The Diary

07 March 2007: Meet John Hartson - Albion's Hitherto-Undiscovered Comic Genius!

After witnessing what was a totally-infuriating, dispiriting, not to mention totally frustrating, home defeat at the hands of a rampant and somewhat robust Sunderland side, it came as quite a shock to see the general thrust of my post-game emotions given amazing resonance, just the other day. And in the unlikeliest sort of contexts, too, the words coming as they did from the mouth of Misia Gervaise, sports psychologist to the England Womens? side.

Obviously, the Observer Sports article in question had nothing whatsoever to do with the doings of our favourite football team, either positive or negative, but the thoughts expressed within the confines of those few sentences certainly hit home. And so they should: what the lady described within those pages was a process any Albion supporter worth their salt could easily recognise: after reading on, you?ll see what I mean, so here goes.

According to Gervaise, being on the losing side of a game sparks off a mental process not so very unlike that of grieving for a lost friend or relative. ?Every time you lose something, you grieve. It?s the same in football: you go through stages of denial, anger, blame, and depression, before reaching acceptance. Different people progress through these stages at different times, and that can cause friction in the team?.?

Those words were said apropos of player reactions to defeat, of course, rather than bereavement, but are supporters so very different? Think back to last Saturday: massive, massive game ? and we blew it. So now, we?re all very much retired to the fastness of our lairs to lick our numerous wounds, try to come to terms with considerable disappointment, rage about what might have been ? aw, you know the score.

Denial? Plenty to be had there, I?ll bet, and probably focussing upon our collective inability to see that the best side won on the day. ?How the hell did we allow it to happen?? Anger? How much excess adrenalin secretion do you want after a game? Blame? Pointing the finger at the various shortcomings of the side has been a pretty popular spectator sport during the course of the last 3 days or so, with a bit of good honest referee-baiting chucked in for good measure. As has lambasting the somewhat animated touchline antics of Roy Keane, and all who sail in him. Would things have gone as pear-shaped had we not had to contend with a midweek Cup replay, perhaps? These and other opinions, only served to add cyber-fuel to the overall electronic debate on what actually went wrong that day.

Which brings us straight to ?depression?, of course. You have only to read supporter views expressed on various Albion-related websites ? a fair number of Baggies currently think Saturday?s reverse to be the End Of Footballing Life As We Know It ? to acknowledge the fact that if there ever was a group of people in dire need of heavy medication with Prozac, it sure as hell has to be our own supporters. ?We ay even gunna mek the play-offs?.? is one particularly morose train of thought currently held by a sizeable number of the Baggie proletariat. ?Woe, woe and thrice woe?? Time for the three witches of Macbeth fame to make a cameo appearance, I reckon.

Acceptance? That?ll be a long time coming, I fear, especially given the news tonight that Derby won away from home yet again, meaning that the gap between the two sides has now widened to a truly massive six points. It now looks very much as though whatever kind of monetary differences their players once had with the club, it?s been somehow resolved. We now have an awful lot of ground to catch up, I fear, in more than one sense of the accepted phrase.

But all that was very much behind us, tonight, as we decided to give a reserve game the once-over, for a change. Albion v Blues, at The Hawthorns, our presence there being due to the fact that we didn?t have to go through all the myriad inconveniences of travelling to Kiddy Harriers? place, for once. Plus persistent rumours that seemingly part-time striker John Hartson was to come from out of the closet, and expose himself (ooer, missus) to full public gaze once more. And what a side Blues, put out, too: at least nine of the buggers with some sort of experience at first-team level. All that, ranged against a Baggies side boasting the collective presence of young fringe player Jared Hodgkiss, the now largely-recovered Wally Wallwork, and ? erm ? the aforementioned Hartson!

Mind you, ?Im Indoors didn?t get off to a very auspicious start: we hadn?t been in our seats ten minutes, when he was tannoyed to the effect that he?d left his car lights on! Oh, whoops. Off he went, then, muttering darkly ? and, as a result, missed the first Blues goal, courtesy Forsell, and a less-than-seemingly-mobile Luke Steele, about eleven minutes into the game. But that wasn?t the biggest laugh to be had from tonight?s proceedings: just insert the name of a certain Mister Hartson in that vacant slot for me, would you, dearie?

It was those noisy pair of reprobates from Sutton Branch, Tim, he of the massive Albion flags a-flutter outside his house, and Andy, former newspaper vendor to the gentry, that really had us giggling. Proper ?gallows humour? it was, great lashings of irony, the sort of thing that would have left the legendary Madame De Farge, of ?A Tale Of Two Cities? fame, positively green with envy. But the real star of tonight?s show was the lovely, overweight and untalented Mister Hartson, who did his cause no favours whatsoever by adopting a seemingly increasing reluctance to participate in the proceedings, as the first half ran its course. Was it my imagination, or did he really have a genuine problem trying to keep up with play? It certainly seemed that way to me.

As did it seem to our two chums: just about every time the poor lad found himself in possession, or strove valiantly to keep up, up they both piped, with words of - erm ? ?encouragement? that surely must have been heard by the numerous club scouts gathered in the VIP box, situated only a few feet away from where we were all sitting. Not to mention the home dugout, situated below, and around twenty or so yards to our left.

By the 19th minute, it was pretty much ?game over?, when Blues made it two. Once more, it was Forsell that did the damage: not that he had to exert himself much, mind. For that one, our marking was truly shocking. Within the space of just five minutes, though, we actually managed to reduce the deficit, the real shock in that one being that our balding Main Man quite unexpectedly found himself cast in the role of goal-maker.

Fair play, mind, it was his defence-splitting dummy and through-ball that left Albion?s Morrison with the comparatively easy task of going one-to-one with his Bluenose custodial enemy, then slotting straight underneath his diving body. Must have been one of Nature?s quirks, though, as our distinctly follicle-challenged chum then went on to play an increasingly-diminished role in subsequent events out there.

Just three minutes after that well-executed bit of goalscoring, we had a let-off of massive proportions, when a defensive clanger just outside our box let in Blues again, a completely defender-free zone prevailing as their lad homed in on our net like a bullet from a rifle. It seemed very much as though that was it ? then, as the Blues lad pulled the trigger, something, I know not what ? the vision of a ghostly John Osborne materialising right between the sticks, maybe? - caused his effort to flash just wide of our post.

But our luck was not to last. Just nine minutes before the end of the half, Blues did it again, this time courtesy of what seemed, on the face of it, a ridiculously easy shot for our keeper to handle, even though their lad Danns had first led our defence a bit of a dance in getting to the point where he was in a good position to pull the trigger.

And, just before the break, they could yet again have quite easily ?declared? with four on the scoresheet: as Blues charged forward for the umpteenth time that half, their lad went to bury it ? fortunately, not only was the effort just wide, the lino on the far side had flagged for offside, as well. See, they do have their uses, sometimes. Linos, I mean, not uppity Bluenoses.

Come the half-time whistle, as all 22 protagonists wended their weary way in the direction of the tunnel, my eyes were suddenly drawn towards the state of the pitch, which was cutting up quite badly. That?s what happens when you use it for its designated purpose just four days after the previous 90 minutes worth, I suppose ? but, what of our Bluenose chums? After all, if rumours are to be believed, their muck heap is still bearing an uncomfortably close resemblance to no man?s land, The Somme, circa the latter half of 1916. Compared with that, our own slightly-damaged swath must seem like the epitome of complete luxury to them.

And, in the meantime, what about our somewhat rotund, long-in-the-tooth (alleged) striker, then? Given his dismal showing during the first half, everyone seated in our vicinity fully expected him to be subbed after the break ? but, nope. There was a subbing, all right ? that of our goalscorer, Stefan Morrison, with Dean Nicholson coming on by way of replacement instead. So Chummy was to be left where he was, then? Much incredulity among our companions, my own particular theory ? ?Perhaps they?re leaving him on for sheer comedy value?? ? generating a fair amount of mirth from my immediate circle.

Cue, then, for an opening of the comedic floodgates: sarcasm, irony, they all issued forth in great big vituperative heaps, and all in the direction of the same player. ?Take it easy, Big John ? you?re playing on Sunday? was one stinging jibe, as was: ?Oooh, John ? you were SOOOO near!? Tim?s near-unbeatable gem was: ?Oy, John, get into the box ? preferably, a coffin?.? Not that he was helping his case, at all: with 15 minutes of the second half gone, a mistake emanating from him let in Blues once more for a straight charge on our poor keeper, who hadn?t had the best of games, it must be said. Their fourth seemed inevitable ? but somehow, the Blues lad shot straight at the rapidly-diving Steele, rather than into the back of the net.

By the time the game entered its final stages, Hartson really was a complete and utter liability. With every passing second, he retreated further and further away from the action, thereby becoming even more invisible in the process. Heaven alone knows what the numerous kids comprising our side must have thought about it all. I suppose it indicates the acquisition of a certain ?cult status? when you have reserve team supporting regulars barking copious amounts of witty and incisive invective every single time ?yer man? got a sniff of the ball, which wasn?t all that often by that stage of the game, it has to be said.

Highly reminiscent of the time, around five seasons ago, when the likes of Fabian De Freitas and The Mighty (not!) Quinn were the unwitting subjects of similar second-string gallows humour, and for very much the same reasons as now. Albion supporters will tolerate a surprising number of duff performances on the part of their favourites, but once it becomes painfully apparent that someone isn?t exactly giving of their all in the pursuit of three points come the game?s end, then they might as well start wearing a leper?s cloak to games. As both the aforementioned horrible examples were to quickly discover, and as our own bald-headed walking disaster is finding now.

But I digress slightly. Come stoppage time, all two minutes of it, Blues lashed in their fourth, from the lad Nafti, courtesy an assist from a Bluenose bearing the unlikely piscatorial monicker of McPike. You might want to argue that Number Four was their just desserts for a game where they?d been completely dominant, for the most part. Of the two players we?d originally come to see, I reckon that the busy Ronnie Wallwork impressed the most, and by a country mile, too. As far as he was concerned, I could have gone in for a whole series of jokes with an overall theme of variants on the word ?stab?, but what with the cabaret up front being so ? erm ? ?good?, anyway, and Ronnie making such a gutsy job of recovery from his various injuries, I just couldn?t bring myself to do it, in the end.

As for Hartson, if he hasn?t got the message by now, perhaps someone should emulate the script used in all the best deodorant adverts, by having a discreet little whisper into that shell-like, but occasionally deaf, ear of his? Is there to be held the faint hope that, of the myriad scouts present tonight, just one among them might fancy taking the risk? How long has he to go on his contract, still? Supporter consensus around me seems to think he?s got another twelve months or so left.

If that?s the case, then why not emulate our policy of five seasons ago, when we rid ourselves of similar deadwood by the simple expedient of buying out contracts, handing over the residual dough owed as a lump sum, then telling those placed in that position to just ?go away?? Much may depend upon what division we find ourselves in next season, of course, but to me, that particular course of action might well prove highly beneficial to both parties.

At least there was one bit of good news to be had today. That of Paul Robinson getting that late sending-off of his, versus Sunderland, rescinded by the FA. I hadn?t seen any TV footage of the incident concerned whatsoever, but even though I was sitting some distance away from where it happened, I did have my strong suspicions the Sunderland lad was gilding the lily a tad.

And that brings me to a very pertinent point: given that the FA have now accepted that Robbo?s defensive intentions were honourable, where does that leave his Sunderland opposite number, Liam Miller? After looking at the relevant footage, ?no contact? was their verdict, after having seen Albion?s camera evidence, as supplied from three or four different angles, showing ?no contact, or minimal contact at best? according to our manager.

If that?s the case, then the inference must surely be that he ?dived? in order to get Robinson a slightly earlier bath than is normally the case (cynical viewpoint), or fraudulently gain a free-kick in a very juicy spot indeed (charitable viewpoint)? I?d like to think that now they?ve seen what really happened for themselves, the FA will be taking Sunderland to task ? or, more appositely, the player so blatantly indulging in such amateur dramatics. Hand out a few stiffish penalties for that, plus other occurrences of a similar nature, and one sunny day, might it just be that we?ll mysteriously find the number of dodgy free-kicks awarded in and around the box greatly diminished, perhaps?

The possible ramifications of that dismissal were set to be absolutely massive: had Robbo not won that appeal, we wouldn?t have had the pleasure of his company at The Scrap Yard, this coming Sabbath, and what with Wolves being so annoyingly resurgent, right now, that might have represented a killer-blow to our promotion hopes. As they could, still, of course, Robbo or no Robbo, but at least we won?t go into that game labouring under the considerable handicap of a key defender and captain languishing on the sidelines because of some disgraceful skulduggery on the part of an opposing player.

All being well, I should be good for another piece in but two days time, when we attend the 1976 promotion side?s reunion dinner. We?re promised the presence of most of the principal players taking part in that nine-month-long drama, come Thursday, so it should be a pretty good night all round for Baggies both young and old. Just keep it tuned to this channel and you?ll be OK!

And Finally?.. Yep, there was I thinking that veteran Baggies like The Fart and Vic Stirrup had everyone completely licked in terms of age, but now I?ve discovered yet another ?pretender to the throne?. Very modest she is about it, too, given the fact I only found out just a few days ago, so take a bow Sutton Branch member ?Mabel?, a mate of secretary Amanda Miles?s mum! 91 years of age, she is, attending her first ever Albion game back in 1924!

Put into relevant context, then, the year Mabel first became a Baggie, Soviet President Lenin finally popped his revolutionary clogs, as did US President at the time of the First World War, Woodrow Wilson. In the February of that same year, composer George Gershwin first let ?Rhapsody In Blue? loose upon an adoring New York public. Just two months later, and following on from his infamous ?beer hall putsch?, a Munich court was to hand out a somewhat derisory sentence to Adolf Hitler, nominally five years for ?high treason?, but then being told, in the same breath, that parole was possible after only five months served in clink. The rest we all know, of course.

Oh ? and before I forget, November of that same year also saw the death of opera composer Puccini, at the premature age of 65. Complete vindication of the operatic sentiments expressed in ?La Boheme?, then: ?Your tiny hand is frozen?? Well, as far as he was concerned, it most certainly was!

So now I?m throwing the whole thing open to you, the readers. 91 is a pretty incredible age for any Albion supporter to achieve, even given the rapidly-increasing longevity of the British population, these days. Is there anyone else out there who knows of a longer-serving Baggie, be they male or female? If so, I really would love to hear from you.

 - Glynis Wright

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