A Day out to Grays

Another Saturday without a Baggies game to watch allowed Glynis and Simon Wright a chance to sample the delights of watching Hereford United at Gray's. Below is Glynis' account of the day:

The next time you fly to Southern Europe or the Middle East from Brum, after you've been in the air for around 20-30 minutes, have a quick butchers out of your plane window. Provided overworked air traffic controllers haven't mucked about with your flight-path too much, you'll in all likelihood see unfolding below you the meandering watery scrawl that is the mouth of the Thames, plus rapidly-expanding housing developments innumerable around that area. And our FA Cup 4th Round blank Saturday destination, Grays, just a loud toot on a ships's siren away from nearby Tilbury Docks. Returning to terra firma once more, metaphorically speaking, should you happen to visit the place on a crisp clear and sunny winter's day, as we did, you'll get rapid confirmation via the enormous number of planes passing overhead, their vapour trails constantly cutting a pearly linear swathe across the unsullied cobalt sky.

As you might have guessed, plane spotting was the last thing on our minds. No, the reason we'd decided to make the journey was because for 'Im Indoors, their ground was one of the few at Conference level he hadn't sampled thus far; in fact, upon hearing of our footballing intentions, The Meanest Man In West Bromwich, an incurable ground-hopper himself, asked if he could tag along as well, with young David, his equally-parsimonious little shaver (chronological age eleven, but psychological age going on fifty) keeping him company as well. 'No problem!' we both chorused in almost perfect synchrony, so that was that, then. Look, if you're an Albion supporter these days, any diversion us welcome!

As for the outward journey itself, I remember little, purely and simply because I fell asleep in close proximity to Coventry, only wakening on the fag-end of the boring trip around the Dartford Bridge/Tunnel bit of the M25. Still, it was a lovely day for watching football; as I said earlier, the weather, although crisply cold, was superb, and thanks to an unusually clear orbital motorway system, it wasn't all that long before we were venturing into the town of Grays itself, the ground being just a hop, skip and a jump away from the town centre proper.

As you might have guessed, parking was no bother whatsoever; a handy socket just behind a Catholic church around five minutes walk away from the ground itself proving favourite. Now tell me again - who was it said 'The Lord Will Provide'? Too bloody right, my son. We left Stingy Father and Apprentice Statto to walk into the town proper - they ended up on the railway station watching the trains pull in and out, apparently. Instead, we made a beeline instead for the Conference side's social club, interjected by a brief (very brief because he was working after all), exchange of pleasantries with the ever-affable Tucka Trewick.

It's a prominent feature of non-league life that grass-roots supporters invariably provide a substantial source of income for clubs at that level, and that's generally done through the provision of social club facilities that wouldn't disgrace more well-known organisations e.g. The Royal British Legion. Certainly, a hell of a lot of dough had gone into Grays Athletics' facilities; on entering their jam-packed 'Blues bar', the first thing that grabbed my attention was the plethora of 'big screens' currently pumping out Cheltenham-Newcastle for the delectation of both sets of supporters. Note the word 'plethora'; not just one, but an astonishing EIGHT, including three slightly smaller brethren situated high above the bar counter, so you could grab your pints(s) and not miss a single bit of the action. More unusually for a football club, they had on offer an astonishing selection of real ales, the only real let-down being the plastic glasses the stuff was served in.

Once we'd sorted out hydration and gastronomic needs, the next challenge was to find somewhere to sit. I'd thought we'd had it, but like an unexpected parting of the Red Sea at the approach of Moses and his weary flock, just minutes later, the party sitting at a table adjacent to our temporary resting-place decided to up sticks and walk, leaving us with a clear run. I'll say one thing, though; you sure as hell could tell you were on the fringes of London, just a bit of casual lughole-waggling gave us the strong feeling we'd walked onto the set of East Enders by mistake. Gor blimey and stone the crows, know what I mean, Guvnor, bless yer apples and pears and 'ows yer farver'? Vastly more Cockney than most present-day East End incumbents, they'd fetched up in sunny Essex as a result of the huge post-war demolition and resettlement programme undertaken from the conclusion of the war, right up to the late sixties and early seventies. Mostly rabid West Ham followers, more likely than not, so Grays has to be a suitable haven for the Cockney eccentric, I reckon.

The away end turnstiles were but a swift amble from that watering-hole and around a corner; at first, we'd wondered as to whether we'd make the kick-off or not, as some braindead or other - I reckon he'd been indulging in something much stronger than mere alcohol, chemically speaking - decided to argue the toss with both turnstile staff and stewards, resulting in the summoning of the Law. The queue started to move at that point, so I don't know how the situation was finally resolved. Not that I cared, mind.

The first thing that hits you about the Conference newcomers' ground is its size. Lack of, I mean. Think of a cross between Gillingham and Southend, but much, much smaller, and you've come close. Occupying half the end behind one goal was a steep-sloped uncovered bit of home terracing; the other half, believe it or not, housed Grays' boardroom. In a Portakabin, immediately behind a thin strip of away end. God knows what kind of image that presented to media people and opposing directors, but there you are. A seated 'away' stand ran the length of one side of the pitch - that was where we finally fetched up - with a huge gymnasium taking most of the space behind the opposite goal, leaving but a thin strip of terrace for the use of home supporters.

It was when you looked across the pitch towards the opposite touchline it started to get really surreal; occupying its entire length were several modern 'yuppie' flats, complete with individual balcony. An unofficial 'executive box area' so it would seem; privately owned, yet once kick-off had come and gone, most of those balconies suddenly sprouted not Romeo seeking his Juliet, but sundry groups of blokes (and ladies) wanting to take advantage of a delightfully-novel USP, and most certainly not one even the best TV house purchase 'reality shows' could envisage, even during the wettest of dreams. Oh - and part of the ground floor housed both lots of dressing-rooms! Add to that side-streets complete with terraced housing that almost encroached inside the ground, and what you ended up with was one mighty unusual Conference club! Capacity somewhere in the region of 4,000, so 'Im Indoors told me, but where the hell Grays would put the extra bodies attending such a game was completely beyond me. Even with a 1,500 gate - well, that's what we heard(ish) on their awful PA system: actually, that's all we could hear on their PA all afternoon - the place seemed well-full, an illusion heightened considerably by the presence of some 3-400 itinerant but noisy Bulls supporters.

As for the game itself, I can quite honestly say, hand on heart, that it's been a very long time indeed since I'd last witnessed such a nail-biting 45 minutes. I say '45 minutes' because it was only in the second half that Hereford really started to pull their collective fingers out. As for the preceding 45, The Bulls quickly found themselves an unexpected two goals in arrears. Not entirely their fault, mind; that Grays opener of theirs looked at least a yard offside (we were sitting more or less in line with the play), a shocking injustice that prompted several furious away supporters to hurl various foodstuff items onto the pitch, a gastronomic indignity that immediately brought forth a chorus of "What's it like to throw a burger!" from the 'home' lot standing atop their nearby lofty terraced perch. As for Grays second, I'm not at all sure what went wrong that time. From where I was sitting, Hereford keeper Brown looked for all the world as though he'd got the blasted shot covered - but he hadn't. Into the net it plopped, sadly, closely followed by a murmured chorus of 'game over?.' from all those seated around me.

The fundamental problem for the visitors was this: because of its eccentric ground layout, Grays was one of those places where players constantly find themselves 'up close and personal' with both sets of followers, oppressive certainly, intimidating, quite possibly. Not only that, the home side were in the habit of employing tactics that wouldn't have gone amiss in a Tilbury dockers' bar around chucking-out time. 'In yer face' they most certainly were; chuck in some pretty lax refereeing decisions as well, plus a Grays defence marshalled with all the disciplined precision of a Grenadier Guards RSM, and the visitors just couldn't hack it. Add to that also a little bit of an injury crisis, and it quickly became as clear as day why the Bulls couldn't perform during that disappointing first period.

Not being privy to that innermost half-time sanctum of footballers everywhere, the dressing-room, I've absolutely no idea what was said by Graham Turner and Tucka Trewick to his despondent charges come the interval, but it sure as hell transformed the game. Attacking the end where most of their away support was congregated this time, and presumably greatly benefiting psychologically from the 'wall of sound' they provided without let-up, Hereford managed to get one back midway through the half, courtesy a lovely Tam Mkandawire bullet-header that gave their keeper no chance whatsoever - and with that strike, getting at least a share of the spoils no longer seemed an impossible dream for their away support. Suddenly, it was Grays turn to panic as wave after white wave crashed upon the rocky shore of their penalty area; no surprise, then, when Hereford finally restored parity deep into the half. Again, a header from a corner proved to be the home side's undoing, and with that strike there came what I can only describe as a 'silence of the fans'. Well, as far as the Grays contingent was concerned, that was.

From the restart, Hereford constantly threatened to go one better, but that proved to be an 'ask' too far, sad to say. Come the final whistle, the score stood at a quite remarkable 2-2, and one the visitors thoroughly deserved, may I say. The last time I'd ever seen a comeback like that was when Albion played Exeter City in the days when Ossie Ardiles was our gaffer, and the Baggies stuck in that awful Bermuda triangle commonly known as the Third Division. With just 20 minutes to go to the end, Albion were trailing by two goals to nil, and dead, dead, dead. Then, we somehow pulled one back, then another, and Exeter suddenly found themselves reeling and rocking. The way our lot were attacking mob-handed, something had to give - and it finally did with around 6 minutes left on the clock. 3-2 to us was the final score, and so elated were our following afterwards, a goodly proportion of the grateful headed straight from the ground and into the welcoming bosom of a nearby pub! A shame about the wooden bench accidentally broken by an over-exuberant Baggie, though!

And, while we're on the subject of enthusiastic followings, there was certainly a wealth of humour to be mined and subsequently savoured in that away end yesterday, and it wasn't just Hereford's itinerant footsoldiers so appreciative of such sparkling (and totally spontaneous) wit and repartee. We had it on good authority, via a mutual friend, that former Hereford loanee Danny Blewitt had promised faithfully to turn up in the Grays away end yesterday 'because he loved the craic so much when he did his time with The Bulls'. No way of confirming or denying his presence, unfortunately, but as our mutual chum is not one normally given to unsolicited flights of fancy, we?re both inclined to believe it actually did happen.

And it wasn't all that long after kick-off we first began to realise why the West Ham lad had set so much store on renewing old acquaintances with the Edgar Street glee-club. All the usual insults hurled - but with a quite unexpected twist in some cases. Example? Their raucous chorus of "Shit ground, no stand" encapsulated Grays 'Liebensraum' problems beautifully, and their enthusiastic chorusing of 'The Addams Family' theme song - becoming quite a tradition at Bulls away games these days - was wonderfully-hilarious. The away support even found time to school their Essex counterparts in the fundamentals of British geography, as per some genius's heartfelt response to the inevitable outbreak of "Inger-land, Inger-land, Inger-land?." emanating fortissimo from the home end at one stage in the proceedings.

Geographical embarrassment writ large, of course; contrary to popular Conference perception, Hereford's ground is actually situated a good twelve miles from the Welsh border, but the home lot weren't about to let the truth get in the way of a rattling good chant, were they? No surprise, either, when one nearby Bull, clearly hacked off by this serial vile calumny at his side's expense, completely lost it. "Can't you read a bloody map?" was his loud but tetchy comment upon the home end's seemingly-nebulous grasp of political geography.

And it wasn?t just in a crowd situation, either. Sitting next to 'Im Indoors was a bloke whose permanent state of undiluted misery could make even the celebrated Victor Meldrew turn in his grave quicker than the proverbial cordless power-drill doing mortal battle with crumbling brickwork. A Herefordian by birth, his starring role in Saturday's triumph was to mutter darkly in the background each and every time the visitors lost possession, which, in the first half was quite a lot! "Don't this team know how to properly pass the ball?" was Granddad's plaintive lament, time and time again. That sort of attitude was all very well, but after a while - an hour, say ? it all started getting too boring for words, and most within earshot quietly wanting their side to score, if only to shut the silly old sod up for good!

What with that white tidal wave surging forth on the pitch, and the vocal tidal wave off it during the course of that second 45, no-one present was at all surprised to see the visitors gain parity in the manner previously described. And even the circumstances surrounding our eventual exit from the ground raised a few eyebrows, not to mention quite a few memories of times when police and supporters didn't exactly enjoy the most cordial of arrangements; when, pray, was the last time you saw football supporters kept in a ground post-final whistle in order to allow their home counterparts ample time to get away? Well, it certainly happened at Grays yesterday, much to my astonishment, not least because I strongly suspect this particular crowd-control tactic to be completely illegal. 'False imprisonment' is the legal term for such shenanigans; people have been known to challenge this practice in the past; some have actually succeeded.

So there you go; 2-0 down, a bigger comeback than those of Frank Sinatra, some thirty or forty years ago, two second half goals, and a juicy ripe point to take back to Zoider Country, too. Wonderful stuff, and me not even a Bulls follower!

---