The bloody play-offs

Glynis Wright watched last night's game at Edgar Street.

It's a bit tough being an Albion supporter, right now, what with the Premiership Sword Of Damocles hanging right over our heads, and some mad sod of an axe-man set on sending the whole shebang crashing earthwards at a disastrous rate of knots in but a few short hours time, but tonight, I witnessed something equally as bad for the heart and/or mind, if not worse. Sure, life at our level can't half get to kick you in the goolies just when you least expect it, but not nearly as much as it does when you're in the Conference, and struggling desperately to get out of it via the bloody play-offs.

As you've probably guessed by now, the game was Conference runners-up Hereford United versus Stevenage Borough, and the second leg of their bone-crunching clash, the first (and away) leg having ended in a 1-1 draw early last Monday evening. It being the second time in 12 months The Bulls had tried to take the 'lottery route' out of their version of The Outer Darkness, you really, desperately, had to want them to do it this time, especially as rank bad luck, coupled with some truly rotten refereeing, kept them out the first time round. A shame, that, as under former Baggie Richard O'Kelly, they'd absolutely walloped the pants off most of their Conference rivals the previous time round, including two memorable 7-goal blitzings, topping that just before the end of the season with an incredible 9-0 away win, and live on Sky as well!

This second-leg shot at it? John Trewick's Bulls (minus an injured Lee Mills; a crucial loss, as the one sure thing their game needed an experienced ex-pro's armoury of crafty little guiles and wrinkles tonight) huffed and puffed an awful lot, but, a short but frenetic spell at the end of the first half apart, when they genuinely looked like getting Stevenage reeling on the ropes at long last, and the ref steadily counting down the seconds to a knock-out, they weren't at the races, even. For the greater part of the game they seemed to be firing on far fewer cylinders than they should have been. Nerves? Quite possibly - it's not all that often you see Edgar Street shoehorning 'em in these days; tonight's near full house must have been their first since the last time they were in the play-offs, a scant year ago.

I suppose matters weren't helped much from the start by Stevenage quickly and quite cynically adopting a policy of seemingly wanting to kick anything wearing a Hereford shirt into geosynchronous Earth orbit, or collapsing as if shot whenever tackled; being what a certain ginger-headed former manager would probably describe as 'tippy-tappy football' purists, the home side didn't stand an earthly, the visitors' breakthrough coming around halfway through the second half, when the Bulls keeper tried to parry a fierce, low shot from the visitors, making a bit of a pig's ear of it, and the loose ball falling instead straight to a Stevenage player, who nutted it home with ease, and because The Bulls keeper was already committed, into an empty net.

Surprising, that, though; for most of the current season, home, away, or indifferent, The Bulls have played a delightful brand of skilful (and more importantly, superbly-entertaining) football, and by doing so, gradually fought their way up to a second position finish in that league, runners-up to rampant champions Barnet. Had they been in the Football League proper, that would have been enough to see them elevated as of right, of course, but being the Conference, there's only one automatic promotion place up for grabs, at present. Rumours abound that this ludicrous situation might well change in time for the start of next term, but that's poor consolation to the likes of 'Im Indoors, who looked totally crestfallen, gutted even, when the referee finally signalled the end of the game.

A double shame, really, as the poor sod had shifted like the clappers to a much-needed doctor's appointment at 5.45, breezed through the consultation with a speed even The Lancet would have been proud of, then, with me hanging on like grim death, and praying to any god that would have me on an emergency basis, seriously burning rubber on the Hagley Road and southward in an effort to make up for lost time. I can also report he braved (and cursed richly at!) snail-paced commuters (Worcester Ring Road), not to mention torpid tractor-drivers (main Hereford-Worcester thoroughfare) finally arriving at the car-park next to the ground with about 40 minutes to spare. Yep, 'creative driving' sure is a wunnerful thing, and let me tell you, I mean that most sincerely, folks!

But awful Hughie Green impersonations apart, it wasn't just my other half who ended up on the wrong end of a particularly rough deal tonight; having attended a fair number of games at Edgar Street myself over the years, it didn't take me all that long to realise Hereford's long-suffering regular supporters really are the tops; if ever there were an award for masochism taken to a frightening degree, then The Bulls would win it in a walk. No Premiership glamour or glitz for them, just a succession of long hard slogs by coach to all four corners of this football crazy England of ours, all weathers, with no guarantee of what sort of game would prevail once one's destination had been reached. Not to mention their inborn habit of digging into personal 'rainy day' stashes in constant efforts to save the club. I'm talking really genuine supporters here, who really care about the club, like those pensioner ladies I've mentioned before, that 80-year-old, the one who's still game for a lengthy away trip, any time or venue you care to mention.

Or good honest people like Nick Brade and "Talking Bill" (and strangely-subdued tonight - might have been because of his wife who accompanied him to the game), who would literally die for the cause, were the need ever to arise. There's no headlines, kudos, or big media write-ups for all the hard work those officials consistently undertake to ensure United go into each season with sufficient funds to do battle with the best that division has to offer at youth-side level, just the wisp of a hope that maybe, just maybe, their percentages will finally turn, and they'll one day return to the 'big boys' league they so unexpectedly left some six or seven years ago, and reclaim their rightful homeland once more. Look upon these works, you prima donnas, and weep.

A wickedly cruel disappointment for many of them tonight, though, especially given the knowledge The Bulls are normally capable of much, much better than that, but you can bet anything you care to name that those selfsame young supporters will be doing it all again next season, live; hail, shine, showers of frogs, plagues of boils, whatever. But it won't be with the same set of players they have now, though. 12 month contracts are the norm for them, so they'll just have to break up the side they've currently got, very likely, and pick themselves another from the leavings of the Football League; luckily for The Bulls, it's a buyer's market right now.

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