The Diary

15 August 2007: Cherries Prove Ripe For Picking.

And here was me thinking that the cherry-picking season had come and gone ages ago: it would appear that our finest had other ideas on the subject, although it must be said that the visitors were surprisingly short on ambition, compared to Cheltenham Town, who paid us a visit in the previous term?s competition, and ran us all the way to the finish.

Still, a morale-boosting victory is always welcome, however short of pazzaz the opposition might appear to be, so we live to fight another day. The draw comes on Thursday evening, after the last tie of this round gets settled, apparently. As most of the big boys take to the stage for the first time in this round, and the draw is seeded, the implications for us are that we?ll be lumped in with our erstwhile Premier League chums, when names emerge from the hat blinking in the unaccustomed light. Tonight has already seen a couple of almighty shocks, the most noteworthy of which was Preston losing on their own turf to local rivals and League newcomers Morecambe: wow, what a way to begin your League Cup history!

As for the Deepdale mob, Saturday?s opponents at The Shrine, no sooner had we returned from our own game, we tuned in to Sky: nicely in time to see the Morecambe winning strike, in fact. Oh, dear ? if I?d been a North End wallah watching that particular ?video nasty?, I wouldn?t have emerged from my house for about a fortnight. The goal, when it came, was something right out of the Keystone Kops, involving the Preston keeper somehow letting the ball slip from his grasp, then most of his defence standing as if transfixed as the ball slowly bimbled over the goal-line, and into the pages of Morecambe history.

A good Championship side falling disastrously ? but hilariously - onto its sword in the Cup is one thing, but our lot having to play them next Saturday is quite another: as I said to ?Im Indoors, after images of wildly-celebrating away players and supporters finally faded from our TV screen, the Deepdale mob are going to be travelling to our place in search of some badly-needed Brownie points after tonight ? they now owe their own followers big-time, after an almighty cock-up like that ? so I fully expect our lot to get it from both barrels come Saturday afternoon. The $64,000 dollar question revolves around our defence being sufficiently robust ? and cohesive ? enough to weather the storm when it comes, which it will, no question about it.

But back to tonight. This was to be the first time we?d clapped eyes upon the Lewis mob since our disappointing Wembley defeat last May: what with The Noise?s illness and everything, a lot of water has trickled under the bridges of the Lewis household since then, so it was going to need considerable time to get an update. They?d arranged to meet us in the hawthorns pub, not least because we had all their stile-cards (all their Albion stuff comes via us, for convenience), and they needed same to get into the ground in the first place, of course.

The first hurdle, though, was to get past those two diligent Guardians Of The Inner Sanctum Alan Cleverley?s Barmy Army had posted guarding the entrance. Not quite the same as Cerberus, the multi-headed dog that did similar for Hades, in days of ancient yore, but the effect was similar: you got past those two at your peril. It being the start of business, they were checking membership cards, everyone?s, no matter how regularly they?d attended during previous seasons. The Noise, not having theirs (in our possession, again!) had a lot of explaining to do: luckily, we turned up not long afterwards to sort the matter out, and assure our chums that everyone was street-legal, honest!

A very sparsely-occupied bar ? judging by the paucity of bodies, you would have thought the entire area had been decimated by an attack of bubonic plague - and seated area greeted us: in view of the anticipated reduced attendance, not altogether surprising, either. The d?cor was much the same as it had been last time round ? but with one (literally!) glaring exception: the bar counter area was now lit by an ultra-violet strip-light high above. Speaking from past experience of serving drinks in such awful lighting, I could only hope that the bar staff had genned up via a closer look, under normal illumination, at the coinage they would be handling that evening, because telling the difference between silver and copper in that kind of light can be a bit of a sod, to say the least.

As you might have expected, no sooner we came through that door, every single one of the Lewis brood wanted a conversational bit of us. They?ve been very busy little bees over the course of what?s passed for a summer this time round, it would appear. First of all, Jayne decided to join a gym, to tone up and generally look beautiful for her public: she enjoyed it so much, in fact, that before you could even say ?Stoke City?, the others in the Lewis household followed in short order, and found they liked it too. Blimey ? where will it all end, I ask myself. Could we even see one or more of the Noise?s brood running in the next London Marathon, I wonder? Er ? steady on?.

Could all this sudden interest in body maintenance be anything to do with the fact that when visiting a local library to browse the internet, recently, the chair upon which The Noise was sitting suddenly, and without warning, collapsed in a heap, thereby dumping our hero onto the deck in a somewhat embarrassing fashion?

Then we got The Carly Lewis Pronouncement on the ?fitness? of our recent influx of players. And when I say ?fitness?, what I don?t mean is their physical condition! Her verdict? There are five of our new boys that are really ugly! Interesting to note that her former school was one of those taking on board the American concept of the end-of-term High School Graduation Ball: I know because she showed me the pictures before tonight?s game.

Not being of a generation that automatically venerates every single thing emerging from the US of A, the concept of such a function was not one I would have wanted, personally: everyone attending, students (they don?t call them ?pupils? any more, yet another American import, I?m afraid!), teaching staff and headmaster, all decked out in formal evening wear (odd to see teenagers in that sort of get-up, I must admit), the lads in suits and dicky-bow ties, and the gals in wondrously flouncy evening dresses: if you?ve seen ?Grease? and similar, you?ll get the idea very quickly, trust me on that one.

Elsewhere in that room, yet another generation of Albion supporters was being helped along the first stages of what would undoubtedly prove to be a rocky road indeed. Enter ?The Drinking Family?, both matriarch and patriarch- and each with a small child wearing Albion kit in tow: clearly, Nature had finally taken its course, and a third generation was now being inculcated into what it meant to support the Baggies. In fact, that?s what I actually said to them, as they both passed close to our table, each with a small child in tow.

?Bringing up the next generation?? I queried, brightly.

Grinned proud Granddad, in purest Black Country: ?Ar, that?s roight??

Having brought ourselves completely up to date with the doings of the Lewis clan, and The Fart itching like mad to get into the ground, we decided to take our leave of our chums, sitting in their customary Brummie Road perch tonight. A few brief words with those Baggie luminaries occupying ?Anorak?s Corner?, and it was inside the ground for our first meaningful game of the nascent season.

If the weather had been awful before ? rain, wind, the works ? it looked pretty good, now, as we emerged from the bowels of the Halfords, about 15 minutes before the start. Gone forever were clouds the colour of dishwater, and in their place sat a much more user-friendly brickdust coloured version, that strange red-pink hue contrasting sharply with the blue sky, and giving the East Stand a somewhat brassy tint. A good night for a game, if ever there were one.

The team news? Quite interesting, in fact: Mogga had changed some things after last Saturday?s opening-day shock ? Clem relegated to the bench, and young Wossa elevated to stand-by status, along with new boy Shelton Martis. Quite an experience, this, for a lad whose Bury career had included but one first team appearance as sub. Tonight?s game also saw the return of Paul Robinson ? as I?d anticipated last night, he?d seemingly given up the idea of leaving the club, and elected to knuckle down and get on with it instead ? also, Albrechtsen managed to get a start, along with Nathan Ellington. Another positive feature of tonight?s team selection was the inclusion of Jared Hodgkiss in the charmed circle: clearly, he?s very much a part of Mogga?s thoughts right now.

Those changes apart, the rest smacked somewhat of what happened at Turf Moor. Three new lads got their debuts tonight, Pele, Bostjan Cesar, and James Morrison. Once more we were putting out a side largely consisting of people who had yet to get properly acquainted with each other. Still, as I reasoned it, another 90 (or more, worst-case scenario?) minutes of getting familiar with team-mates? differing styles of play, wouldn?t do any harm at all, and might assist us greatly when it came to doing League battle with the Preston persuasion next weekend.

As for The Cherries, they boasted a brace of players with an Albion connection, Warren Cummings, and Josh Gowling. But they were running light on personnel tonight, with Paul Telfer, Asmir Begovic, Russell Perrett, Marvin Barsley, Danny Hollands and Steven Foley all having to send in notes from their parents. Much to my delight, Neil Young was back from suspension (no, he didn?t emerge from the players? tunnel singing ?Heart Of Gold?: a shame, that, as I?d hoped he could teach me a few chords!), but The Cherries had recently contracted a bad case of ?loan player-itis?, which meant them getting permission to hand debuts to Mark-Alain Gradel, Gareth O?Connor and Jean-Francois Christophe tonight.

As for the followers of both sets of combatants, The Cherries had come what was practically mob-handed for them, filling the left hand side of the away end quite comfortably, quite an achievement for people travelling that sort of distances, and presumably with day jobs to get to come the morrow. Of course, it had been quite some time since both sides had faced one another, so there may well have been an element of ?different ground? in it also.

Our lot? Oh dear, what a disappointment. Very few ?choristers? in the Brummie: those wanting to exercise their tonsils seemingly gravitated to the Smethwick instead. Ironically, as I scanned the ground to gauge tonight?s attendance, the PA system was playing a ditty very familiar with supporters around the time of our first promotion to the Prem, a rap number with the title (I think) ?Look Around?. Ironic, really, as doing so revealed far more vacant seats than bums sitting on them. As things turned out, the final figure was something in the order of 10,000. Not brilliant, ?tis true, but could have been much better, I suppose.

The game? Well, both sides got off to a very low-key start, testing each other out, I reckon. If anything, during those opening minutes, I would have given the home a slight edge over the visiting side. A shame the intensity of supporters? efforts weren?t taken into account, when deciding who were the winners, mind: during those opening minutes, they were very, very noisy indeed. Our lot only woke up after the first serious Albion incursion, some ten minutes or so into the game.

Even so, during those first ten minutes, we hadn?t exactly let the grass grow under our feet. Teixiera was the first Albion player to get anything like close, but the visitors? keeper dealt with the nuisance currently troubling his life comfortably. Five minutes after that, Morrison was the next to give Bournemouth something to think about- but the best bit of all had nothing whatsoever to do with our attackers.

Remember me saying that Robbo had returned to haunt opposition players the length and breadth of the country? Well, come the 9th minute, come the sort of robust no-nonsense play that won him so many admirers last term. He certainly left an ?impression? on the Bournemouth lad that got in his way when trying to tidy up at the back! Said ?Im Indoors, whooping with joy: ?Wow, we?ve missed this!....? I don?t suppose the poor sod on the other end agreed, mind, but that?s the way the mop flops, isn?t it?

By the time the first 15 had run its course, there were distinct signs that the old Baggie engine had finally warmed up enough to start giving the visitors not a little trouble, the tormentor in this particular case being Morrison once more, courtesy a soupcon of assistance from Duke Ellington, which set the lad up nicely for a poke on goal that only just missed the intended target.

The shape of things to come? Not half: with the game just short of the 20 minute mark, cue Beattie, who put away a scorcher that really had the crowds sitting up with complete astonishment. And from out of nothing, or so it seemed at the time. It all started out on the right, and in their half of the field, when Greening passed sublimely to the new Scots lad. After cutting in a bit, and with ?Im Indoors screeching: ?Come on, forwards, get with it!?, ?yer man? then turned, somehow, and while executing that turn, let fly with an almighty Exocet of a strike that looped right over the keeper?s head and into the top left hand corner, at which point my other half?s cry abruptly changed to one of: ?BLOODY HELL!?

A quality strike it was, no doubt about it, and on the run of play at that time, a deserved one for the Baggies. One thing I noticed, as everyone trotted back to the centre circle once more, was the lack of enthusiasm among his new team mates for what the ex-Celtic lad just done: normally, goalscoring celebrations border on the obscene, these days, but in Beattie?s case, nary a Baggie desired intimate contact, confining themselves to ?high fives?, plus handshakes, all done with the slightest of bodily contact, instead.

But, popular or not, Beattie had tasted blood, and wanted more: in fact, he nearly did so just two minutes later, and Moss had to have his wits about him to prevent disaster from striking again, his timely save forcing an Albion corner. On the opposite tack, lax marking not long after we?d broken the deadlock could have proven costly for us: it was imperative we concentrated, now, but that sort of attribute seemed to be somewhat lacking out there.

Still, the Bournemouth lot were still going strong in the Smethwick. ?Bournemouth Till I Die? sang their camp followers in tones that reverberated right around the half-empty stadium. ?Aha!? said I to my other half, ?Isn?t that the whole point of the place? EVERYBODY goes to Bournemouth to die, don?t they??

Ten minutes to go before the break, and the very moment a certain Mister Ellington demonstrated perfectly the prime reason why our supporters got so exasperated with him. There he was, in the box, the ball at his feet, and the goal at his mercy. Only the keeper stood in his way: time for the lad to bury the chance, then turn away to milk the applause for all it was worth? Nope ? Ellington being Ellington, he?d aimed his effort right at the body of the grateful Bournemouth custodian instead, who had not the slightest of difficulty taking the residual sting out of what was a tame shot in the first place. And, very close to the break, yet another Ellington-launched effort ended up in very close proximity to the roof of the Smethwick. Oh dear ? not the desired result at all; you could almost see those ?confidence glands? giving up the ghost on the spot.

And so to half-time. The first course had seen us cope comfortably with anything the visitors chose to chuck at us: what did get through was being dealt with pretty competently by our new-turned-over-a-new-leaf Robbo: as for the rest, and that wonderful Beattie strike apart, the other Albion lad that impressed for me was Jonathan Greening, now covering one hell of a lot of ground in order to further the Albion cause, and, to use that old-fashioned expression ?set an example?.

It was perhaps significant that come the start of the second helping, our leader, who had chosen to maintain a low profile for much of the opening half, had seemingly elected to become a much more ?hands-on? manager for the duration of the second 45. Now, his angular features (some would describe Mogga as looking half-starved! Does his missus feed him enough, I ask myself?) could be seen right up close and personal with the touchline. Anxious to finish the job off, n?est ce pas?

If the first half had, on the whole, belonged to us, then you might want to say that the second was noteworthy for the fact the opposition seemed most reluctant to venture from their own half of the field. This meant they were packing their defence something rotten, with the net result that try as they might, our people had great trouble in getting close enough to hurt them. Well, at least they hadn?t scored right after the break, one of our more frustrating foibles last season, and one that caught up with us at Turf Moor, of course.

We did have our moments, however. Ellington was unlucky not to get on the scoresheet when a Bournemouth player ? Gowling? ? made a timely interception tackle, thereby whipping the ball from the lad?s feet just as he was about to pull the trigger. ?Ah, so that?s what we?re here to do,? thought Teixeira, as he ran to take the ensuing corner. A shame the new lad on the other end of the set-piece, Cesar, hadn?t appreciated that fact more readily.

Bournemouth did have their moments later on in the game, seemingly getting the message to be a little more proactive than before ? had they really rammed home their infrequent attacking moves, then it might have been they?d have got results ? but Robbo was his normal roughy-toughy self, and dealt easily with most attempts from the visitors to inflict a bit of a scare upon the home side.

Come the end of the first 15, the lad was seen to run to the touchline during a break in play, and have words with the coaching staff on the bench. The reason for this intimate tete a tete soon became clear: poor Robbo badly needed his nuts tightening up! Aw, you know, those keeping the studs on his boots in place ? what on earth did you think I was on about, you naughty little Baggies, you!

The more the game progressed, the more solid seemed the Bournemouth defensive phalanx permanently camped in their own half. Great for them in one way - they weren?t conceding that way ? but as boring as sin insofar as they didn?t seem to like the thought of taking the fight to us, instead. Were they hoping to weather the danger, then try to hit us on the break, after an attacking move broke down? I mentally mused over this, as time was now beginning to run out for the visitors.

Get one in the back of the net, by whatever means it took to do so, and thirty full minutes of additional time (and possible penalties) would be theirs for the taking. As the clock ran down, it certainly lent substance to my theory when the visitors suddenly raised the tempo of their game, but it?s at times like these, you look towards players for salvation. In Robbo, we had a saviour, all right: nothing ? repeat nothing ? was getting past the guy.

As a Bournemouth lad, fool enough to mix it with him, was being lectured by the ref, I even heard the plaintive cry of ?You?ll be sorr-eee!? from somewhere in The Halfords. Some people with a death-wish play ?chicken? on railway lines, while others get their adrenaline-laced thrills from hanging on to vehicles moving at speed. This Bournemouth guy seemed of similarly self-destructive ilk: after all, who in their right mind would be daft enough to kick Robbo up in the air?

Midway through the half, some Albion subbings, finally, Beattie off for Nicholson, and Teixeira making way for the lad Worrall. In fact, the lad could have made it two, had his long-range effort towards the end been more carefully directed. Overall, we?d dominated the half, but just before the end, we were given an almighty scare when The Curse Of The Last-Minute Goal nearly struck good and proper: one of the visitors? few decent attempts to retrieve the situation, coming from the edge of the box, came far too close to the post than was good for anyone?s sanity. At least the impressive Greening almost had the final say when a long-range effort from him nearly brought the house down.

And now for a couple of posers I don?t expect answers for. Call them part of the mystery of life if you really must, but witness them I did, tonight. The first? Just what were the prawn cocktail brigade doing to vote Beattie Man Of The Match ? and that poll coming ages after the former Celtic lad had been subbed? I would have given either Greening or Robbo the accolade, myself: the goal was an absolute show-stopper, sure, but there?s many other ways of doing a good job, aren?t there, and some not necessarily blindingly obvious?

My second? Yes, I know: Einstein?s Theory Of Football Relativity states that the narrower the lead, and the rapidly-increasing possibility the opposition might force themselves back in to the game, the slower said time is perceived to elapse by supporters when into the last few minutes and seconds ? a Dickhead Dilatation effect, if you like ? but what manner of natural law did tonight?s match official invoke the moment he signalled an astonishing FOUR MINUTES injury time? This, mind, for a game where there had been nary an injury necessitating the presence of either physio on the field, no bookings whatsoever, and very little in the way of other stoppages, either. Aliens in either dressing-room? Members of the local constabulary discovered partaking of the local weed in their little co-shop next to the Smethwick? One never knows, does one?

And Finally?? More Tales From The Lewis Family Crypt! This one concerns Carly, who, with her dad and other daughter, Bethany (who spent an enjoyable afternoon walking her ?adopted dog? recently: her ambition is to be a vet), got one over us, by attending a pre-season friendly at Stafford Rangers.

Before the game, they happened to bump into Darren Carter outside the ground - and after she?d finally recovered from her faint, a besotted and lovestruck Carly managed to exchange a few encouraging words with her hero which, she was pleased to see, went down very well indeed. What a shame, then, when she picked up the sports news the very next day, only to read that the aforementioned gentleman had been transferred to Preston! As a devastated Carly said, somewhat ruefully, earlier tonight: ?Was it something I said??

Then, it was Bethany?s turn. She went one better, by bumping into the gaffer, Mogga. Said that young lady, chock-full of the sort of na?ve confidence and certainty one has at the tender age of eleven, the kind that makes you unswervingly believe right will always prevail against might, and the good guys always come off best, declared to our leader: ?We?re going to win tonight!? Craggy-faced (but considerably more world-wise) Mogga?s reply? ?I hope so!?

That young lady was also the centre of attention not long afterwards, when her olfactory organ decided to demonstrate to the world at large that it did have a good blood supply, thank you very much, and in the most practical of ways, too: turning the front of just about every item of clothing she wore a fetching scarlet colour!

You can?t beat a nosebleed for evoking sympathy, especially when it?s a child doing the bleeding! Before you could say ?Florence Nightingale?, just about every Stafford official in creation was rushing to Bethany?s assistance, a chair was rustled up from somewhere for her to sit on, and ? last but not least ? a pair of surgical gloves were proffered for big sis Carly to slip over her own pinkies, and commence clear-up operations immediately!

The Noise: ?A mate of ours got a goat to eat the grass in his garden: he tethered it in a different place every day, and before you knew it, the grass was short, and the goat had stuffed itself silly?..?

The Fart: ?You sure it wasn?t John Hartson in disguise?.....?

SPECIALISTS WITH DAFT NAMES CORNER?. Come half-time tonight, when perusing the programme, I was most amused to see one person, posing beautifully on our team picture, described in the caption box below as a ?Team Analyst?.

Just what does this gentlemen do, prithee pray? Is the job title synonymous with that of ?Public Analyst?, I wonder? More or less defunct now, but back in days of pre-antibiotic yore, this was the person who spent a significant proportion of his career growing nasty bacteria from scratch, the pathogens themselves having come from samples taken from the kitchen areas of restaurants and catering establishments showing distinct signs of dodgy hygiene.

As you can imagine, one was vulnerable to all sorts of infectious ?horribles? in those days: once caught, a real sod to cure. So, if I?m correct, when this guy?s not posing for team photos, he?s going through Albion?s catering with a fine toothcomb, what?

 - Glynis Wright

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