The Diary

10 April 2007: Sodje, Kamara Bag Baggie Brace In Battle Of The Birds

During the course of the past 48 hours, it?s been my firm belief that we supporters have gone through pretty well every single gamut of emotion possible in our concerted efforts to get lung-power blowing the ball into the net for the players. The plus side of the ledger, the highs? Elation; joy; sense of belonging; laughter; wondrous appreciation of skills practiced to (almost) perfection by young men in stripes blessed with talents and skills we mere mortals could never match in fifty years of trying; that wonderful, magical moment when the referee finally blows his whistle to signal the end, and the three points are yours to keep. That?s when you?re really ?proud to be a Baggie?: it?s at times like that, you want to let the entire world in on the magic secret ? and frequently do.

Counter that with the side written wholly in red ink, though: the lows: total frustration; fury; tears; torment; anguish; sorrow; mental pain; the dull ache and despair of undeserved defeat; the gradual realisation that whatever their potential, their capabilities, our layers lack sufficient resolve and determination to bring a game back from the brink.

Yes, over the course of the Bank Holiday just gone, we Baggies have traversed the entire spectrum ? infra-angry to ultra-happy, and boy, you should have seen us come hurtling out of Carrow Road today. Remember those US soldiers in Vietnam, back in the sixties, and the famous Don McCullin photos illustrating what was then a common military phenomenon: soldiers or marines bearing the so-called ?thousand-yard stare?: once seen, never forgotten, setting them totally apart, a mark of Cain habitually borne by troops who had done way too many jungle patrols than was considered good for their mental health? 4p Today, come five o?clock or thereabouts, that?s what you saw etched large on the faces of our nerve-wracked followers, all right. And why there was a sudden rush for bike clips in the nearby Halfords store, pre-match. Laxatives? Who needs laxatives when you support the Baggies? It?s for all the above reasons, and more, that I propose we immediately change our chanted claim to be members of ?Tony Mowbray?s Barmy Army? to a much more accurate descriptor of our mental state, these days, viz: ?TONY MOWBRAY?S STRESSED OUT ARMY??? We?ve had freebie coach travel today: with all those nerves a-twanging in that away end, and entire heads of hair turning white with the intense strain, I wonder if our Chairman might now look towards getting the whole lot of us counselling? And paying for it out of his own pocket? Steady on, there ? that might just be a want too far for the bloke!

But that was earlier tonight, when justice finally triumphed, and we could all breathe a hefty sigh of relief. What of the morning, then? My story begins at what is, for me, an early rising indeed. Half-seven am, in fact: bright-eyes and bushy-tailed because the coaches were set to depart at nine. As we made our way to the ground, to meet up with both The Noise and The Fart, there was a lovely sunny day going for us, only the lack of open shops signifying this was Easter Monday, and not a normal day of the week. Ten minutes or so, we were in the car park abutting onto the newly-opened indoor training facility, and going in search of our coach where, hopefully, The Noise had saved us four seats.

On the way, we bumped into ex-GD Stroller Baz Plant and his lads, also taking the short walk from car to ground. Quite a lad is Baz: when not watching the Baggies, he?s the head of department at a local school, specialising in IT, I believe. Old age has long-since struck hard; the lad now sports a lovely line in grey barnets! He was the prime mover behind the fanzine football side way back in the nineties, and it?s nice to know that the vast majority of those lads still follow the drum. In fact, over the course of the day, at various times, I managed to clap eyes on around five, even Old Man Watkin, whose concise but excellent match reports you?ll find on our Boing mailing list.

Given we were turning up mob-handed, it wasn?t too surprising to discover the coach park at the back of the East Stand to be almost as crowded as during matchdays. Mind you, some enterprising soul had managed to cash in on the situation by rolling up in a burger van: by the time we?d arrived on the scene, a queue of South African election proportions was waiting to be served with this gent?s fat and calorie-laden (salmonella-ridden?) comestibles.

What a time to be going to an away game, my birthday, no less. ?Im Indoors gave me my present once I?d sorted out the mogs, pill, potion and food-wise, then sorted out my own nosh. So, what was burning a pretty big hole in my mitt this morning? Three titles telling the story of certain so-called ?Pals Battalions?, units raised at the start of World War One with considerable financial help from local entrepreneurs and plain old-fashioned money-bags ? and all of ?em volunteers to a man. Unofficially, most were named after the town that let its young men flock to the drum in such numbers e.g. the Birmingham Pals, or the City Of Sheffield Battalion. Some units, like the Inns Of Court Battalion, and the Honourable Artillery Company, even made their recruits pay a sum of money for the privilege of joining, something that was a constant source of considerable ironic mirth for recruits so affected, once they were in France, and the trenches, where death was never too far away at any given time. So now you know!

Anyway ? where was I? Oh, yes. Looking for our coach. When we found it, there was The Noise, grinning hugely, in the second row, and with all four perches required duly ?bagged?. Trust him, he?d got there with around an hour to spare, hence his alacrity in saving our seats. Mind you, when you?ve first had to take your eldest daughter off to her school, to catch a 3 am coach bound for la belle France and a seven-day stay there, it should come as no real surprise to hear The Noise was first in the queue, almost.

Not long after that, who should roll up but The Fart, here courtesy a lift this time, and not public transport. No sooner had he arrived on the scene, he handed over a birthday card for me, nice man that he is. As I was thanking him profusely, up spoke The Noise. ?I?ve got you a card!? he said, brightly, ?but I?ve ? erm ? left it at home!? Well, it?s the thought that counts, so they say.

Not long after that, a chappie from T-Mobile boarded the bus bearing gifts of those awful pink inflatable hand-thingies, and a job-lot of pink and white inflatable beach balls. Grudgingly, with a slight raising of the eyebrows signifying disapproval, our steward, cherubic facial expressions abounding, finally accepted the consignment. The trainee-philanthropist, reading his facial expression like a book, simply said: ?Thank Christ for that ? I?ve been trying to get rid of these for ages?..?

By now, the entire car-park was a multicoloured melee of supporters, their blue and white and green and yellow striped shirts contrasting nicely with a cobalt sky. The spring air had even brought from out of the woodwork a brace of photographers, from local newspapers, presumably: clicking away with gay abandon, they were, and all done to please a right moaning git of a picture editor, I assume. I never saw an actual signal for everyone to saddle up, but as if by magic, the car-park became completely bereft of Baggies, all of a sudden: signal for engines to be revved up, and the leading coaches to disengage their handbrakes: Mowbray?s Barmy Army was on the move.

Once we reached the nearby motorway island, the fact of our getting there must have activated some sort of trip-switch within the labyrinthine recesses of The Noise?s brain, because that was the moment he first started nattering ? and never stopped until we were well within the leafy but totally flat confines of East Anglia! Yes, Mart, you?ve missed us, haven?t you, you leetle tinker! And, as you might expect, going very large indeed apropos our last home game versus Stoke; our rapidly diminishing prospects of reaching the play-offs; our failure to increase what we had in the squad when we had the chance to do so, progressing to wider issues, such as company pensions, and who was to blame for people dipping out so badly, of late: means-tested benefits like pension tax credits; bad employers exacerbating stress levels among their workforces by not providing tangible rewards for good productivity in the form of pay rises. From there, the discussion steered in the direction of redundancy; retirement; pensions in general; the Inland Revenue; finishing up with a lively debate apropos the merits of self-employed status.

Oh well ? at least it soaked the miles up like blotting-paper, as our transport sped at a cracking rate of knots towards the wilds of East Anglia. Once our hero decided to give his tongue a bit of a rest, comparative silence descended upon the entire vehicle, thank goodness. At least the countryside, dotted here and there with brilliant yellow rapeseed oil plant rectangles, made a pleasant alternative to the Black Country conurbation. The overall combination of green fields; blue skies; and the golden brilliance of spring sunshine made for a pleasing view from the elevated vantage-point provided by our vehicle.

Another tale from fellow-supporters, this time one about an Albion player going into a very well-known restaurant indeed, then ordering a three-course meal, with accompanying wine: all this, having just turned up by helicopter (yuk). Total cost? Around 4.5K squid, apparently. As we progressed further eastwards with them, the gently undulating scenery dominating our immediate surroundings, and feathered and furry creatures galore dotted around the fields and meadows, gradually giving way to the Fenland flatness of legend. Ducks and swans abounded on lakes and ponds, while birds, beaks replete with twigs and moss with which to ?decorate? a new home, headed for their newly-built nests: everything seem touched by the amazing sense of rebirth and renewal the onset of this season brings.

In our coach, The Noise steered the conversation towards the concept of ?political correctness?, aided and abetted ably by The Fart, never one to be best pleased by what he perceived as complete and utter nonsense. A few minutes passed, during which they trotted out all the more familiar ones ? then, The Noise came out with an absolute gem that had me rolling in the aisles with helpless giggles within a matter of seconds. So how does ?The Neutral Hole Of Calcutta? grab you, then?

By now, we were on the outskirts of the city itself ? and that?s when our driver slipped up badly. He?d thought he knew where to go, but didn?t, hence our Magical Mystery Tour, after passing our destination, but totally missing the turn-off taken by all the other coaches. Twenty or so minutes later, we were in a part of the town I?d never, ever visited before, including a lovely stretch of river, grassy back gardens aplenty sloping gently towards the bank, where swans and ducks abounded amidst delightful weeping willows. Clearly, the guy was lost. In the end, ?Im Indoors took the initiative, giving the guy directions (we were very much back on Terra Cognito by then, finally) and steering him towards where he should have gone in the first place.

(INTERLUDE: How come is it that blokes have such an ingrained antipathy towards asking someone for directions, and all coupled with an extreme reluctance to admit they?re lost in the first place? Had our driver done so, asked others for advice, we?d have got to our destination some 20 minutes sooner than we actually did. Discuss.)

Finally berthing in the huge coach park about five minutes walk from the ground, and in search of the old Dutch courage, we decided to take a stroll into the town centre, and, once more, the river. And so it came to pass that The Lost Baggie Tribe, after much time in the wilderness, came upon a hostelry called the Compleat Angler, where Baggies aplenty congregated. As old Pop Larkin would have said: ?Perfick!?

A few moments of searching for a seat while The Noise got them in, and we were as happy as ?a pig in s**t?, as my old mum used to say, the jukebox providing a nostalgic background, churning out sixties hits galore: The Kinks; John Lennon?s ?Revolution; Tommy Roe and ?Dizzy?. It was the Small Faces that pulled me up sharply, mentally speaking: their ?All Or Nothing? 1966 single summed up our forthcoming game, not to mention what was required of our lads on the field of play come three that afternoon, perfectly!

A steady stroll along the river in the general direction the coach had taken while lost ? precisely what does the written exhortation ?FOR YOUR SECURITY DROP YOUR MUD HOOK? mean, I wonder? It doesn?t half sound indelicate - followed by another gentle amble towards our final destination, and it was time to go into the ground. No Delia, this time round, sadly, but what we did have inside the concourse were lots and lots of familiar faces and names. Including Dave Watkin, writer of match reports par excellence, also doing his crust about our serious shortage of fit troops that day: something we?d both forecast would happen, as winter?s icy grip loosened sufficiently enough to allow spring a chance to flourish and prosper.

Leaving the lad snarling and muttering, we then headed on out for our seats, not too far up the steps, fortunately for this column. And no wonder why: the team news given to us as we?d neared the ground sounded absolutely potty. Joe Kamara partnering Duke Ellington up front; Koumas on the bench (due to a knock), with Chappy keeping him company; Phillips out completely (virus); Sodje in, amazingly enough, or so it seemed at the time, also Zoltan Gera; Jared Hodgkiss on the bench, fair enough considering the good showing he?d had on Saturday; and Daniels providing some goalkeeping cover.

The best bit? Ronnie Wallwork restored to the bench as well: talk about scraping the barrel. Clearly, our personnel crisis was one of huge proportions. Now I know Easter?s primarily a celebration of someone rising from the dead after three days and nights in a tomb, but resurrecting poor old Ronnie, albeit an appropriate enough move in hindsight, given the circumstances, seemed in pretty poor taste at that particular time!

Mind you, had the Norwich Police had a major sense-of-humour failure as we approached the turnstiles, we might not have even got as far as our seats: blame The Fart, for enquiring of a nearby copper, ?You haven?t been drafted in from Italy, have you?? Yet another example of the vast unwritten licence children and wrinklies have to say outrageous things: had that been little me pulling that stunt, I?d have been locked up within seconds!

But back to the stand. There was certainly an upbeat mood among our 2,000-plus away contingent, as we awaited our hour of destiny: in fact, the place absolutely crackled with tension. Lots of the usual chanted stuff, plus, amazingly, several, very loudly indeed, for the aforementioned ?One Ronnie Wallwork?, namely the version where we inform others, ?He used to be s***e/But now he?s all right?..?

If anyone was going to wimp out that afternoon, it sure as hell wasn?t going to be our lot. Come the moment to get the show on the road, finally, the noise (that of our supporters, not the verbose stuff coming from our tame Stokie) had reached deafening proportions. Something told me this game was going to be lively, and very, very soon ? and it sure as hell was.

Unless your name just happens to be Stoke City, those first few minutes of a game are generally spent in gently testing the capabilities of your opponents, and that was to prove the case today. An Albion corner conceded after three, squeaky bums all round, momentarily, when Kiely appeared to decline to come out for a cross, a Norwich set-piece, quite close to the target. All grist to the opening quarter-mill, basically.

Come the tenth minute, things started to hot up, and somewhat ominously for our troops, when a Norwich effort zoomed just wide of the post: definitely A Warning, that, and one we?d heed this time, hopefully. Two minutes later, Macca was in trouble, having made a right pig?s ear of a clearance ? the problem was sorted, fortunately ? then, just moments after that, Norwich?s Croft decided to declare war on Robbo, courtesy a tackle of the ?late and crunching? kind, for which he saw yellow, to taunts of ?Robbo?s gonna get you?.? from the hoi-polloi seated alongside the touchline.

A third of the way through the half, Joe Kamara had a go from long-range, but it was the lad Sodje ? according to The Noise, his grotty ankle was patched up with enough strapping to keep even an Egyptian mummy dressed decently! ? who set the away section on fire, beating two opponents before letting fly from around 25 yards out.

A minute or so later saw us carry on where we?d left off at The Hawthorns apropos serial hitting of the posts and crossbar. Not as dramatic as the six hits on the woodwork we notched up that day, but the lad Carter?s Carrow Road effort had a considerable amount of ?sizzle? about it, enough to beat their keeper hands down, in fact. Shame it whacked the angle on the left-hand side of the post, where both it and crossbar meet, rather than went in, but you can?t have everything in life, can you?

Now it was Koren?s time to have a pop, this one coming after yet another Albion corner: this one not so much hit the bar, as scrape a layer of paint from the woodwork. As The Fart pointed out, after that one had scorched past, ?Two down, four to go?.? Strikes on the woodwork, that is. At that point, considerable geographical embarrassment on the part of the home crowd, who insisted upon labelling us ?Brummies?. The response, the usual about ?a small town in Ipswich? was predictable enough.

As for the other end, Huckerby, hitherto pretty quiet, eventually decided to impose his personality upon things by letting fly himself, leaving both Carter and Macca for dead as he did so. Eek! Just as well Kiely was on the ball, wasn?t it? A Norwich subbing (because of injury to Safri) three minutes from the break later, it was Carter?s turn to try and grab a piece of the glory for himself, the assist coming from Ellington: sadly the shot went narrowly wide. Another close shave for Norwich just moments later, when Greening?s cross almost reached Duke Ellington, lurking in a lewd and licentious manner in the box, but before Gera could get in on the act, the thing had gone out of play. Drats ? the ball was absolutely gagging to be put away. It was also more or less the final move of the half.

And so we came to the break, and a respite, albeit a brief one, from tension. Some shock news from The Fart, ?plugged in? as per usual: struggling Southend winning at Preston. Blimey! Southampton-Sunderland not due to kick off until after our game finished, sadly, but there would be a commentary on Radio 5. Looked as though El Tel would be in for a busy time on the homeward leg, then.

The ?Im Indoors nudged me. ?Looked as though I missed a trick today ? never asked Norwich to announce your birthday!? Now, being the suspicious sort of person I am, I?m not usually in a rush to accept such statements at face value, mainly on account of the fact that when my other half said it, he had an enormous grin plastered all over his face. ?I don?t believe you,? said I, ?You?ve got ?up to something? written all over your rotten face, you have?.?

More denials from my other half, so I then turned to The Noise. ?Come on, Martin ? time to adjudicate?..? Ooer ? time for our garrulous chum to put on his ?diplomat? hat, so, after several minute?s worth of pondering, ?I believe him?, he said, ?But I wouldn?t put it past him?.? And, as it turned out, he hadn?t ? but, as I?ve been caught that way on several occasions over the past few years, I believe I?ve more than earned the right to be much more sceptical than any other sod wanting to dip in!

So what would the second half bring, then? As far as the first was concerned, I thought we should have been at least two ahead by the interval, the woodwork denying us yet again; I could only hope we wouldn?t be made to pay for it over the course of the 45 to come.

And Macca got the show off to a good start, with a timely interception that might have seen Norwich closing in on our goal, courtesy a Huckerby assist, but his promptitude served to negate the danger, fortunately. Not long afterwards, Joe Kamara went close again, his effort deflected for a corner. McShane nearly bust a gut trying to reach the cross, but couldn?t make contact, sadly. Incidentally, the Norwich supporters tried to take the mick by calling the blonde-headed lad ?Jimmy Saville? Our lot, hearing this, and wondering why the hell they hadn?t thought of it themselves, quickly turned what was supposed to be an insult into something quite the opposite! I shall now await developments, to see whether it catches on with the Brummie and Smethwick, or not!

Having taken an almighty whack to the head, Robbo needed much treatment on the pitch: a tooth out of its socket, and duly presented to the poor lino not long afterwards, thereby making The Fart wonder whether he was really The Tooth Fairy in disguise! That was the moment when we lost concentration ? real concentration ? for the very first time ever in this game, and got stung badly because of it.

What happened? With 58 minutes gone, officially, Norwich?s Drury whipped in a nasty-looking cross, straight into the box, in fact, whereupon Ehuhu stole in, with enough spare space around him to comfortably accommodate a 74 bus; under those circumstances, what duly came to be had a certain air of inevitability about it. One-nil to the Canaries, and a goodly few Baggies wondering furiously what our defence thought they were doing at that precise moment. ?All that attacking, all that hard work. Gone? That was the by-now distraught Noise, looking for all the world like a steam boiler about to blow a gasket in a very important place indeed. A plaintive cry of ?Reffin? Rollocks,? from the lad too, as yet another Albion corner came to naught, closely followed by more than a few Stokie imprecations muttered under his breath. Dearie, dearie me.

Some fast and furious end-to?end stuff later, and with Baggies galore screaming at Mowbray, ?CHANGE IT!?, then pointedly chanting the name of Jason Koumas, that?s precisely what he elected to do. Only thing he could have, really, given our tame Taff?s undoubted ability to turn a game around within seconds. Off went Carter, and on came Our Jase. Would he be spoiling for a bit of the old rough stuff, mind?

The change seemed to give our lot added impetus: forwards they charged, with Norwich clearly starting to panic, for the first time in the game. First of all a Sodje effort was cleared off the line, but the rebound came straight back to him, so he hit the blasted thing for all it was worth. Result? One ball in the back of the net for the equaliser, and many in that away enclosure very happy bunnies indeed.

And he nearly grabbed all three points just before the end, when another attempt directly from a corner got cleared off the line: some reckoned it went over, but I?m not so sure. By now, our assault upon the Norwich net was taking on the proportions of a US Cavalry charge, and the Indians on the receiving end, as per usual. But, joy of joys, their resolve was crumbling away fast, and what had been a veritable Rock Of Gibraltar for The Canaries now bore an unfortunately close resemblance to the old string vests my granddad used to wear. It could only be a matter of time ? but had we left it too late? After all, added on-time was now approaching: we?d get one decent chance in the entire four minutes, probably. Gera was the lad who set up the move that won it: from him, the ball then went to Joe Kamara, who neatly evaded his jailers and put it away with his nut!

Echoes of Bradford City, some five years ago, as the ref pointed to the centre circle, and Joe made merry on the touchline. Too much in the way of ?merry? for the ref, who saw the lad take off his shirt and wave it in the direction of his many admirers: half remove someone?s leg on the field of play, and you?ll very likely escape justice, but remove your shirt to celebrate a last-gasp winner? An offence on a par with landing one on the nearest lino, I?d say. Oh, well ? with the season nearly over, not too much damage done.

But the drama wasn?t quite over. 120 or more seconds of bawling to our finest ?KEEP THE BLOODY THING!? what happened? We gave it away. Up surged the Canaries, once more, over went the Huckerby cross, to the near post ? and that was the moment they almost restored parity, courtesy a Dion Dublin effort. Hooray for Dean Kiely, who somehow palmed it away for a corner, and from what amounted to point-blank range, too. And with that, the final whistle went, the players, now clearly knackered, all moving to our side of the ground to pay their respects. Special cheers for Sodje, the hero of the hour, because of that equaliser, also for Joe, obviously. That?ll teach me not to say such naughty things about him! And one for Deanno, for saving our bacon at the very last gasp!

As you might expect, our subsequent progress towards the exit was marked by some very noisy singing indeed, especially when the news filtered through that although the Dingles had won, Preston, who?d equalised, taken the lead, then had it snatched back again, had fallen to a last-gasp goal of the Southend flavour. Oh, whoops. Incredibly enough, the same fate befell Blues, too! There sure were some really worried clubs out there, truly ?Cuban Missile Crisis Time? for not a few of them, and by winning, we?d cashed in. It only remained for Sunderland to beat Saints to make our day a perfect one, and my birthday a laugh instead of a wake.

No surprise, then, on the coach going back, to see The Fart glued to his steam radio, his announcements giving rise to either cheers or groans, depending upon the import for our own chances. First of all, Sunderland conceded, an event of astronomical proportions, given Sunderland?s solidity at the back; not long before the end, The Fart announced they?d equalised. Many muttered prayers in that coach, as injury time loomed large. I?d had a feeling in my water that The Black Cats would ultimately triumph ? and so it proved to be, with very little time to spare, either. No sooner had Tel told us, ?Im Indoors roared ?YERRRSSSSS!? Not the wisest thing to do, really, as my other half had a mouthful of cheese cob on the go at that precise moment, his noisy celebrations of Sunderland?s winner nearly depositing the entire lot all over the head of the young girl occupying the seat in front! But, the Black Cats too held sound until the final whistle, which left Southampton still below we Baggies, now stuck fast in our cosy little fourth-place berth.

Win against Sheffield Wednesday next Friday ? who are no pushover, having just gone ten without loss ? and we?d be cookin? on gas again. And what else made the journey home really special? The sight of so much wildlife in the fields adjacent to the main drag: rabbits, lots of ?em; pheasants galore; grey squirrels, one accompanied by its kitten (that?s the name for baby squirrels, honest!); a brace of kestrels, seemingly paired up for breeding, but seeking a meal before retiring for a spot of passionate rumpy-pumpy, avian-style ? and, last but not least, a very dead stag! David Bellamy, eat your heart out!

And Finally?? One. Naughty Simon sent a couple of text messages to young Carly before she departed from Blighty. Handy French phrases, my beloved reckons, but I?m not so sure. Judge for yourselves! The first one? ?J?ai besoin senna pods(!)? ? that means ?I need senna pods,? (a dynamite version of a laxative, in case you didn?t know!) The second? ?Mes dahlias ne poussent pas entirement?, which translates as ?My dahlias are not fully thrusting?? Tell you what, you phone for the nice men in the white coats, my other half might behave himself better for you, when they eventually arrive?..

Two. The Fart, still determined to clock up an appearance before the local magistrates, it would seem, asking a bemused bobby standing just outside the ground, ?You won?t hit me with that truncheon, will you??

 - Glynis Wright

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