Glynis Wright watched the Trophy replay last night. Below, in her inimitable style, are her thoughts on the game.
Tuesday night, and Tarzan vs Godzilla Round Two beckoned. Well, I suppose I may exaggerate a tadge, here - what we actually witnessed wasn't exactly Johnny Weismuller yodelling fit to bust and hauling himself around the jungle on vine strands, with the aforementioned anthropoid in hot pursuit, but the eagerly awaited second instalment of that fascinating (if decidedly muddy) Badger-Bull FA Trophy encounter I told you about the other day - and once more both clubs did everyone (and the game in general, when you think about it) proud. No kid, here, everyone concerned witnessed a cracking game of football, with, as I expected, our bovine chums eventually grabbing the spoils (and a quarter-final crack at Hucknall FC into the bargain) by four goals to two. And, a rarity for Hereford in knock-out action thus far this season, without the entire blasted shebang going to extra time and penalties.
Prices were reduced considerably for this one, and I have to say, this footballing equivalent of a Tesco loss-leader certainly proved quite a bargain buy. On a chilly night, close to freezing-point, and in front of a crowd of 1070 hardy Herefordian souls (they do breed 'em tough in zoider country, oo arr!) it was the visitors that first took the lead, and with less than 20 minutes gone. The lad responsible, a chappie called Knox, must have been most surprised to see his effort being assisted considerably by the inability of the Bulls' keeper to concentrate on what he was doing properly; positioning himself where he certainly "shouldner oughter" for an experienced Conference custodian, the Eastwood striker, a prison officer by day, well and truly banged in (or should that be "up"?) the effort, leaving Chummy looking very silly indeed. Much anger and angst in the main stand, where we were; one chap a few rows behind me, whose ruddy cheeks were a pretty glowing testament to Bulmer's most famous fermented apple product, really worried me. Was he, or was he not, going to succumb to an apoplectic fit, I wondered? And should he do so, was I prepared to risk rapid intoxication myself by giving the old coot the kiss of life?
Once the ref pointed to the centre circle, much mumbling and muttering ensued in the West Stand, most of it from people who hadn't travelled to the first game, and therefore didn't fully appreciate just how good the visitors were. But there was one enormous advantage Hereford had that they most certainly didn't last Saturday - a playing surface you could plonk a spirit-level on, and certain knowledge the little bubble would unerringly land plumb-spang right in the middle of the apparatus. As our chum Nick Brade somewhat caustically remarked apropos the first tie, Eastwood's got to be the only ground where the linos have to use Stannah stair-lifts to get them from one end to the other! and furthermore, one that boasted a full complement of greenery on every part of the pitch. Luxury! Gradually, patiently, the home side constructed their killer strike - and following several "near-miss" episodes, their just reward came with but nine minutes remaining to the break. The lad that put the smiles back on the faces of all those serial cider-sluggers in the stand? Young Carey-Bertram, that's who.
That equaliser certainly bunged new life, renewed heart, into those team-mates of his. There wasn't time to do much more before the interval, but afterwards was a completely different kettle of fish. No sooner had the ref's whistle signalled the restart, the home side rammed the gear-stick straight into "overdrive" and the visitors quickly began to rock, then roll; first the post, then the crossbar rattled mightily. It could only be a matter of time before another almighty Bull charge brought its reward, so no surprise, then, in the 62nd minute, when another ex-Baggie James struck to give them the lead for the first time.
The opposition being part-timers, and Hereford the genuine article, once the Conference outfit levelled, it then became quite evident the game could only go one way. With about 15 minutes remaining, yet another young ex-Albionite did Tucka Trewick proud; this time, it was the turn of their newest loan recruit, Smikle, to inflict the damage, and by doing so, thoroughly sew up the evening's proceedings. But there was still a curious twist to the tail of this remarkable plot to come; well a couple, actually. Within a minute or so of Smikle's exquisite strike, it was Williams's turn to get on the score-sheet, which made things 4-1, and game over, seemingly - but I was dead wrong. Just four minutes later, the Bulls keeper Craig Mawson made one of the biggest mullocks I've ever witnessed in forty years of watching the round-ball game. What happened? Well, one second there was a custodian belting the ball away up the field of play, the next it was rebounding off Knox into the net. Nuff said. Or maybe not. So bad, it was good; had he ever received lessons from Albion's serial custodial cocker-up Paul Crichton, I wondered? (Curiously the internet tells me that he genuinely had lessons from Stuart "Bruiser" Naylor which is alarming)
Mind you, by then, the visitors were totally knackered, and quite clearly somewhat incapable of making further hay while the moon shone. Four-two was the score come the end of the full ration, and the near 1100 spectators (around 45 travelled from Nottinghamshire, by the way) went home reasonably happy. As for the Bulls, a ticket to the quarter-final and a home tie versus Hucknall Town now beckoned. Fair play to Eastwood, though; despite being two Leagues lower in the pecking-order than the Edgar Street mob, they'd really made it difficult for the home side, especially at their place. Some of their players - I'm thinking both strikers and their keeper, here - seemed easily capable of turning in consistently good performances at a higher level than the one they were currently at. The aforementioned Peter Knox has netted in the mid-twenties already. And not once did they try to kick lumps out of the opposition, either, even after they'd conceded two in a minute.