The Diary

29 April 2007: Robbo Rebound Rocket Blitzes Coventry.

OK ? so we?ve neatly sidestepped this particular banana skin without falling flat on our faces, and we?re now fourth in the heap. It?s mostly in our own hands, now, and what with Leeds effectively getting relegated today, and Barnsley staying up, everything?s set up nicely for a celebratory ringing down of the Hawthorns curtain on Season 2006-07. Our Yorkshire visitors will presumably stick to the script, roll over on cue for us, and, in theory, at least, everyone will leave the ground after the final whistle with cheesey grins plastered all over their smug Baggie mugs ? but happy? Confident that having dipped out on going up automatically, we?ll make it via the knock-out stages instead?

Yeah, right ? and if any of the above guff happens to apply to you and/or yours, I?d strongly urge you to go and seek a good drug detection laboratory. Someone, somewhere, has been spiking your drinks, and that?s why every single man-jack of you are currently flying at a height considerably in excess of that enjoyed by Mount Everest. Admittedly, at the Ricoh this afternoon, there was enough common or garden adrenalin around on that pitch to make half the population of Cradley as effervescent as a well-shook-up bottle of Coke ? the ?smell of fear? pervaded just about everything we tried to do from the word ?go? ? but that?s no excuse for turning what should have been a steady canter into a clodhopping clog-fest as performed by distinctly-demented Morris dancers.

Under normal circumstances, I would have greeted Mister Foy?s final whistle with manic glee, but after witnessing such appalling ineptitude from players whom we all know are capable of much more finesse than that, I couldn?t even find it within myself to acknowledge those few players who condescended to applaud we away-end merchants for our lung-busting vocal efforts on their behalf for most of the allotted 90 minutes.

As I see things, the choice is now going to be a stark one: either we get our act together in a big way between now and Sunday (qualification for the knock-out stages is by no means a ?slam-dunk? certainty, Albion: remember those banana skins?), then, assuming Barnsley do the decent thing, roll over and die as per the script, certain underachievers among our favourites must then take a highly critical look at what they?ve been doing out there ? or not - and have a rapid rethink about how they?re going to approach the play-offs. The slightest hint of increasingly robust play from Coventry, and we metaphorically ran screaming in search of Mum?s apron strings, and not just once or twice, either.

A whole lot more application, concentration, professionalism (I mean that in the very best sense of the word, of course) is needed, and urgently, otherwise we?re simply going to get creamed in the semis. A strong pointer was provided by Blues, who went down to ten men versus Sheffield Wednesday today, but still managed to find enough old-fashioned fighting spirit in their powder-locker to go two up, and win the bloody game. They genuinely wanted it, battled for it ? and got what they deserved.

And our lot? Please correct me if I?ve got this badly wrong, any Albion players out there reading this piece ? I?ll gladly put out an apology, should any or all of you feel misrepresented - but there really were times during today?s game when I honestly felt they didn?t want such a huge burden of expectation placed upon their ample shoulders. So many of our people approaching the ball as if it were really a live mortar round, or something equally explosive. You can do that with a side like Coventry providing the opposition and get away with it, but try and pull that one versus our most likely play-off opponents, the Dingles? Yeah, right.

Yes, I know we did win in the end, and sorry that yet again, my bile is now charting its choleric course in the general direction of my stomach contents, but I can only tell it like it was. Wrapping the salient facts up in a pretty pink cardboard box, with lots of twee little bows adorning the sides might be a wonderfully cosmetic thing to do, but it doesn?t get anyone anywhere. And, in any case, dishonesty isn?t my style, never has been, never will.

But not everything in the garden ended up on the wrong end of a megadose of farm-strength DDT. What a glorious day to be having a game like that, for starters. Already on the fag-end of what was to be the hottest April on record, even as I headed for the paper shop, around half-nine this morning, the sun was shining fit to bust, and the blue sky pristine, not a single cloud to be seen. A little cold in the shade, perhaps, but once you emerged from the shadows (no, not Hank Marvin et. al twanging away at ?Apache?, sorry!), it wasn?t too long before the benison of the sun?s rays finally kicked in.

Maybe it was the unseasonable warmth that did it, but as I made my way back to our place once more, Memory suddenly made as if to give my sleeve a pretty hard tug, and I was transported briefly back to 2002, and another ?shit or bust? effort, versus Bradford: as I recall it, the day was just as pleasant ? but vastly more satisfying, come five o?clock, the reasons for which don?t need any further discussion on my part. But the parameters under which we had to operate that day, some five or so seasons distant, were just as daunting: a universal assumption the home side would simply curl up and die, for starters, but the trouble was, no-one had bothered to tell Bradford that bit! That was why all the kerfuffle of our injury-time penalty, of course, and A Man Called Balis rocketing every Baggie in sight skywards the instant he potted it.

Back to 2007, then, and our Mark Two version of that 2002 fixture. Very late in the day, word got out on the grapevine that there was to be an Irish theme to our penultimate caper of the current campaign, all in honour of Macca and Deano, of course. Maybe they both think it was a bit of a backhanded compliment, that, but the lashings of affection in which those two are currently held are truly genuine, believe you me. Players can (and frequently do!) pull daft stunts on the pitch, and get slaughtered by the crowd for it, but no Albion supporter worthy of the name would ever take issue with a player for giving their all for the entire 90 minutes. Right now, I reckon that both Macca and Deano come into that category, and rightly so.

But back to our theme for the day ? and the look on my face the moment The Fart entered our living room this morning. Well, he?d certainly entered into the spirit of the thing, but without consuming any, if you get my drift! Green baseball cap with ?Ireland? emblazoned prominently on it, Irish Republic team scarf ? everything the discerning son of Erin would want to wear on this day of all days. Save Paddy McGinty?s goat, which was just as well, considering the way the mercury was rising: goat turds, and the aroma thereof, do add a certain ?something? to car interiors, I admit, but not ours today, thank you very much. Oh ? and my four cats didn?t exactly go a bundle on the plethora of leprechauns busily dancing a jig all over Tel?s lap, either.

The outward trip to Lady Godiva?s principal area of ecdysiast activity went smoothly enough, and before we knew it, we were pulling up in our pre-booked car park, situated adjacent to the appropriate M6 junction, so close, in fact, conversation was almost drowned out by the constant roar of traffic. Talk about ?spot the Baggie?. No sooner had we gone past the guy on the gate checking off registration numbers, we were confronted by a (strung out?) quartet of Albionites, seemingly toting gigantic glasses of Guinness on their sun-kissed nappers. All courtesy those daft hats football supporters everywhere ? even the genuinely Irish ones ? feel obliged to wear on important occasions, and this was no exception.

Making the short journey to the promised ?away supporters? hostelry also proved a revelation. The beer garden? A seething mass of Baggie humanity. Considering the lack of time most people had to work on our chosen theme, relatively speaking, an enormous number of supporters had gone to a lot of trouble to fully enter into the spirit of the occasion. Blonde/ginger wigs ? some blokes had even gone as far as dying their own thatch the appropriate shade, which must have given their girlfriends etc. more than a few giggles while doing it - Republic Of Ireland tricolours, and more green and white scarves than you?ll ever find this side of the 1916 Uprising. W. B. Yeats once called said insurrection ?A terrible beauty?, and judging by the heavily suffused and beery faces of most Baggies in that beer garden, you most certainly could have employed that very same term with the greatest of ease.

There?s always a downside, though, and in this case, it was the poor overwhelmed bar staff, who simply couldn?t cope with the numbers wanting to slake their sun-raged thirsts. Inside, the scene closely resembled the closing scenes of Beau Geste, when the Riffs come charging in mob-handed at the desert fort containing the beleaguered French Foreign Legionnaires central to the plot, and them trying every trick in the book to prevent the garrison from being overwhelmed. That was the bar area, my leetle Baggie friends, and, according to my other half, a source of wonderfully-dry Black Country wit courtesy those waiting patiently to be dealt with.

Still, we eventually managed to find a civilised sort of resting-place in what you might describe the ?conservatory?, housing the pool table, not to mention a whole load of Baggies doing strange things to their balls. On a sofa, no less, which suited me and my sore back no end. ?Im Indoors had gone to get the drinks in, brave little soul that he was, but 20 or so minutes later, he finally emerged from the scrum looking triumphant, and bearing glasses containing a pint or three of very cold liquid beverage!

And all the time this was going on, there was Mine Host, patrolling the grounds enthusiastically, and sweeping up every single gash glass he could find. A bit like painting The Forth Bridge, really, and given the almighty thirst worked up by our contingent by then, I began to wonder whether we were in for a re-enactment of that well known pre-play-off Baggie custom, The Drinking Of The Pub Totally Dry. Those veterans of 1993, versus The Swans, at The Vetch ? well those that chose to use a certain pub opposite the jail, at any rate ? will know precisely what I?m banging on about.

Behind our sofa, behind the enormous window there, were five or six Baggies giving a somewhat eclectic bunch of Brummie Road End choral favourites big licks ? or should I say ?Betty Boop?, ?Fred Flintstone? with an attendant ?chorus line? of other well known American cartoon characters, not to mention enough Irish-dressed chums to start off a rebellion all of its very own.

They certainly had an unusual repertoire: first of all Pinhead Palmer got the ?treatment?, closely followed by Stacey Caldicott (no, I don?t know why, either!), and our very own SuperBob, seasoned lightly with a few of the more printable songs listing the many deficiencies, both mental and physical, of our local rivals up the A41. Cue for El Tel to get that ?David Bailey? glint in his weather-beaten eye. Five minutes later, I turned around, and there he was, snapping away for dear life, while holding a giant inflatable banana in the non-photographic hand. No, I can?t see the connection either!

After El Tel had finished his David Bailey act, but not before roping in even more supporters to pose for pics, we then headed on out for the Ricoh proper. QAround fifteen minutes walk it was supposed to be from there, but to my weary back and legs, it sure seemed to take a darned sight longer. The surrounding area is most incongruous, not what you?d expect to see near a League ground at all, even one as spanking-new as City?s. Talk about ?leafy suburbia?: there it all was, in those streets, lacy net curtains, twinsets, pearls, blue rinses, Womens Institute, with or without nude calendars, and the delicate movements set in twitchy motion the precise instant those same owner-occupiers started to fear for the sanctity of their domiciles. ?Scruffy football supporters: hang the flaming lot of them, I say?.? You could almost hear the muttered comments as we slowly walked along the street towards our destination.

The sweaty ascent of one rise, a swift march through the back end of some grimy industrial estate or other, and we found ourselves within hailing-distance of Coventry?s new(ish) home. One quick foray into the other side of the ground, and the away end finally beckoned, thank goodness. Probably not enough to bother most people, that heat, but more than enough to give me not a little gyp along the way. From there it was but a mere insertion of ticket into appropriate orifice ? they too have gone ?automatic? ? and we were in.

As we emerged, blinking furiously, into the sunshine swathing the stadium interior with its lavish warmth, the first thing to catch my eye was sky blue. Lots of it, in fact, and all due to a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of the good burghers of the borough to watch the Sky Blues in action. Everywhere you looked, rows and rows of empty seats, with nary a bum, adipose or otherwise, to occupy them with.

And you didn?t need to be on illegal substances to fully appreciate the plethora of costumes and inflatables worn or carried by our massive away following, all 6,200 of ?em. In fact, Albion had initially asked for 9,000: had we been proactive enough with the old publicity, we?d have shifted ?em too, I reckon. Still, 6K wasn?t a bad total to be going on with, now, was it?

And what a wonderful display we put on for the locals (who?d never been on the receiving end of one of our famous end-of-term celebratory antics before, it has to be said). Now, let me see?. One palm tree; one zebra ? no, make that two, as per Noah?s Ark ? ginger wigs galore; Irish apparel aplenty ? and no self-respecting Baggies Fancy Dress Day could ever be without the green crocodile, veteran of more end-of-season thrashes than I?ve had hot dinners. Or did the owners simply replace the old, bashed-up one come the end of every season, for another demonstrating rather more notable evidence of the vigour of youth? Add to that lot an ?Oirish ?Ommer? and the equally-perennial ?dolphin?, and we had quite a spectacle going for us out there.

Forget the ?official? T-Mobile stuff, those pink inflatable thingies, this was OUR day, and no commercial undertaking, however large, could ever contrive to make it seem otherwise, thank goodness. Sod the sponsored stuff, both unwanted and unnecessary. Oh ? and lest I forget, there were the beach-balls: big ?uns, little ?uns; enough airbeds to float a whole bevy of beached-whale lookalike pensioners across the English Channel, and all soaring skywards in a frenzy of ecstatic acknowledgement, as our favourites finally took to the field of play. You could sure as hell tell the locals had never seen this sort of thing before: listen very carefully, and you could almost hear hundreds of jawbones dropping the full five or six feet to the floor.

It was as if the very heavens themselves had ordained no adverse weather contrive to upset our players for this one: above our heads was a pristine sky, baby-blue, while slightly lower still, a golden sun, newly-liberated from its winter-long state of suspended animation, shone fit to bust on the colourful scene below. What better time to celebrate the life of the late Alan Ball with the by-now near-mandatory ?minute?s applause??

I have to admit, though, it?s not a custom I can take to all that easily. How come? Reminds me very much of Stalin?s 1930?s USSR, and the ages-long standing ovations they used to have for Party notables at political gatherings. You probably remember the sort of thing I?m on about from schoolday O-Level revision sessions: all the Party members present, on the platform and off it, clapping away like things demented, all afraid to stop, even though supervening muscular weariness was finally taking hold. That was the moment the commissars started machine-gunning the audience with their eyes: flag, for just an instant, even, and you could very easily find yourself spending not a few winters in Siberia! No danger of that happening today, of course, but I still prefer the traditional sort of tribute. Sorry.

Alan Ball having been well and truly taken care of (I wonder if my uncouth brother-in-law Gobby Garbett had a minute?s ?swear? in Bally?s honour?) it was time for matters of a totally different kind to be given their head. The gaffer made several changes, Sodje and Perry being co-opted into running things at the back, with the newly-rescinded ? ooer, missus! - Paul McShane grabbing Alby?s berth for his own. Add to that the reappearance of Kev Phillips and Chappy, at the expense of Koren and Duke Ellington, both benched, and it was quite a different line-up that greeted the late spring sunshine this afternoon.

We all knew it was going to be the sort of game where the old nerve-endings were going to be a-twanging with gusto, so it came as no surprise, really, to see us conceding a couple of corners in the opening three minutes. Then, following what must have been the footballing equivalent of snarling neighbours giving it licks over a garden fence, things started to happen. It was Zoltan Gera, and one of those trademark headers of his ? how the hell someone of his diminutive dimensions manages to beat gurt great defenders to the prize time after time, I really dread to think ? that got our contingent giving it some serious welly in the vocals department. Close, very close.

Two or so minutes later, our huge following, quite amused by the overall lack of Sky Blues in quantity, then broke into a lusty chorus of ?Your ground?s too good for you!? And quite right too! Just in time to see Joe Kamara beat half the Coventry side in the box, then try to screw the ball across the box to Chappy, loitering with much intent not all that far away. A shame the pass didn?t connect: had it done so, their keeper would have ended up suffering from a stiffish dose of backache.

It was about that point when the nerves began to show out there. Balls ending up anywhere but where their intended recipients wanted them, passes totally misplaced, sometimes in a fashion that made many a parks side look good, and all that topped with a goodly dollop of Laurel And Hardy-type comedic errors. So cheap were some of those giveaways, even the local Oxfam shop would have had difficulty flogging them. And, not only that, we suddenly had Sodje down and looking sore in need of Nick Worth?s ?magic sponge?. Not for the first time that afternoon, the question entered my head of whether or not he was genuinely fit to play: fortunately, he seemed able to carry on after lengthy ministrations from the aforementioned Worth.

With an appreciable fraction of the opening half having come and gone, things then settled down for a brief moment. Cue for some really wicked jibes at the expense of a poor sod of a Sky Blue, sitting in a seat quite close to our temporary behind-the-goal residence, but located in the structure adjacent to the touchline, beyond the corner-flag.

Not that any of those doing the winding-up had sylph-like figures of their very own to brag about, mind: just a cursory visual sweep of all the Baggies in fairly close proximity to our seats revealed bodies of elephantine proportions, almost! Hardly the stuff of which pin-ups are made! However, so funny and spontaneous were some of those efforts, I simply have to include ?em in this piece: mind you, yet another adipose lad situated in the same home stand did give as good as he got, lifting up his replica shirt to reveal the monstrous mounds of flesh lurking beneath! Put it away at once, lad! God knows what the kids thought: must have frightened them half to death, poor little mites!

So what did we get, then? ?It all started off fairly innocuously with the usual ?Who ate all the pies?? stuff, finally progressing to ?There?s only one marshmallow!? The Adipose One was then told ?Your seat?s too small for you!?, but for my money, the funniest of the lot was: ?Who ate all the fans?? a veiled reference to City?s woeful lack of support that day. Generous to a fault, as per usual, our contingent then, rather gallantly, might I add, politely came up with the helpful suggestion: ?Shall we eat a pie for you?? Classic stuff, and totally spontaneous, too.

But still the nerves, that all pervading sense of abject fear, overwhelmed and completely stifled any sort of positive or creative play. Our outbreak of nerves put us in serious danger of costing us, and it wasn?t a pleasant thought. Very close to the break we were by that stage, but still no sign of the much-hoped-for Baggie breakthrough. And, elsewhere, all the signs were some latest scores were definitely not what we would have wished at that stage of the game. Eeeek! But all that was to change just minutes later.

As we?ve come to expect by now, the silky-smooth Koumas was to prove the architect of City?s eventual downfall. Over went an inch-perfect effort from the right, and straight for the woefully-marked Kev Phillips, who needed no further invitation to the Striker?s Excuse Me. Up rose his head, ?WHACK!? went the ball, smack against the bloody woodwork. But all was not lost: enter Paul Robinson, who took the orphan bladder into the fold, thereby sending the rebound scorching well and truly over the line. As for his celebration immediately afterwards ? well! Verging on the obscene it, was, all those writhing sweaty bodies on the grass, there: had Mary Whitehouse been around to see it, poor Robbo would have been well and truly in the slammer by then, and the rozzers temporarily ?mislaying? the key.

A moment?s hesitation ? after all we did have Chris Foy, a black-clad whistling foe of seasons long gone, in the middle. If anyone could put the mockers on our attempt to grab the three points and run, he would undoubtedly be the one to do it ? and then all hell was let loose in that away end. Very quickly, the entire place was reverberating to the unique sound of our very own goal celebration: hell, the Kent area might well have been hit by an earthquake somewhere around four on the Richter Scale that very same morning, but that was nothing to the sort of earthquake City would witness, should we finally put them to flight!

Once the fuss had finally died down, the worrying started in earnest. We had an unrivalled ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Could we finally lay that particular bogie to rest, at long last? Well, you really had to wonder; not for the first time, Kiley ended up in big-time lumber as a result of his team-mates? more spectacular defensive shortcomings.

But, generous to a fault as per usual, City actually managed to help our cause by contriving to have one of their own taking that long, slow walk to an early bath. Not that the offence warranted a red card, in my opinion, but that?s for City to worry about, not ourselves. As far as I was concerned, I couldn?t have given a stuff, and neither would Ken Phillips, the ?victim?, either.

Talk about having circumstances hand you the game on a plate? But we weren?t out of the woods by any means, so it was with relief we greeted the half-time whistle. Another pleasant interlude, as City commemorated the twentieth anniversary of their one and only Cup Final victory by parading on the pitch about as many veterans of that Wembley appearance as could be reasonably accommodated. All par for the course, of course ? until the PA bloke announced a certain Cyrille Regis adding to the rapidly-swelling group of players (and directors, for some unaccountable reason!) already out there. Sod City, we had him first! And didn?t we just let them know!

Ho, hum, back to the plot. If that first half had been a time for nerves to come to the fore, then the second sitting would be similar, but being so close to the prize by then, squared and cubed. One Baggies change to greet the second 45: Sodje off and Alby on. And boy, didn?t we contrive to almost stuff it up in spectacular fashion. Thoese nerves were really jangling out there, and normally reliable performers playing as though their brains were suddenly turned to cream cheese. Kiley had to look sharpish to prevent Adebola from ruining our day, and it was only good fortune that stopped him from succeeding where he had failed just minutes before.

Great screams of ?CONCENTRATE, ALBION!? from the seat to my left: ?Im Indoors about to go into complete and utter meltdown, I reckon. It wasn?t just a case of City making decent interceptions: the very execution of those passes was error-strewn to a degree completely beyond all reasonable belief. Now hang on a minute: hadn?t City gone down to ten men, or something? So why was it we were now making such a complete and utter pigs-ear of the entire thing?

A doubling of the Baggies lead was desperately required, but still those awful errors conspired to seriously threaten our chances of bringing home the expected three points. And the news coming from other games wasn?t what we would have wished to hear, either. The Dingles were now two up, and cooking on gas, metaphorically speaking. And this increasingly-fraught situation wasn?t helped at all when Kamara, after managing to beat his man inside the box, found himself completely free of City ?minders? for once.

Most would have done the sensible thing, screwed the ball back across the box for a predatory and unmarked Kev Phillips to run on to, but not our man. Spurning his colleague completely, he went for the direct shot on goal instead, and from a ridiculous angle indeed. Sure, it would have looked dead good, had it reached its intended destination and Mister K bundled it over the line, but it didn?t, did it?

And, if you?ll permit me to digress for a brief moment, that?s the main reason why we ought to get rid of Kamara, irrespective of what division we find ourselves in next season. The problem is, he simply isn?t a team player, and never will be. As that incident demonstrated superbly today, he couldn?t give a tuppenny stuff for the others, all he wanted to do was go for was the spectacular strike, get his name in lights. He has a narcissistic streak the size of the Mersey Tunnel, along with not a considerable dollop of arrogance as well, and it?s increasingly making the man a complete and utter liability to his colleagues. Let him go to Italy, Spain, wherever, I say, and use the money to get someone with the club?s interests more at heart lead our attack.

Ooh, yet another of my ?grrrr!? moments, there. Sorry, but it?s moments like the one I witnessed today that make me so angry. A player who thinks the whole world owes him a living, and it?s simply not on. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. By now, we were nearing the finishing line: just keep the ship steady, not rock the boat, calm and steady as she goes. All was progressing smoothly ? then, just as tame whistler Foy indicated the amount of added-on time to the fourth official, once more, Kamara almost applied shotgun to boot, metaphorically speaking, by deliberately tripping an opponent.

Well, getting sent off by that late stage in the game was a touch of sheer genius on his part, wasn?t it? Only one game out, fortunately ? but, as far as Joe Kamara and me go, he shouldn?t even be given the chance of gracing our ranks for any play-off games, either. Not as far as I?m concerned. For me, a trained chimpanzee up front would do better. Mind you, he was in good company, Kamara I mean, rather than the trained chimpanzee; not all that many minutes before, City manager Iain Dowie was banished to the Outer Darkness of the main stand, presumably for telling Chris Foy his fortune in unusually-detailed anatomical terms.

With everyone?s blood pressure reaching undreamed of heights by then ? as far as prime research material goes, doctors? mag The Lancet would have lapped us up like gravy at that point in the proceedings, I reckon ? the entire away end were pleading with whistler Foy to put an end to their misery. But still the bugger played on. Finally, he got the message, ?Peeeep!? went his bloody instrument of torture, at long last, and we were finally in lawful possession of all three points, thank goodness. Just as well, really, as results elsewhere were not all what we would have liked.

Back to our car, then, reached after a long-distance trek in heat that would have tried the patience of a saint ? our progress along that suburban street marked by yet more feverish twitchings of net curtains ? ?Oooh, Mabel, it?s those truly awful football oiks again. Do you think we can get some sort of a rate deduction on our property, I wonder?? - and with that, out to the motorway island, and home. By the time we got back to Chez Wright, the heat of the day was fading fast, but not for our favourite football club, of course. For them, the worst of the heat is still to come. And not all of it emanating from the granular, golden surface of our nearest star, either.

And Finally?. Sign for customers using the beer garden where we had our pre-match potations today: CHILDREN MUST BE SUPERVISED AT ALL TIMES. NO LIABILITY CAN BE ACCEPTED FOR LOSS OR INJURY BY THE MANAGEMENT. (Think about it!)

 - Glynis Wright

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