The Diary

03 April 2007: Reserve Honours Even - Sheffield Wednesday, On A Monday.

Just finished watching the second half of the Villa-Everton encounter on Sky, we have ? and, boy, what a finish. We had hoped that Everton?s 1-0 lead would hold, thereby tipping our local rivals even further into the mire they seemed to have unceremoniously pitched themselves into, of late: 19 games without a win, before tonight?s caper even kicked off, was it? Sadly, with around seven to go to the end, and following a phenomenal amount of pressure from Martin O?Neill?s mob, The Toffees caved in, and the Blubbery Ones finished the game honours even, much to our mutual disappointment. Not to worry, though: a draw isn?t all that useful, really, when you?re deemed to be in serious danger of getting inadvertently caught up in an increasingly-vicious relegation battle. As I said to ?Im Indoors, as we left The Hawthorns after tonight?s reserve outing versus Sheffield Wednesday, ?Even if they don?t end up as one of the three taking the drop, a few weeks of them sweating down there would cheer me up no end?..?

But back to that reserve fixture. Quite some time since we?d last watched the stiffs in action, the pair of us, but as we had nothing better planned for the evening, decided to go there anyway. What swung it for us was a first chance to see new signing David Worrall, a 16 year old wunderkind fresh from Gigg Lane, home to Bury FC. Beat off the attentions of a fair few Premiership sides, we did, in order to secure his signature, so we wanted to see precisely what we?d got for our trouble.

As expected, the lad featured as one of the starters on tonight?s team-sheet. ?Blimey,? said my other half, as Worrall walked onto the Hawthorns pitch for the very first time, ?He looks young, even from the back!? As things turned out, he had a pretty sound game, settled into the strange environment very well indeed, and wasn?t afraid to have a go at the old onion-bag, either, hitting the ball decisively the very first moment he hove within sight of the target. No bad quality in a youngster, that: the end-result of being asked to do a man?s job at the tender age of 16, perhaps?

But that was during the game. Before it started, we?d shifted ourselves to the back of the Halfords, where two of Sutton Branch?s more incorrigible reprobates sat in regal repose. An extension of the old ?kids getting up to no good on the back seat of the coach? thing, I guess, but it didn?t half make for an interesting evening ? albeit a freezing-cold one, on account of an horrendous wind-chill factor, moreover one exacerbating greatly the sort of Arctic climes you get from a distinct lack of bodies sitting packed tightly all around.

The two I had in mind? Let?s just call ?em ?Tim? and ?Andy?, eh? Regulars will know of whom I?m wittering on about, of course: if you don?t, rest assure you will, come the end of this piece! First to lower the overall tone of the conversation was Andy, enthusing madly about the recent Dolly Parton concert he?d attended. His snap-summary of that auspicious occasion? ?Massive!? And now for the Big Question, folkies. Was that comment made apropos of her justly-famous 42DD ? erm ? ?attributes? or not, I wonder? Assuredly not, said our chum. OK, I?ll believe him. Just about! In the meantime, so long, Dolly, and thanks for the ?mammary? of your recent tour.

Examination of the team-sheet before the start also revealed yet another surprise participant, albeit one wearing black, this time. Remember the female lino that former Luton gaffer Mike Newell famously laid into after one particular game, earning him yet another in a long series of Soho Square disciplinary hearings, and opprobrium from women?s rights groups everywhere? Amy Rayner was her name ? and guess what? Yep, there she was, on the pitch, but going one better than lino status, this time, by actually running the game. Thought she didn?t do a bad job out there, myself ? and let?s be fair. Since that day, she doesn?t appear to have suffered adversely from all the attendant publicity one little bit: the very fact she was appointed to take charge of this one in the first place says it all, I guess. Talk about having the last laugh on someone you didn?t particularly care for: I guess it was champagne galore in the Rayner household, the day Newell got dumped by the Kenilworth Road persuasion.

Now for a brief word about reserve fixtures in general, around this time of the season. One of the main factors influencing our decision not to attend so many, of late, was the sheer boredom factor involved, of which there were several root causes to be found on the playing side. One such affects the younger players, mainly. It?s about now that the trainees/scholars/apprentices ? call ?em what you will ? are hoiked into their gaffer?s office, and told their fate.

Additionally, young pros deemed not likely to make the grade are moved on around this time. The days when clubs like ours could afford the luxury of pros playing regularly at reserve level well into their twenties, are long since gone: if you haven?t made it by the age of 19, say, with an absolute upper limit of 20, then you never will. Albion do try to let them all down gently well in advance of season?s end, in order to maximize their chances of finding another club, which is more than some do, so I?m reliably informed. It?s because they?re all going to be out of the club in a very short space of time, they won?t exactly bust a gut during those closing games.

Another similar aspect of the problem affects the old pros, the ones whose flame is on the verge of guttering out for good, sadly. Or, perhaps they?ve become an embarrassment to the club, because of one reason or another: it?s usually a disciplinary thing that?s at the root of the trouble: not so long ago, our reserve side was stuffed chock-full of players who?d incurred managerial wrath for one reason or another. With that type of player, you can use the second-string as a shop window; with any luck, and the right scouts in attendance, the errant one will find some other outfit, somewhat lower down the leagues, generally, willing to give him a go.

Last of all? Those pros, senior, junior, whatever, getting over a long-term injury problem, and needing a series of games at that level in order to get them slowly eased back into the pace, not to mention considerable stresses and strains, both physical and mental, of competitive football. Although his problem wasn?t a football injury, as such, Ronnie Wallwork is a perfect example of such a player. Again, the aim isn?t so much to set the footballing world alight, as quietly get match-fit for first team-level games.

Reserve football also seems to attract certain types of supporter. Those of you that attend regularly, look around the Halfords carefully, the next time you go, and you?ll see what I mean within a matter of minutes. Easiest by far are the dads with kids in tow, and under the age of ten, mostly. They tend to split into two camps during games: as you might expect, one such group, consisting solely of kids wanting to commit to memory every single ball their heroes kick, every goal foul, red card, yellow card, in order to grow up as pernickety as Steve The Miser. From their ranks will be drawn the fanatical Baggies supporters of the future, five years of age, chronologically, but passing for about 35, some of them, the ones singing to the point of total lack of voice, and suffering most of all when not able to stand in shelter during inclement weather. Swindon, anyone?

Not so many years ago, when such things were fashionable, once they?d grown up, that was when they?d join in with the emergent football fanzine culture. Either that, or take an active part in supporters? club affairs. And, given their youthful enthusiasm for the club and all who sail in it, a more than even chance of them winding up holed up in some little room somewhere, with only a PC for company, surrounded by stats, stats, stats, obscure features about some playing prodigy back in the days when Queen Vic was on the throne, and an article detailing the precise number of bowel movements had by our entire midfield for the past ten years.

The cure? For the fanatics, I mean, and not those content to simply bat the breeze. Finding a relationship at long last tends to dampen their ardour considerably: there?s many a coupling forged on the basis of ?If you can?t beat ?em, then join ?em?, I?ll have you know. Failing that, there?s always aversion therapy, several long, unpleasant sessions generally doing the trick, eventually.

The second category of nipper? A much greater source of nuisance value for many, I reckon. I refer to those whose doting dads bring them to games, but neglect to ensure that they stay in a fixed spot for its entire duration. Within seconds of the start, they?re sallying forth in search of either some pop, or the toilets, of both sexes, of course, and not just the once, but several times over. As you can well imagine, this is a major cause of people getting quite ratty with those urchins brave enough to risk the (increasingly-likely) consequences attendant of winding up furious pensioners innumerable. One big tip to those wishing to get their digestive tracts mangled beyond all repair through ingestion of matchday food in quantity, at such a tender age: if you value the integrity of your lugholes, don?t bother coming near me.

My last category one might regard as saddest of the lot, and not in a humorous sense, either. These are those Baggies, now retired, whose memories encompass both our last two FA Cup Finals, and maybe the long period before that also, up to and including World War Two, when the club had to rely on the services of whatever professionals were stationed with the armed forces in the area. No League competition back then, either, mainly for the above reason ? players all called up ? but also because it was feared big crowds would attract unwelcome attention from the Luftwaffe. You can see these people scattered thinly around the Halfords any game you care to see: gnarled faces, and even more gnarled memories of what went before.

So there you have it: for many reasons, all of them excellent, past experience has shown us both that when attending these games, it?s considered prudent to take a copious supply of stimulant drugs with one. Insomnia sufferers would find their problem disappearing in a trice, I reckon. But tonight, a fairly low-key first half apart, it didn?t turn out that way at all, much to my complete surprise. Let me explain.

It became clear right from the first minute that this one would turn out to be a tad more competitive than most, when Albion won a couple of corners in succession in the opening minutes. And, better than that, the game continued to be played in the same upbeat spirit: as I?ve explained, this isn?t usual at this point in the season. After a fair amount of pressure, it was Shergar that made the breakthrough for the Baggies, in the 29th minute, when his close-range effort blasted right through a ruck of players of both persuasions, thereby giving us the lead, his first ever for the club. Deservedly so, I would have said, as we?d seemed to have most of the possession up to that particular point in the game.

As it is with the first string, so it is with the reserves! Just three minutes after the ref had pointed to the centre circle, Wednesday, captained by the way, by former Baggie Chris Adamson, he of the clock-stopping facial features, levelled the score. Even at that level, the moral of the story?s quite clear: let the opposition come at you, then back off, back off, back off, allowing Wednesday to get their shot in with ease, and you?re bound to end up paying the price, aren?t you? It goes without saying that not long after that, Wednesday managed to take the lead themselves. Our keeper, Daniels, managed to beat out Wednesday?s first effort, but it went in via a rebound anyway. Familiar enough territory for anyone connected with the club, I would say, but we were very unlucky not to get it back before the final whistle.

It was while we counted down the minutes to the break, that my other half noticed one of our chums drop a small coin onto the floor. As quick as a flash, there he was, picking it up, then returning same to its rightful owner. Said Andy: ?Quickest I?ve ever seen you move??

Said I: ?I reckon it?s all that training he?s had from Steve Carr. His parsimonious streak?s rubbed off onto him, so now he couldn?t stop, even if he wanted to!?

Come the interval, come a lengthy look at Appy, seated in the VIP box adjacent, and roaring his bloody head off fit to bust, at some joke shared with the sprinkling of club scouts that had decided to turn up for this one, then joining the rest in a rapid descent into the bowels of the stand. Let?s face it, he?s got every right to have a grin of Cheshire Cat proportions plastered right across his face, these days, having just been awarded damages of around ?1.5 million, following successful legal proceedings against the doctor that treated him for the training ground injury that finished his playing career so prematurely.

?Ooh, nice to see Venus here?? crowed Tim, spotting him amidst all the scouts situated in that part of the stand. Oh boy: too good a chance to miss, this?. ?I?m not surprised,? said I, ?Brightest thing in the night sky, right now, is Venus, and you?ll find him up there just after sunset, should you want to look for him?? Never let it be said this column fails to provide what Jeremy Peace (and Tony Blair?) would undoubtedly term ?A good learning experience?, eh?

And, talking of Steve The Miser, guess who rolled up midway through the break? Yep, The Great Hoarder Himself, this time with a hilarious reminder of the time when we ran the fanzine. I?d forgotten about it, but once upon a time, we did a competition, the main prize being a signed picture of the current Wednesday reserve captain, keeper Chris Adamson, still very much a Baggie at the time of which I mention. Not exactly the best looking guy in town, mind, but his mother must still love him! In due course, a winner emerged, so like the nice little Baggie people we are, we duly dispatched the lucky chappie his prize ? only to find, just a couple of days later, he?d duly sent it back! As Steve himself commented, after telling the tale: ?His looks don?t improve any, do they?? Adamson?s, not the prizewinner, I assume.

Steve also had another one to tell, this time about the Oldbury-Wellington game he attended, the weekend just gone. During the second half, our miserly chum and his mates, listening to the latest scores on the radio, were chortling like hell about the awful turn the Dingles game was taking: Southampton four up, and counting, by that time, apparently. Enter, stage left, a very dozy geezer dressed in what appeared to be orange and black (the team colours of one of the sides they were watching, apparently: not sure of which one, though: tell you what, ask Steve yourselves!), who was also taking a great interest in developments at Wolverhampton.

Apart from giving the bloke what was practically a running commentary on the disaster, nobody there thought that much about it ? until someone clocked the fact that Chummy?s attire was, in fact, of the Dingle type! And yes ? it was his odd behaviour that prompted them to take a second look! Oh, and another thing about Steve: he?s under strict orders from The Noise to attend our forthcoming reserve away fixture with Port Vale, apparently! Ooer!

Come the start of the second half, Albion made a subbing, Evans off, Morrison on. Despite the change in personnel, every time they went onto the offensive, Albion seemed to run straight into the brick wall cunningly disguised as the Wednesday defence. Elvins, Morrison, they both had decent attempts blocked, early on.

Midway through the half, Tim?s mobile rang, and after some difficulty finding the blasted thing tucked into its hidey-hole about his person, he finally managed to answer the call. What some writers might care to call ?a pregnant pause? later, we were all let in on the secret: ?That Coronation Street verdict ? Tracey?s guilty?.? Titters and giggles all round as the precise import of that call sunk in: so ?Corrie? was Tim?s dark little secret, never to be told, eh?

Realising he?s lost an enormous amount of ?street cred? in around five seconds flat, the poor lad then tried to rectify matters by pointing out that the evening?s main soap drama had, in all likelihood, taken a fair few off the gate. But, as far as I was concerned, he?d gone way past the point of no return, crossed the Baggie equivalent of the Rubicon, even. ?What you say may be taken down, and used as evidence against you later?? Too bloody right, Blue!

Come the last bit of the game, Wednesday?s Bradley hit the post, that scare then being followed by another straight away, this time at the hands of Hills: fortunately, that one ended up in the side-netting. One swiftly taken goal kick later, it was then the turn of Wednesday to squirm, when Shergar brought the ball down, and hit one hell of a piledriver straight at the target: a shame that effort went just wide, really. Add to that a bitsy injury-time drama courtesy of an Albion penalty shout, Nardiello claiming he was pulled back in the box ? wouldn?t like to call it either way, me ? but our lady ref didn?t want to know.

And that, more or less, was that. One shuffle along the row and into the gangway later (a very stiff one it was, too, as the temperature had plunged precipitously, since our arrival at the ground), we were heading for the car-park and our means of getting home. And yes, there was Venus, blazing away up there like crazy, just like I?d said! A good game, considering, but what really made it for me was the conversation throughout the 90 minutes. Great fun, loads of new material for this piece to play with, too. Any chance we can do it again, chaps?

And Finally?. One. Talking apropos The Claret And Spew, after we?d watched their drawn game on the box, we then switched over to Beeb Two. Amazing, the power of coincidence: guess what programme was showing on there at that time? Believe it or not, one called ?Seal Sanctuary? ? and yes, it did precisely what it said on the tin!

Two?.The Dingles saga of their 6-0 home stonking gets even funnier with increasing age: well, for me it does, even if the mere mention of their most recent stuff-up does get their own followers drumming on their chests like mad, and pulling down twigs from nearby trees by the score. Yep, scientists now agree that more than 98 per cent of our DNA is similar to that of the great apes, and as far as our Dingle chums are concerned, there?s the positive proof! The much-sought-after ?missing link? by any other name, in fact.

But I digress. We all knew that among those six was an own goal, plus a missed spot-kick from the home side, just to put the icing on the cake. What I hadn?t quite taken in, though, was the fact that their visitors achieved this astonishing scoreline ? the brain-deads last conceded that many without reply, on their own turf, to Liverpool, way back in 1968, by the way ? with no less than seven regular first teamers missing from their ranks! No wonder my sides still hurt from giggling so much.

Three?. While I think about it, regarding my enigmatic end to Saturday?s offering, in which I appeared to be laying myself wide open (ooer, missus) to a charge of indecent exposure immediately after our successful Loftus Road encounter, prospective complainants should stay their mighty hands, for now. The reason? Well, the date of the piece says it all! Not least because of the fact that by the time I?d completed it, then sent it winging its merry way onto the Boing site, and all stations west, it was well after the witching hour, and most certainly into ?new month? territory. A good, hearty ?Avril Poisson? to those that got suckered in, what?

 - Glynis Wright

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