The Diary

04 March 2007: Mackems Whack 'Em. With A Blistering Brace.

Well, it had to happen sometime, I suppose. Well and truly crashed and burnt, and right in front of our own faithful, too. Fair play to Sunderland and Roy Keane, say I: they came to our place, set out their stall within minutes of the kick-off, then proceeded to outdo a very limp and jaded Albion in virtually every department you can think of. Yep, having said earlier in the week that we might well have to pay the price for slugging it out with Boro for two hours ? more, if you count penalties ? it gave me no pleasure whatsoever this afternoon to see my worst fears totally justified.

After the gritty, gutsy way our Wearside visitors played this afternoon, well and truly seeing us off in the process, I don?t need the services of Mystic Mog to tell me that I?ve very likely seen Sunderland overcome and completely overwhelm one of their few remaining formidable obstacles in the helter-skelter race for the title: in fact, were I a fully paid up member of the betting fraternity, I?d be sticking some serious money on them doing precisely that right now. After today?s display, who in their right mind can doubt that the Championship?s precious pot of silver will have their name on it, come the end of hostilities?

Quite a remarkable turnaround for a side seemingly destined to leave this division via the basement exit at the start of the current campaign, isn?t it? Yep ? on their return to the north east tonight, Sunderland supporters should be offering up one hell of a libation to the gods in recognition of the marvellous and quite remarkable regeneration job Roy Keane?s wrought on that ailing side in the space of but a few months. Admittedly, a hefty wodge of dosh from the people that took the club over certainly helped ? that?s how they were able to tempt experienced performers like Stern John up the A1in the first place ? but when it came down to it, it was the hard graft put in by all their players that got them where they are today.

No, let?s face it: we were beaten, square, if not entirely fair ? Dermot Gallagher was singularly lacking in generosity, when invited to rule on serial rough stuff from the visitors that seemed just a smidgen over the top to me ? so we just have to shrug our collective shoulders, take our lumps, and try to sort out what ailed us in time for the Dingles game next Sunday. Given their current irritating tendency to accrete successive away wins like hunting trophies, a little voice within my head is constantly telling me that the third of this season?s triumvirate of Dingles encounters won?t be quite the pushover the other two were. Baying for blood they certainly will be ? ANYONE?S blood ? so expect a real tough time at The Custard Bowl some eight days from now. And yet the day had started so well for us both. While I perused our daily rag, ?Im Indoors set out on a ?search and rescue? mission. No, not trolling around for so-called ?lost souls? as per some of Queen Victoria?s more prurient, proactive ? and completely hypocritical ? clergy, just in search of plant propagators.

He?s getting to be something of a ?Percy Throwup? (younger Baggies, ask mum or dad!) is my other half, these days, quite an authority on all things horticultural. Some 4,000 seeds he has to go in this spring, and he?s gonna use them. Let?s hope he doesn?t make the same mistake as The Fart, back in those newly-married, cash-strapped days when he and Dot lived in a caravan on a temporary basis.

When was that? Ooooh, around the time of the First Boer War, I?d say ? but the thing was, at that time, El Tel knew very little of the ways of plants (and still doesn?t, but aw, what the hell?) so having picked up from some nursery or other several packets of plant seeds, complete with illustrations promising all manner of colourful results once in flower, he simply chucked the whole lot into the soil surrounding his mobile pride and joy, then buggered off on holiday, or something, for a couple of weeks. Result? By the time they finally got back, it was a nightmare just making out a proper pathway to their own front door: barring their way were enough blooms to keep Kew Gardens in business until The Second Coming, not to mention well beyond! Whoops.

But back to today?s events: an early arrival in Halfords Lane meant we were parking up around the same time as The Noise, spotted walking in the direction of the ground just as we were about to park up ourselves. No Carly this time, just Bethany, big sister electing instead to indulge in a generous slice of ?retail therapy? in the company of her mum. No, and I?ll never understand it, either: I may nominally belong to the sex that craves conspicuous consumption the most, but as far as I?m concerned, travelling miles and miles to another town just to cop a load of someone else?s shopping mall leaves me completely cold. And why? They?re all the bloody same wherever you go, that?s why!

Still, each to their own, I say. Now where was I? Oh, yes ? catching up with The Noise. Having done that, Bethany decided she really had to have some sweets from the stall opposite, so while she did her thing, we stood batting the breeze: not at all difficult, that, given the propensity of our Stokie chum to seriously endanger the integrity of both circulation and nerve-endings in the hind limb of some poor donkey or other encountered along the way. And, after that, it was to the Ticket Office for a bit of midday blood-letting: otherwise known as sorting out our respective away travel needs: well, my other half and I certainly did, after meeting up with The Fart, sat there on the dark blue settee Albion had installed in close proximity to the entrance, and looking very regal while he was at it. Yet another monumental hammer-blow to the old bank-balance, that, and for the trip to QPR, this time. Still, it?s got to be done, hasn?t it?

With The Noise and Bethany gone to inflict a bit of pre-match earhole-bashing on MacDonalds, over the road, the three of us remaining simply hightailed it over to the Hawthorns pub, unusually deserted at that time of day. We even managed to get a table near the front of the room, where the big screen stood in splendid isolation, and currently showing the live game, Liverpool v Man United, so closely fought at that stage in the proceedings, you feared they?d have to bring out blowtorches to separate the two of ?em before too long.

Leaving El Tel to get his Premiership fix, I spent a profitable couple of minutes trolling through our matchday publication. So what caught my eye, then? Easy, that one: the programme calling today?s match sponsor, DIY and building materials specialist Wickes ?The Official Home Improvement Partner To The Championship?. Didn?t even know the Championship needed home improvements in the first place, but there you go.

Oh ? and another matchday revelation calculated to make me look askance at the three or so people wielding either whistles or flags this afternoon: in a vain attempt to turn back the tide, on the back of our programme, the name ?Rob Styles? leaped from the newsprint around as fast as excreta from a gardening implement. Having seen this gentleman in action on previous occasions, I could only express the fond hope that all this was but a ?blip? on the radar. Someone must have heard my heartfelt and sincere prayers, because when we finally got into the ground, we discovered that the ref wasn?t Styles at all. Trouble was, it was a certain case of ?out of the frying-pan, into the fire?. How does the name Dermot Gallagher grab you? Yersss, thought as much?..

Once out of the pub?s pre-match gloomy surroundings, it was but a mere bagatelle to shift one?s carcass the few yards still remaining to the turnstiles, and from there, it was but the work of a moment to negotiate those pre-match crowds supping and betting underneath the stand, then settle down to some serious weekend frolics. Or not, as was the case today. And what on earth was our mate Adrian Goldberg doing, once he?d finished discussing Baggie business with our tame ?Stattos?, rooted, as ever, in close proximity to what was once the players? family lounge? The naughty leetle teenker wouldn?t tell us at the time, so it was down to Albion to reveal all (ooer!). Helping a blind Baggie with a forthcoming sponsored walk for charity, hence his presence on the pitch at half-time today.

The first thing that really struck me, though, was how well fired up the visitors were for the ordeal to come. That, plus the enormous size of their travelling support, now lodged in the Smethwick, and keenly anticipating the game. All that in direct contrast to our own support which, to be perfectly frank, wasn?t what you?d expect for a game as massive as this one. Just about everywhere I looked, there were vacant seats in abundance: maybe those ?absent friends? represented indirect vindication of Albion?s astonishing reduction of season-ticket prices next term.

Team news? No Nathan Ellington, for obvious reasons, and three changes to the side, making it essentially the same as the one that faced Leicester at the Salt and Vinegar Flavour Stadium just seven days ago. As for the team news from the Mackems, their line-up suggested they were really going for it: three recognised strikers up front, with Stern John filling a ?hole? just behind. A truly bold move for a side on the road, and sending out the clear message that gaffer Roy Keane would be looking to grab all the spoils from the game, and not just a cop-out draw.

Had I a teensy bit more time to think about it, I would have probably said ?Ooer, we could be in a bit of trouble, here? when the bad news got read out, but all that was forgotten as both sides took to the field of play, amidst noises from the Smethwick highly suggestive of political rallies gone completely and utterly bananas. As with everything they do, be it at work, home, or whatever, those Mackems don?t half take their supporting duties seriously.

It was just after Gallagher got the game underway that I first heard it: the promised drum, in the Smethwick. Thank God the drummer was located over there, and not in close proximity to me: equally, I wouldn?t have fancied his survival chances much, had he foolishly decided to plonk his carcass down right next to someone nursing a raging hangover! But all that was out of the window, now we had a game going out there ? and within about a minute of the start, it rapidly became clear that the encounter would be a savage, uncompromising sort of affair, no quarter whatsoever expected or given. Precisely what you?d anticipate getting from a Roy Keane side, I suppose, nothing more, nothing less.

I reckon John Homer was the first to put our misgivings regarding Gallagher?s ability to keep the lid on things into words. Turning to us, he said: ?Bet you anything the first one to get booked is an Albion player!? You know what? He was dead right! As for the overall pace of the game during those opening minutes, the best descriptor was probably just the one word. Brutal. Keane?s tactics seemed to be about stopping us from playing, and it was working perfectly. Whether both sides could maintain that blistering pace for the entire 90 minutes, though, was a moot point.

One effort from Koumas apart, despite all the running around like blue-assed flies, the first 15 minutes proved surprisingly unproductive, in terms of genuine chances to break the deadlock. Something not a million miles away from irresistible forces meeting immovable objects, I suppose ? until Kev Phillips (who today seemed to be afforded a far more generous reception from his former admirers than the one he got at the Stadium Of Light earlier on in the season) tried a looping header that actually finished up on the roof of the net.

After that, goal attempts from Albion were very much at a premium, until a 22nd minute Koumas effort that bore more than a distinct resemblance to a rugby union try conversion. As for the opposition, they were content to just sit back and soak up everything we threw at them, but halfway through the half, so to speak, they suddenly struck oil, and quite unexpectedly, too.

Having said all that, the move that led to the goal was just as incisive as that of any surgeon?s knife, Stern John supplying former clapper-and-stamper Dwight Yorke with the actual murder weapon. When you?ve been around as long as he has, you don?t often stuff up that sort of chance ? and that was to prove the case. One belter of a shot, low, mean, nasty, into the bottom right-hand corner, and we were one down, suddenly. Instantaneously, the world became a much more miserable place for anyone professing to support the Baggies. Bugger.

As you might expect, their strike was cue for some pretty awesome noise levels emanating from their Smethwick End eyerie. ?We are Sunderland, say we are Sunderland?.? Over and over again, and the frightening thing about it all was the fact it was sung with such enormous conviction, not to mention passion. With support like that, they could have conquered the world, never mind a small part of the West Midlands.

But they weren?t having it all their own way. It was almost Alamo time when their keeper had an almighty scramble to keep Phillips at bay, then Koren almost struck gold, with a shot gleaned from a protracted Albion attacking spell. Oh ? and remember what John said about an Albion player getting booked first? Yep, he was dead right, the Albion unfortunate incurring Gallagher?s wrath being Chappy, and on 28 minutes, too.

Mind you, you had to really admire Sunderland?s complete mastery of all things defensive: every single sodding time we tried to advance, we constantly came up against an almost-impermeable defensive phalanx of red and white stripes. And, as the half gradually played out its final moments, all that pent-up Albion frustration was being conveyed to the crowd, now getting distinctly ratty at our apparent inability to make any sort of progress.

Chuck in also that almighty weight of expectation, and you?ve got a pretty explosive mixture brewing out there. Least welcome was our apparent espousal of the long-ball way of footballing life, now held in complete disfavour since the advent of Mogga on the scene: I can only assume people felt it to be a retrograde step, and one not at all in keeping with the fine traditions of the club.

And it didn?t help the Sunderland public image either to see their players perpetrate at least two nasty fouls on our lot, when getting up close and personal with their 18-yard box, but get sod-all in the way of protection from our chum Mister Gallagher. It was just seconds after one such incident that the whistle sounded for half time. Clearly, there were certain aspects of our tactics that needed an urgent revamp: the question on everyone?s lips was whether or not he had a ?Plan B? in readiness for the very same contingency we were seeing enacted out there. We could only hope he did.

Come the second half, cometh a very proactive start on the part of our finest, The Mackems straight away conceding two corners on the bounce. But we then got caught by a classical ?sucker punch?. What?s the biggest danger facing a side that?s pressing home a sustained attacking spell? Yep, give the coconut to the one in the blue and white stripes: the answer is a break from out of defence that rapidly develops into an upfield rush, moreover one where what was formerly the attacking side, suddenly finds itself several bodies light in its frantic attempts to defend hearth and home from further telling blows. Yep ? that?s precisely what happened, and for Sunderland, it was all too easy for words. They grabbed a corner, and that?s when they pounced. Having said all that, they didn?t half get a chunk of help by virtue of the fact that our marking had gone completely AWOL, for some unknown reason. Even a Conference side propping up the wrong end of their own league table would have looked askance at the awful way we defended that corner, effectively giving Sunderland tormentor Stern John a free header, which he accepted most gratefully, of course. Result? The task before us instantaneously doubled in magnitude, and that?s when most Baggies first realised we were completely incapable of getting this one back, even in a month of Saturdays.

Still, fair play to Chappie, whose absolute rocket of a shot hit the right hand post not long after that, then, just a minute later, and at the other end, Keily produced heroics to prevent the disparity in goals becoming even greater, the actual scenario being broadly similar to the one that led to the visitors getting their second. There then followed a brace of Sunderland corners, their followers indulging in a bit of amateur fortune-telling all the while. ?We?re gonna win the League!? they sang, and with great conviction, too: going by this display, who the hell would dare contradict them?

With our lot clearly rocking on their heels, Mogga decided to try a 54th minute triple subbing for size instead. Off went Koren, Phillips and Greening, and on came Gera, Shergar and Carter. But still move after move broke down: Stern John didn?t improve the mood any, either, by taking his own sweet time to get off the pitch following his subbing. That prompted a frustrated and angry John Homer to comment, furiously and very, very loudly: ?Good job yow ay gorra walk it ?ome!?

Both Koumas and Robbo then had their moments, the latter being most unlucky with one hell of a deflected shot from around 20 yards. Then, this being that sort of game, Sunderland were a tad unlucky not to make more of yet another breakout from defence, Kiely keeping us in it with some superb custodial work on his part. And I believe the visitors actually ended up hitting the post from that one.

But it?s strange, sometimes, how swiftly a game?s fortunes can turn around: hell, strikers worth their salt positively thrive in the patient wait for such a moment to arrive. Mind you, I would like to claim a modest part in what happened next, albeit by telepathic means. Just as I was thinking to myself ?If only we could get one back, give them a hefty injection of self-confidence, we could still salvage something from the wreckage? Darren Carter, bless his Bluenose roots, managed to do precisely that.

Suddenly, with the deficit reduced to just one, we had a game going out there. First of all Kamara had a go, then young Carter tried to add to his tally. But we were always vulnerable to that constant bane of our defensive lives, getting caught on the break: in fact, had Kiely not been as astute as he turned out to be, then Sunderland?s winning margin would have been considerably greater, I fear.

And even though we kept plugging away at it until the final whistle, nothing we could do out there would get us that life-saving equalising strike we all yearned for so keenly. And, to be scrupulously fair to Sunderland, on the balance of the play, I reckoned they were pretty good value for that win of theirs. Might it have been somewhat different, though, had we not gone head-to-head with Boro earlier in the week?

Probably. There were an awful lot of tired legs out there come the latter stages of that second half. With a maximum of three subbings allowed in one game, no matter what you try to ease the situation, there?s always going to be someone pretty vital to the side practically crawling around that pitch come the end. As proved to be the case. Sure, we did the best we could today ? but our best wasn?t good enough, end of. As per the lyrics of the old song, ?Get yourself up, dust yourself down, start all over again?..? Just a pity our next game?s with the Dingles, isn?t it?

Despite what happened, today?s defeat isn?t a complete and utter disaster. Far from it: there?s still a hell of a lot of road to travel until journey?s end heaves into sight, as signified by the fact that we still retain third place, just above today?s opposition on goal difference. The hallmark of a truly great side lies in its resilience when faced by setbacks such as this. Can we bounce back?

For the first time in ages, a full week now separates our defeat from the Dingles. No strength-sapping midweek game to bother about, whoopee! Mogga?s the sort of chap reputed to be dead keen on applied psychology as used in a footballing context. What about the old cycling wisdom that whenever you contrived to fall off your machine, you remounted straight away, so as to keep your nerve completely intact? Although unafraid of trying out new solutions to some ?headology? problems as old as the hills, this one has all the hallmarks of being particularly taxing for everyone. Time, then, for our leader to become really inventive.

And Finally?. One. Yet another gem, intentional or otherwise, culled from today?s programme. Apparently, our match ball sponsors for the recent Cardiff game were a firm called Clerskroom ? but that?s not the real reason this particular page drew my attention in similar fashion to a female moth sniffing pheromones from around five miles away. No sirree: just the name of the bloke heading up their party. So how does Jonathan Dingle grab you? Not by the goolies, I would sincerely hope: to do so would constitute an act of folly in the extreme.

Two. Come the interval, it was revealed by the club that Albion would be supporting the forthcoming ?Comic Relief? drive for charity cash. Given what happened today, a very unfortunate choice of fixture for this particular type of announcement, n?est ce pas?

 - Glynis Wright

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