The Diary

05 December 2007: Sky Blues Sink Sad Baggies.

Well?.. At least tonight?s final score has made one thing abundantly clear. When we stuff up in front of our own supporters, we don?t half do it good and proper, don?t we? That inept display-cum-90-minute-long suicide note was certainly an Albion classic self-help, self-inflicted snuffing-it session. An exhibition so bad, it was good.

Well, the City supporting contingent in the Smethwick certainly thought so. When they?d stopped pinching each other to see whether or not they were in the land of Nod, of course. And it doesn?t come much better than nicking four goals off opponents whose normal habit it is to run up a cricket score on these fraught occasions. Talk about schadenfreude: their manic howls of laughter come the final whistle said it all for me.

So well did we contrive to engineer our Hawthorns demise, when EXIT finally get to hear of it, they?ll probably present us with a commemorative plaque for ?services rendered to suicide?. Either that, or arrange for all our players to go on a holiday in Switzerland, apartments and medical care laid on, unusual cocktails served completely free of charge. Just don?t expect a return ticket, chaps.

Had anyone ever asked me to list the worst things that could happen to our side during any kind of game, League, Cup, or just plain against the local hospital side, I really don?t think I could have come up with even the half of what I witnessed on that pitch this evening, not even in my wildest imaginings. Two goals down 11 minutes after the start ? and it could so easily have been three not long after that ? a vital cog in our defensive wheel getting an early bath, not so much because of the foul that prompted the second card, but because the first booking was for kicking the ball away, and Robbo, who is a pro of some experience, should have known far better than allow that to happen. So unprofessional, Albion.

And then there was the small matter of Dean Kiely. How he stayed on the pitch after he handled outside the area completely passeth all understanding. Both ?Im Indoors and myself have seen keepers get an automatic red for similar before now, and at one point in the brief spell between the ref blowing up for the infringement, and him conversing with the lino, some ten or so yards away when it happened, that?s precisely what I thought was on the cards.

And had Deano walked, not only would an outfield player have had to hold the fort between the sticks (making it a dead cert Coventry would have massively increased their ?goals for? tally at our expense: a case of not looking gift horses in the mouth, and all that), but we would surely have been right up C**p Creek at Leicester this weekend, defensively speaking. No other keeper to draw upon for emergency cover, and nobody deemed competent enough to shove out there instead, either. Well, that?s the impression I get from our management team, reading between the lines. Talk about ?Amateur Hour?: this one was so amateurish, it hurt.

As it is, we?ve since spoken to The Fart (a pretty furious one, might I add: look out, Stirchley, someone or something?s going to get the old scrubbing-brush, detergent and Dettol treatment tonight!), but he seems certain it?ll be a case of one game only spent in the seats for Robbo, and the ban not kicking in before 7 days have passed since the incident, so at least we should be OK for the Leicester game.

Remember, this was a side 14th in the table, strapped for cash, and, if their takeover doesn?t go ahead within the space of ten days, staring right down the double-barrelled shotgun of administration and relegation. We thrashed them by four clear goals at their place, then rubbed their noses in the dirt, for Heaven?s sake. So what the hell went wrong here?

To be fair, though, my other half had been having grave misgivings about this game all day. And he would have told me all about it, too, had our telephones not been on the blink at Chez Wright. As it was, he had to go and get a flat tyre replaced, and very expensive it was, too. ?95 quid-type expensive! (Like I mentioned at the start, all those omens were getting pretty ?omeny?!) And the fitting of it made him pretty late getting back from the office, so his nosh had to be very much eaten ?on the hoof?.

Not good at all for his temper: one thing guaranteed to get my other half ratty every single time is someone or something keeping him from his food. Or could the fact we lost this one badly be down to the fact of my sending a couple of Jehovah?s Witnesses packing, with monstrously-sized fleas in their God-bothering ears, around lunchtime today? ?The Witnesses Strike Back?, in other words?

Add to that, the fact Carly was trying to get in contact with me about something or other, that afternoon, but every single time I picked up the receiver when the phone rang, I kept being cut off! In the end, I had to get her mobile number from Jayne, her long-suffering mum, and sort out what she wanted that way. As you can imagine, the pair of us were not very happy bunnies by the time we were able to properly converse again.

Looking back at the night?s infuriating events, I suppose our main failing as supporters was assuming tonight?s game would prove to be a walkover for our second-placed side. Let?s face it, when was the last time we lost to Coventry on our own ground? Off the top of my head, I make the last time when they were in the top flight, we a division down, and met in a Cup Third Round replay around nine or ten years ago, losing after taking ? and holding, for much of the game ? the lead. Any better offers from the floor, and I?ll listen!

Certainly, when we all met up in the pub beforehand, the atmosphere within was pretty positive, more than a hint of ?we?re going to tater these tonight, and go top, ?cos Watford won?t like going to Colchester, will they?? My theory exactly, so I?m as much to blame as anyone in there. One minor distraction from the football, though: Carly now has a new love in her life, and while I was getting the drinks in, she was telling me all about the lad.

I also heard later, from her weary dad, about acute teenage angst on the part of his eldest pride and joy, and her constant need to keep texting the guy (plus, to be fair, his pressing need to do exactly the same!). ?He?s probably just come in from work, showering and having his tea?? said The Noise, in a futile effort to mollify her fears, when he was tearfully told the lad hadn?t left any text messages on her phone for the last hour or so. So she then rang him - and guess what? Yup ? he WAS having a shower, etc.! Ah, the course of true love, and all that!

Time to go in, then ? and time to collect The Noise Family?s stilecards through the bars of the Brummie exit gate, after they?d used ?em to get through the turnstiles, of course. The reason? Both The Fart and I will be taking a trip to the ground on Thursday morning to pick up a whole load of tickets for away games coming up in the near future. As you would expect, bloody Stoke City just happens to be one, and as it?s virtually a ?home fixture? for The Noise and his clan, he wants tickets for that one too. (Will they be so keen on going to the Britannia Stadium after tonight?s performance, I wonder?)

But there was absolutely no inkling of what was to come, of course, as we settled into our seats, and the Coventry contingent in the Smethwick giving it some vocal welly, for once. Mind you, just before both teams emerged from the tunnel, we did hear that Iain Dowie had gone for a like-up emphasising ?attack?: the inference was, Mifsud would be using his considerable pace to give us some heavy-duty grief. Perhaps we should have all listened and inwardly digested that one right from the start, because our coaching staff sure didn?t.

Going, more or less, with what started at Palace last weekend, the game got underway, with referee Mark Clattenburg wielding the whistle, as expected. And it?s from this moment on, I reckon I developed what?s called retrograde amnesia i.e. a neurological complaint brought on through the sufferer seeing some horrible sight or other, and the brain trying to help by completely blanking out whatever it was that person saw that was so bloody awful! If it?s catching, I reckon I sure as hell have got it.

What I do remember is this: within two or three minutes of the start, we?d almost notched up an opener, when Bednar relieved a Coventry defender of the ball, then put Gera through: the shot wasn?t quite as good as it could have been, but even so, it was quite enough to make City concede the corner, the first of four on the bounce for us. So far, so good, then; we were cooking on gas, as per the script.

And that?s when it all started going pear-shaped, mes amis. I think it was Cesar that made an almighty pig?s ear of intercepting City?s speculative punt upfield: in nipped their lad to take the ball from him, then, his initiative-glands in full working order, it would seem, lobbed Dean Kiely from way, way out. Up went the ball, way, way into the air ? and you just knew with a sickening certainty where it was going to end up, which it did. One-nil to Coventry, then, and in the most charitable circumstances imaginable. What would come next, I wondered. A sodding collecting-tin proffered by Iain Dowie, and donations solicited from the Halfords Lane Stand?

And would you Adam and Eve it? A scant six minutes later, we were TWO down! You certainly couldn?t blame a speculative lob for their second: serial defensive incompetence brought that one forth, more like. Never has it been so true in football as the proverb stating ?he who hesitates is lost?, especially when it?s the guy doing the defending that hesitates, then loses. Whoever thought that one up must have been an Albion supporter, no question about it. ?And here?s a proverb all of my very own, as well, viz: ?Defender who leave Mifsud completely unmarked in box expect to get caned for it?.? And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a potted version of how City left us looking rather silly, very early on.

Woe, woe, and thrice woe ? well, nearly. They should have gone three up within a very short space of their second hitting the back of the net. Having committed most of our people to a push in their half, we were totally unprepared when they broke out of defence, and rushed upfield at a rate of knots, totally outnumbering those few we?d left behind to guard the shop. City?s McKenzie had the ball, going for goal like a steam train with the safety-valve bust, totally unmarked, and looking a dead cert to add to the City score. Much heartfelt relief when, instead of hitting the back of the net, he stuffed up the shot instead. Another City player tried to apply the coup de grace, but the effort ran well wide.

Meanwhile, back in the Halfords?. We just couldn?t believe what we were seeing out there, none of us. Just about everyone there was going bananas, an understandable response, considering the circumstances. Even John lost his cool after that, loudly exhorting the walking disaster that was our first team: ?GET THE BLUDDY BALL UP, YOU TWONKS!....? And, yes ? as clear as the first cuckoo of string, there it was. The Bloke In Front Of Me yelling ?GERRIMOFF!? But for whom was the message intended? There were nine or ten out there who thoroughly deserved being ?Goroff!?, to use the BIFOM?s somewhat manic vernacular. I?m not exaggerating when I say I?ve seen many a non-league side defend better than Albion did in those opening minutes.

After 20 minutes or so, things began to settle down, comparatively speaking, but we still couldn?t hurt them sufficiently enough to rattle their cages; everything we chucked at them was sorted with contemptuous ease by their defence. Bednar, in stark contrast to previous games where he?d played, was proving worse than useless up front. Not only that, Coventry?s tactics of using their forwards, Midsuf especially, to go at us like the clappers, had certainly paid off.

All in all, the remainder of the half proceeded in quiet, but very frustrated fashion, for us. And, as both sides left the scene of the mugging to the sound of desultory boos from dissatisfied Black Country customers on all four sides of the ground, something told me Mogga would have one hell of a battle on his hands trying to sort this mess out. Assuming he could, of course.

Were our striking chickens ? or rather the lack of them ? now coming home to roost? I was really astonished, during the break, when someone told me we hadn?t insisted upon a release clause for the lad Slusarski, currently on loan with Blackpool (although, to be fair, he didn?t take part in last night?s game with Scunthorpe Town). That meant we were running short on strikers, while he was kicking his heels in the Lancashire seaside town. It beggars belief to think that someone had willingly acquiesced to Albion allowing such a thing to happen. But no time to ponder on that: there was activity going on around our dugout. There was Shergar, already stripped off for action, and young Jared Hodgkiss, too, similarly attired.

So who would be going off, then? Cesar? Gera? Neither player had performed well during that fraught opening half; in fact Gera, especially, had looked like a mere shadow of his normal self. The trademark spring in the step simply wasn?t there; something or other had upset him, that?s for sure. Mogga must have thought along similar lines too, because that?s precisely what happened.

And that, peeps, was about the only thing about this game that seemed to go to plan. An early defensive cock-up on the part of Hoefkens apart, we seemed to acquire fresh belief from somewhere, at long last, and set about the difficult task of whittling down that two-goal Sky Blues lead with a will and purpose that just wasn?t there before. Certainly, with just four minutes of the half gone, we actually registered our first decent shot on target the whole night!

Things were starting to look up: two minutes later, they WERE up, when Bednar managed to power one hell of a header inside the right hand corner, courtesy an assist from Robbo. The first serious contribution he?d made to the night?s proceedings, I reckon. One back, one to go?.. Now we?d got the bit between our teeth, much, much better, wave after baggie wave, ripping right into their half, and their defence wilting under the strain. Come on Albion, we can do this, they?re rubbish!

And the equaliser didn?t take all that long coming. With just under 20 minutes of the half played, Bednar turned provider, the header landing right on Brunt?s own napper, and the Coventry custodian beaten once more. 2-2, then, and the whole place came alive in an instant. Surely the killer blow couldn?t be too far off?

Under normal circumstances, that?s precisely what would have happened, I reckon ? but these weren?t ?normal circumstances?, by any means. Enter, stage right, the ?kamikaze factor?, and supplied by Paul Robinson, on this occasion. All I can say is that after being booked earlier for kicking the ball away, complete and utter stupidity must have supervened, when for reasons unfathomable to either Man or Baggie, he then took it upon himself to hack the aforementioned Mifsud down, and right in front of the lino, too. He didn?t argue the toss, for once: in fact, there was very little about the challenge he could have argued about, but as he walked down the tunnel, so we could see all our hopes of getting something back from the game going with him. Mogga did try something else, putting Pele on for Tex, who had enjoyed a patchy sort of performance, but it was way too late, and we all knew it.

We got our mandatory warning when Coventry netted, but were adjudged to be offside: now, it could only be a matter of time. In fact, had not the referee had an acute attack of leniency, we could so easily have ended up with just NINE out there on the pitch. The offender? Dean Kiely, this time. With our box resembling the lifeboat deck of the Titanic just after the watertight doors burst, our keeper deliberately handled, just outside the box.

A sending-off offence quite easily, that, and for one horrible minute, I genuinely thought he was headed in the same direction as Robinson ? down the tunnel. Vague contemplation from me, along the lines of: ?Who the hell do we put in goal NOW?? flitted through my brain, swiftly followed by what was the obvious follow-up to such an unhappy train of thought: ?And who the hell can we put in goal at Leicester on Saturday?? Just as well, then, that Kiely got a yellow card, and not red. Had that not been the case, Coventry would have ended up with a cricket score.

And so the game continued, the main hope in the Albion camp being that of survival, of grabbing the solitary point with over-eager arms, then running as fast as our legs would take us. But Coventry knew they were on a winner: with the superiority in numbers now telling, time after time their juggernaut thundered up the park, only to be serially rebuffed by our increasingly desperate defenders.

But it couldn?t last, and didn?t: with just seven or so minutes remaining, the old suicide pills started to exert their lethal effect at the back. Trying to play their way out of trouble, and generally making a pig?s ear of the whole enterprise, they lost the ball, and City pounced, with all the glee of a predatory fox when he realises he?s got that cute little baby rabbit right where he wants him.

Sure, Jared Hodgkiss did try, Canute-like, to turn the spherical invader back before it actually crossed the line, but by the time he came to apply his boot to the task, the ball had already passed the point of no return. And what?s more, despite having demonstrated all the visual acuity of Stevie Wonder when flagging for earlier fouls ? or, more to the point, NOT ? the lino happened to see that one very clearly indeed on this occasion, thank you very much.

The finshing touch for City came just five before the end. After that, there was very little left to say. And very little to do, bar watch a steady stream of very depressed Black Country people leave the ground. In total contrast, at the Smethwick End, going by the celebrations among the away supporters massed there, you?d have thought City had reached the Cup Final. Which they had in one sense, I suppose. Compare and contrast the jubilation there with the funereal atmosphere in the bowels of the Halfords when the final whistle drew a merciful close to the evening?s torture session.

Thoughts? Not fit to print, right now! Try me tomorrow, when I?ve finished fuming!

And Finally?. One. Thanks to The Noise, at least I?m not going to sign off steeped in complete gloom and despondency. Apparently, a Geordie chap recently started work at The Noise?s place, and being the wonderfully gregarious characters they all are (albeit incomprehensible for much of the time!), and suffused with a love of the game that stands out by a country mile, it wasn?t too long before this lad was having little football wagers with the permanent workforce about Stoke City, and their chances of going up. It also goes without saying, of course, that the recent Cup draw, pairing The Potters with The Toon, was pure unmitigated manna from heaven for this guy.

Anyway, very early, one dark and dismal morning, The Noise just happened to have a casual conversation with his Geordie acquaintance at work, about this and that, The Noise and The Baggies, and how things were between both he and the resident Stokies. And, of course, the imminence of the Cup game I mentioned above.

Our Geordie chum?s reply? Grinning from ear to ear as he said it: ?I love taking money off these TSB?s?.?

?TSB?s?? repeated an extremely puzzled Noise.

?Yeah,? said the Tyneside lad, ?TSB?s. Thick Stokie B******s!?

Two?. Yet another tale to keep me giggling at a time when that was the very last thing I wanted to do?.. It would seem that congratulations are now in order for Steve The Miser, who, very recently, got engaged. It should be a coupling made in fiscal heaven, mind, as both have properties of their own, and when one or the other sells up to move in and make them an ?item?, they?ll be quids in. But I still wonder whether or not she truly appreciates what a huge stash of lifelong parsimony she?s taking on, with Steve. If so, she must surely be a woman of very frugal habits already!

 - Glynis Wright

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