The Diary

17 May 2007: WE'VE DONE IT! WEMBLEY HERE WE COME!

Wow, what a night. And what a wonderfully-mature performance from every single Baggies player on that park. In fact, as things turned out, you might have wondered what all that pre-match anxiety on my part was about. ?Tis true that our Dingle friends had youthful hope and stamina on their side, but juvenile optimism isn?t an attribute quite good enough to get you where you want to be in situations like this. In the end, maturity and experience told for us; that, plus the fact we have not a few players with a fair bit of Premiership experience under their belts already - and that, in a nutshell, is the reason why the gold and cack ended up with sod-all with which to brighten up their badly-blown play-off bid.

As for our people, to be perfectly honest, I?m struggling to name anyone who had a bad game, tonight. Koren put in one of his best performances ever in the famous stripes, gritty, gutsy, Macca kept his nerve (and his temper, for the most part, although he did collect a booking for his sins, tonight). Gera was as sound as the proverbial pound, those amazing spring-heel leaps of his very much to the fore, as he went about his impeccable business; Greening was superb, always in the right place at the right time; Kev Phillips was there when it mattered, putting us in front twenty minutes from the end, and Kiely was as sharp as you like between those sticks.

Sodje somehow managed to clear off the line to keep our lead intact ? fair play, as I think it was his mistake that let Wolves in on goal in the first place ? and Chris Perry quietly, efficiently, going about his duties at the back. Joe Kamara? Well ? he?s Joe Kamara, isn?t he? I do wish someone would impress upon him that football?s a team game, and not one dominated by certain individuals only, but right now, that?s a relatively minor issue: what is important is the fact we?ve finally earned our play-off trip to the metropolis.

But fair play to the Dingles, for giving it such a good go, tonight. That side of theirs might be a little light on experience, right now, but Mick McCarthy sure looks as though he has a pretty hard-working set of lads doing his bidding: on the strength of what I saw this evening, provided he can keep that bunch of lads together ? may be problematical, that, given the speed with which the vultures normally gather once a play-off side gets knocked out at the semi-final stage - but the passage of twelve months will undoubtedly give his troops that little bit of additional maturity they need, so I fully expect them to be in there pitching next time round.

So, that?s the Dingles, then ? but what about we nervous wrecks, sitting around our house this afternoon, and the pair of us looking for all the world like people with a dawn date with a firing-squad? I guess yesterday?s Derby-Southampton game was the start of it: after that, neither of us could muster up sufficient concentration to read a tabloid, even. Even more bizarre were the various activities we embarked upon in an attempt to put the coming ordeal out of our minds, ?Im Indoors with his figure-work for the benefit of the tax people, and this column trying to make some semblance of sense out of the kind of organic chemistry I hadn?t touched in over 40 years.

The trouble was, no matter what I did, however hard I tried to concentrate upon my benzene rings and hydroxyl radicals, it just wasn?t going in. One minute I was visualising the formula for aspirin, the next, I saw visions of our probable line-up floating through the more cavernous parts of my brain, scattering all my carefully-positioned carbon and hydrogen atoms to the four corners of the mental globe. And if we went for Players A and B up front, what would the Dingles do to try and counter it? Should we not go for the element of surprise, and stick Option C at the sharp end instead? Oh ? and get that bloody stray water molecule out of my flaming head, while you?re at it! In the end, sheer pragmatism won, and I gave it all up as a bad job. It?s at times like these I pity young Carly: how the hell does she do GCSE revision with similarly-distracting thoughts meandering in and out of her grey matter every few seconds? After all, around a week after the final, she?ll be embarking upon all those written papers, poor sod. I can only hope she experiences similar good fortune to myself, asked to describe a ?memorable day in your life? just a couple of weeks after our amazing 1968 Wembley Cup triumph!

In the end, and a tadge before we really had to, we set off for the ground. Both of us were approaching basket-case status, by then: just one more mention of the game would have opened the tear-duct floodgates completely, I reckon. It was also an accurate reflection of our nervous state that the journey ?twixt home and ground (around 2-3 miles) was conducted, for the greater part, in complete silence, both of us having separate hopes, fears, not to mention apprehensive expectations of varying degrees, for the trying ordeal to come. Parking up almost proved problematic, despite our early arrival at the scene of the crime. Enough coppers around to keep the average party political conference terrorist-free ? and the vans, my dears, the vans! - with the lower end of Halfords Lane blocked off, seemingly. Luckily, we knew a sure-fire way of accessing our normal berth via other side-streets, so that was us sorted, then, thank goodness.

A slow meander up towards the ground, then, and around the railway bridge, yet another outbreak of plods, this time guarding the Metro from goodness knows what. A mass outbreak of literacy from our Dingle counterparts? All this, and just one solitary gold-and-cack-lover spotted, at that point. Dearie, dearie me. Only one thing to do, then ? head like a streak of greased lightning toward the Hawthorns pub, which guaranteed about the only alcoholic pre-match drinks service to be had anywhere in town, tonight. All the local pubs seemingly knew our chums from up the road all-too-well, and had decided not to take any chances, however slight, on their own establishments getting busted up in all the pre-and post-match hullabaloo.

It?s not an ideal option, is the Hawthorns Hotel, but at least one could be fairly sure of laying hands upon some sort of alcoholic beverage, had we chosen to do so. Poor Mister Noise, up to his sticky little neck in there, and patiently waiting with daughters in tow, no doubt. Sure enough no sooner had we walked into the place, there they were, little tinkers, Bethany doing a superb imitation of a little rubber ball, bouncing up and down with joy at spotting us. And sitting upon one of the sofas so thoughtfully laid on for the benefit of their late-night club clientele, it would seem. Certainly a plum perch upon which to park one?s weary bot ? a clear case of ?sofa, so good?, perhaps? Oh well ? please yourselves!

But what did surprise me was how many people were already shoehorned into the place: this, and with around 90 minutes to go to the ?off?, still. And as for getting a quick drink, of the falling-down variety, or otherwise, forget it. Already, the queue stretched the length of the room, almost. Another hour there would see it stretch double the distance, for certain. And that brings me to a very familiar gripe about the place. You?d have thought, wouldn?t you, that in expectation of all this guaranteed custom filtering through the door from around four pm onwards, those running the place would have laid on more than enough bar people to cope with the rush? Let?s face it, what with the queue and everything, they must have had an awful lot of potential revenue slip through their greasy fingers: had they dealt more efficiently with such things, bar takings would have doubled in proportion. And these folk call themselves ?business people?, do they? The mind boggles, it really does.

Still, drinks or no drinks, it was nice to flop down in comfort for a bit, and immediately adjacent to a group bearing a huge Albion banner, draped right across the wall immediately behind our sticky little bods, too. ?INGHAM ALBION? was the legend borne proudly by this particular bunch, whom I?d never clapped eyes upon before in my entire life ? amazingly, it?s a small place in Lincolnshire, so they had one hell of a drive to contend with, today. In fact, while we were awaiting our side?s anticipated re-emergence for a lap of honour (Which grey-suited ratbag ordained that it wasn?t safe for the poor darlings to go out and face their adoring public, I wonder? Or was it simply a ruse designed to keep both factions separate after the game, thereby allowing the Dingles to disperse with minimal interference from our lot, while ours awaited in vain the re-emergence of a side that had absolutely no intentions of doing so?), I spotted the same flag being borne by some people on the pitch. A much-travelled banner indeed.

And then The Fart arrived, a man much in demand, as he?d already undertaken what amounted to an unofficial reconnaissance mission on our desirable North London climax to the current season, and could tell us what the facilities were like, etc. And it wasn?t just about my current antipathy towards stairs, either. Jayne, Martin?s missus, had similar thoughts about escalators, especially those going down, so care would need to be taken when sorting everything out ? assuming we qualified, of course, a state of affairs that seemed such a big ask at that particular time. Cor, what it is to be popular, Tel!

Mind you, getting any sort of sense out of anyone was becoming increasingly difficult, owing to the sheer number of those irritating little plastic hooters being toted around by snotty-nosed little kids innumerable, all of whom wanted to demonstrate their new-found mastery of the noble art to their irritated public. Additionally, the nerves were showing in heaps, by now, hence The Fart?s plaintive wail, for the umpteenth time, of: ?I wish it was a quarter to ten?..? Er, yes, Tel ? but what about extra time?

?Like waiting to go to the dentist,? volunteered The Noise. Well, our seating arrangements certainly had a tang of the dentists about it, and what with the bar providing everyone with the necessary amount of anaesthesia, I daresay anyone from the British Dental Journal would have really felt at home, assuming their writers frequent football matches, of course. But despite all the alcohol, all the sung anti-Dingle ditties abounding in that place, you could still perceive all that bravura, chemical or otherwise, providing only a thin veneer with which to coat our innermost fears. Finally, and much earlier than normal, we had to go, the lot of us. We simply couldn?t take it any more. Our nerves were jangling like crazy by then, and only swift removal to the ground would effect a cure.

So, out we went, then, and straight into a steady drizzle ? but not before agreeing to meet in the Vine, post-match, should the result prove favourable. A quick stroll along Halfords Lane, keeping to the protection from drips afforded by the stand roof, and we were within the bounds of what we now call ?Anorak?s Corner? ? and an instantaneous poser. Colin Mackenzie was the ratbag who came up with it ? trying to name Albion players sent off while playing for their country. ?Im Indoors exhaled sharply when asked this one, only to be hit with the sharp reminder: ?Well, this IS Anorak?s Corner!....?

To be fair, though, Colin didn?t know the answer himself, and was trying to press others into supplying him with the remaining correct names. And that was when this column managed to outdo a respected Baggies statto, folkies. Just one name short, they were ? but who? ?Who do we know that?s played with a bit of a temper?? said a puzzled Steve The Miser ? and that?s when my little lightbulb flicked on, dear readers. Bernt Hass, who else? Remember his less-than galvanising performance for his country during (I think!) Euro 2004? I vaguely remember watching one game during that competition, noting his deplorable tendency towards letting the red mist descend, and predicting that whoever finished that game, Bernt Hass would not be among those doing so ? and I was dead right!

But enough, enough. Time to get inside, then, stilecard doing what it should, surprisingly enough. Not for John Homer and his good lady, though ? I was to later discover that the electronics would let neither of them in, and he didn?t have back-up on paper tickets with him. A poor show considering they?ve been season-ticket holders there ever since the time of Noah?s Flood. In the end, he had to nip round to the office, and get a printout from the staff there, which was a bit daft when you sat and thought about it. Either you had a proper electronic system that worked, or you went with paper versions of tickets, complete with bar-code as appropriate? To have flaws with either wasn?t very helpful for anyone, was it?

But there was still more to come from John, which I?ll explain in due course. In the meantime, I was finding it hard to suppress giggles when passing the Sky cameramen at the front of our stand. Talk about hi-tech, cameras worth thousands of pounds, presumably, but with black BIN-LINERS providing proper protection from the constant drizzle? At that end of the market you?d have thought they could afford a bespoke plastic cover to do the job, wouldn?t you? Or was it down to Rupert Murdoch experiencing trouble opening the old biscuit-tin, these days? I think we should be told!

We hadn?t been in our seats more than a few minutes, when Albion proceeded to turn the whole thing into a passable imitation of Nuremburg, 1934: first off, Del Boy, aka Derek McInnes took to the pitch, uttering words calculated to both soothe and reassure ? then, directly after he?d melted back into the ranks of the crowd, came what turned out to be the star turn of the evening. SuperBob, imploring and exhorting, by degrees, and working the crowd like someone with years of MC experience under his belt.

Forget Delia Smith, this was the real deal: within seconds of grabbing that mike, he?d raised the tempo to the rafters, and before you could say ?Swansea?, all four sides of that ground were roaring their bloody heads off, fit to bust. It?s the sort of thing that would have had troops going over the top in droves, back in 1916. Believe you me, after those few words from Bob, just about every Baggie in the place would have cheerfully run through brick walls at our former striker?s behest. And all from a standpoint that was genuinely Albion, don?t forget, a true pretentiousness-free zone, if ever there was one, albeit one looking and sounding about eight pints ahead, by that time!

Having whipped up an atmosphere that would have done credit to the Circus Maximus in no time flat, Bob quickly quit the stage, to be replaced, eventually, by The Real Deal, Dingle and Albion alike. No surprise to relate that the noise level was dizzying, by that time! Just one change to the regular crew, Chappy out because of back trouble ? don?t tell me about it, mate! ? with the Dingles sticking to their line-up from Sunday?s excursion.

Odd, though ? despite the undoubted importance of the occasion, and the white-hot atmosphere generated by both sets of supporters, I never once sensed any kind of nastiness emanating from behind either sets of goals. Unusual that, for an Albion-Dingles meet, or was it just that both sides had achieved mutual respect via complete familiarity with each other, by that time? In its own way, the same sort of grudging respect German U-Boat Commanders afforded captains of certain Royal Navy ships, and vice-versa? Certainly, I didn?t hear too much of the chanted poison that normally goes the rounds whenever both sides meet, in this day and age.

A quick photo-call for the mascots of both sides ? blimey, on that showing, we had more mascots out there than we had players! ? and pertinent words from the ref to the little guy in charge of running the adverts on the box, and we were away, finally. Squeaky-bottom time writ large, with added bike clips, too. But no sign of nerves from our troops; within minutes of the start, we?d given our adversaries a more than salutary lesson in the noble art of attacking with sone nifty work needed from their keeper to negate the danger. And the Dingles had their moments, too, when it came to corners ? but strangely enough, I never once had the overwhelming sense they were going to score from any of ?em. As far as I was concerned, there was no threat at all to my peace of mind. Or am I simply going psychic in my old age?

As time went on, so did incursions by both sides, and without any sort of let-up, either. Watching the game was a bit like being at Wimbledon (the tennis variety, not the MK Don alternative!): a tremendous feeling of constantly-swiveling eyeballs, first left, then right, as both sides zig-zagged in and out of their respective bits of real-estate. Being there in the flesh, I had absolutely no idea as to what viewers were seeing, but I could only imagine that those satellite TV images were far from disappointing. Thrills, spills, electrically-supercharged atmosphere, both lots of followers well up for it, the works ? wow, what a spectacle it must have been.

On the whole, I would have put Albion slightly ahead by that stage: highly subjective, ?tis true, but come the 30 minute mark, you certainly had the feeling that if anyone was going to score, the stripes would shave it. Already, Kev Phillips had left his calling-card, and so had Kamara, although, being Kamara, he had to have a go himself; rather than lay the ball off for someone better positioned in the box, didn?t he. But that?s Joe, isn?t it? Then it was Gera?s turn to have the Dingles reaching for the bike-clips, his long-range effort narrowly shaving past the intended target.

Enter the dying minutes of the first half, and what appeared to be a distinct slackening of the tempo from our lads. My biggest worry prior to the game had been of not getting a quick goal, busting a gut trying, then running out of ideas further into the encounter. Frustration leads to impatience, then mistakes. Once that happens, it can spell sudden-death to anyone?s upwardly-mobile aspirations, and that was my biggest fear of the lot, having seen precisely the same thing happen on more than one occasion, this season just gone.

I suspect our Dingle counterparts had come to the same conclusion, because they were roaring on their favourites with renewed vigour, by that time. But try as they might, they couldn?t penetrate our rearguard to save their scrawny little lives, poor lambs. And that was the moment I got the first intimations we were really going to do this: even though we?d gone off the boil to some extent, there was sod-all they could do about it, such was the extent of our command of the game by that stage.

In the meantime, vocal fun was provided by our people, in the form of the theme to ?The Addams Family? (revised version ? I briefly wondered how many of the singers were actually old enough to have seen the original on TV?), and that musical staple made popular by Liverpool supporters, of late, what?s popularly known as ?Mariachi Music? by those residing within the environs of Latin America. Aw, you know, heavy on the trumpets, blasting upon the poor old ear-drums fit to bust, and all accompanied by thousands of whirling, knotted scarves. And, in the country from which it derived, loads and loads of sphincter-wrecking, evil-hot Mexican food chucked in as an afterthought. So popular was this, I half-expected the entire Smethwick to ascend helicopter-fashion, every single one of our lot borne communally aloft by dint of sheer power provided courtesy those madly flailing bits of blue and white.

Half-time, then, and still no sign of a break in the deadlock. And that?s what worried me: my ideal game-plan had been for an early goal, then let the Dingles sweat at leisure. But not our leader, seemingly enough, content to take them in come the break bloodless. More and more, the thought of possible extra-time and penalties was beginning to form in my head. On tonight?s showing, we could beat this lot off the park any time of our own choosing ? but a penalty shoot out? Naw, not our bag, and not nice at all to contemplate, either.

But if anyone had imagined that sheer fatigue would produce any diminution in the amount of sweat and raw energy being exuded out there, come the second half, then they would have been very much mistaken indeed. First Koumas, then Kamara, had a poke at the pot, then Kamara again, troubling their keeper?s peace of mind a shade more as he did so.

Closer, ever closer, to the target we came, and with our esteemed opponents offering us comparatively little by way of resistance, breaking them down could only be a matter of time, surely? They were buckling aplenty and they knew it: just one smash of the temple, and that would be that. And on the pitch, we had just the man to do it. Welcome then, Kevin Phillips, whose personal input to the game had seemingly diminished, but even so, you could never leave him out of any list of possible scorers, no matter what. And so it proved. Just when most in that ground were wondering whether Albion could retain their slender lead right until the final whistle ? past form suggested otherwise, of course ? up popped our ex-Sunderland chum, with one hell of a surprise-packet of his own devising about to be let loose upon an unsuspecting Baggie public.

Koren was the lad who made the Phillips strike possible, the cross zinging high across the box, and finding the rapidly-ascending head of Mister Phillips, lurking near the post, with pin-point accuracy. Their keeper had absolutely no chance of keeping it out: a moment later, it was over the line, and as it did, the entire place went loopin? stoopin? mad. And that was the moment John Homer almost landed me with a fractured nose! Everyone around was slobbering everyone else with kisses, male, female, it didn?t really matter! John turned to me to plant a wet smacker on my face, and as he did so, I turned my head to face him. Result? One almighty CRACK ? and suddenly, I had tears in my eyes. Not through emotion, just sheer bloody pain!

At first, I genuinely thought I?d broken the bugger, but gradually, the pain began to subside, thank God. Imagine telling a medical enquirer the damage had been done, not by some gold-and-cack with evil intent, but by one of our very own? Even so, it?s still bloody sore, some five or six hours after the event I describe. And trying its damndest to bleed in earnest, still! Just wait until I see that Homer again ? time to get my revenge, methinks!

You would have thought that with that breaking of the deadlock, we?d have locked everything down as tight as tight can be, then weathered whatever the Dingles chose to chuck at us, wouldn?t you? WRONG! Within around a minute of the restart, in typical Albion fashion, we almost chucked it away again. Take one ball seemingly heading for safe passage courtesy the capable arms of Kiely, take a defender who suddenly decided to take vows of a Trappist nature whilst in our box (and seemingly also recruiting our Irish international stopper as a member of this very same monastic order), and what do you have? One almighty mess, that?s what, with the ball heading straight for the line, unstoppably-so, or so it seemed right then. Enter Sodje, limbs flailing madly, in a desperate attempt to prevent our opponents from having the last laugh regarding a strike of almost comic proportions. Fortunately, sheer speed on his part prevented the opposition from capitalising through their own efforts. Phew!

Mind you, that wasn?t the only occasion we seemed to push the self-destruct button. Mister McShane also seemed eager to test our long-suffering defence to breaking-point, this time courtesy a generous donation of the ball to one of their lot, and again, it needed heroic efforts to shift the ball away and clear the danger to everyone?s satisfaction. Do they meet in the dressing-room beforehand, and plan this sort of thing by way of a bet, I wonder? Aw, something on the order of ?How many supporters you reckon you can give heart attacks tonight, then? I got three last time out, bet you can?t do better than me?.?. I can almost hear the exchanges, apart from which absolutely nothing from our lot surprises me any more!

Having weathered all that lot successfully (more by luck than judgment), and with the clock running down gradual realization came that we were on the verge of making it. The Dingles had shot their bolt; whatever they tried to do, now, was literally water off a duck?s back. Kamara had a couple of pokes at the pot more, as did sub Ellington, with what was his first real look at the ball. Even Shergar almost ended up on the scoresheet, not long after he came in, to the discomfiture of Mister Homer, already aware of the promise made to his kids before the Barnsley thrash. What a shame Shergar never scored; would have been ample recompense for a pretty sore conk, that, seeing the elegant Mister Homer stripping to the buff in some Lower Gornal thoroughfare!

And then it was all over, and we?d landed a trip to the metropolis, one thoroughly deserved, too. Put all my fears of being steamrollered in the knock-out stages well and truly to rest, that, so I wasn?t exactly complaining, was I? What did get my goat, though, was all the nonsense over whether or not the side would return to take their deserved bow. "We're just too good for you!" was our serenade for the visitors as they melted away into the night. Then, some 20 minutes after the pitch was finally cleared, deciding it wasn?t ?safe? allegedly. Whoever thought that one up couldn?t have had a lot of dealings with genuine football supporters ? or maybe it was a crafty police trick to segregate the two factions by one lot effectively keeping themselves in the ground.

But what the hell, we?d finally done it. Time, then, to nip round to The Vine, and indulge in a celebratory drink or three. After having stopped the infuriating ringing in my lugholes, mind, partly noise-inflicted, partially down to John?s bluddy big yed straight on my conk! But why the place hadn?t gone for an extension, I don?t really know. Just normal closing-time, sorry, and all that. Not at all in accordance with the owner?s normal entrepreneurial spirit, that ? or had they been leaned on by the rozzers also, I wonder? Still, there was ample time to natter with the Noise about all things Wembley, plus a quick phone call to Steve The Miser, who had been given the job of grabbing all the necessary tickets, what with this column heading on out for the wilds of Herefordshire later today, and everything. And young Bethany?s take on everything? ?Very emotional!? she told me, in all due sobriety: quite a profound thought, that, for a ten-year old!

And Finally?. That?s us off, then, to recharge our batteries ready for the Big One. Back around the Thursday night before the game, hopefully. But just by way of letting you know what sort of monster this game?s created, right now, the phone lines to Emirates Airways must be buzzing like crazy. At least 15 Perth Baggies that I know of, returning to the Old Country for this one ? and that?s quite apart from however many of the Sydney and Brisbane contingents decide to make the long trip home, too. We?ve already offered chauffering services from the airport on arrival, and by copying The Fart in on our email, we?ll also get plenty of media coverage for the lot of ?em! Should be fun, yeah?

And Finally?. One. Pessimistic Albion supporter, sitting in Martin?s row, around six minutes from the end, and with us a goal up: ?That?s two of ?is best penalty tekkers ?ee?s just took off?.?

Two?. Word has reached my delicate little lugholes that we have new neighbours just two doors down from our holiday home ? and it so happens that they are both avid Dingles! Guess where we?ll be, later today, people ? off to grab replica shirts from the club shop, first of all, then heading on down to ?Zoider Country? like s**t on rollerblades, wearing said shirts about our person somewhat more ostentatiously than usual! How does it go, now? Claws out, sandpaper out, chaps: Strop??.Strop?..Strop??Strop??

 - Glynis Wright

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