng was the Boro player to go this time ? and he duly potted. Which then left Shergar carrying the torch for the Baggies. It says much for the unfathomable reaches of the mind that medical science still has to account for that come Shergar?s turn to do the biz, both John Homer and myself were actually cringing. We?d both had a sudden premonition of what was going to happen ? and that?s exactly what DID happen. Over the bar went the bladder ? and with it went all our lingering hopes of further Cup glory.

Off Boro went to celebrate, while all we had left was some wonderful memories. And not one person could find it within themselves to criticise any player for what had happened: the universal feeling was that they?d given their all, and much, much more besides. I could only hope that tonight?s dogged performance wouldn?t impinge too much on our game with Sunderland, in four days time. And I really would like to think we can pick up the threads, as if nothing had happened. But don?t bank on it. Oh ? and another thought. The very next time you see Dawn Astle walking around the ground, give her absolute hell! The reasons why I give below.

And Finally?. One. History will no doubt attach heavy blame to our going down to ten men in extra time for that undeserved Cup defeat of ours, tonight ? but our finest should actually take heart. There may well be a much simpler explanation up for grabs out there, and it?s got very little to do with tonight?s game, honest!

Whisper it quietly, but really and truly, it?s Dawn Astle that should hold her hands up for tonight, dear reader. How come? Well, as she told me in the Hawthorns pub before tonight?s frolics, much earlier in the current season, she very quickly detected the development of what you might describe as a ?certain pattern?. In other words, whenever she attended games, home, away, or indifferent, Albion nearly always ended up on the losing side, or if not that, they?d drop points by getting the draw. So she simply stopped going, at which point we started to win, once more.

But, being very much of an Albion royal bloodline, there?s only so many times you can do this, so just after Christmas, she started going, again. With predictable results: of those few recent games where we have dipped, Dawn has been present each and every time! In the Smethwick, where she has her current seat, her reputation for being Jonah reincarnated is so well-known, she?s now the butt of every possible joke going among her fellow season-ticket holders. And still she decided to go, tonight! I bet Dawn?s very famous old man isn?t very pleased Up There, right now. Expect a mystery thunderbolt to zap straight through the roof of her new house, very, very soon!

Two?. The next tale I?m about to tell concerns a certain young lady who goes by the name of Carly Lewis, who just happens to have the dubious honour of being The Noise?s eldest, with a season ticket in the Brummie, just like dad and little sister. And she gives it big licks up there every single time we score, too. With that sort of background going for the lass, and churning around her DNA, day in, day out, you couldn?t wish for a more devoted Baggie, could you?

Er ? not quite, it would appear. Come this Saturday, when we take on Sunderland in what will undoubtedly be a tension-ridden League game, the final outcome of which could prove absolutely crucial for our hopes of winning eventual promotion this term, where will this young lady be? Certainly not in the Brummie: bloody shopping with her mates, that?s where! Dearie, dearie me, Carly. Call yourself an Albion supporter? Perhaps you should get in touch with current Jonah-in-residence Dawn Astle, pretty pronto? Then we could all save ourselves one hell of a bother, by simply throwing the pair of you over the side in one go, rather than two!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index