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Judging by the size of the bandage the Hartlepool Number Five, Nelson, had on his amply-furnished noddle come the end of this bruising encounter - thanks to further 'leakage' of the red stuff after initial first-aid measures had been tried and subsequently found wanting, the lad had to return to the touchline in order to have another bolt inserted into it, or something - he must be the proud owner of one hell of a headache today. But not half as big as the one their poor manager - Danny Wilson, one time saviour of the Universe for Barnsley, in their all-too brief one-off Premiership incarnation, around ten or so seasons ago - will be nursing also.
Pools? Er - they're in a bit of a mess, really, having only managed to amass two measly points since they landed in this division with all the grace and dignity of a Skid Row bum landing in the gutter for the umpteenth time, come the end of last season. Boy, do they have problems - and, to be scrupulously fair, yesterday simply had to be one of those horrible, cruel occasions in football where, no matter what you do, and how often, the blasted ball simply refuses point-blank to do as bidden, and end up in the back of the opposition net on demand. Yup, life can be a bit of a bitch, sometimes - but that's football for you.
As for ourselves, we had set out that morning with noble intentions of doing a little retail therapy in the town centre prior to the game, but owing to the sheer volume of tractors on the road, or something - yes, I do know: it's an occupational hazard endemic in these parts, especially when the siren-call of ripening cereals and grain shifts agricultural workers off their collective backsides quicker than a lightning-bolt straight up the jacksi - we were a tad late for such conspicuously-consumptive pleasures. Still, on the way down, and with information on our League Cup fate - both West Brom's and Hereford's! - I'd managed to reach The Fart, our venerable Albion-supporting mucker, on my mobile. A short pause, during the course of which my blood-pressure soared to apoplectic-fit-inducing proportions (I was absolutely quaking at the thought of a Throstles-Bulls meeting, for obvious reasons!), then the revelation both clubs had missed one another, Edgar Street hosting Leicester City, and The Hawthorns Cheltenham Town. Phew!
Never mind, though. No sooner had we docked our car some way back from where we normally drop anchor, what should we find, but our old mucker the ice-cream van. The problem was - should we, or shouldn't we Grab ourselves a little bit of the chilly action, I mean? A real moral dilemma, that one, as the last time we'd succumbed to similar blandishments at Edgar Street, The Bulls had been thoroughly-bested by a well-organised Lincoln City side. Then our respective resolves simultaneously crumbled in the face of overwhelming temptation. 'Oh, soddit'.. we both chimed, in unison, as Satan, in the form of a Walls Cornetto, in my case, raised a beckoning finger - and that was me, hooked, yet again. No willpower, see!
Still, it was a pleasant enough sort of day to indulge in such sinful pursuits, albeit tidgy ones, when compared with such genuine horrors as starting wars, or spreading awful diseases, I mean. And very pleasant to just stand there, and watch the world go by - not to mention a sprinkling of opposition supporters, all bedecked in those royal blue away shirts of theirs. Not enough to make it worth their while hiring a coach, it would seem - mind you, the sheer distance involved would act as a major disincentive not to mention the inconvenient habit they have these days of not picking up points! And then there were the Hereford aficionados, or, more to the point, the rubicund, weather-beaten faces owned by some of the - erm more 'mature' ones - oh, soddit, old farts, then! Watching them troop by in ever-increasing numbers, I did speculate as to whether it was actually the fresh country air that did it - or was it the scrumpy?
Just as it had been on the night of the Coventry game, our little two-seater spot, next door to Nick Brade, his Mum, and Marion, their mate, was still empty, so off we trotted to park our bots. And, just before the kick-off, another very familiar face heaved into view, then plonked next door to Nick's Mum, with a very effusive indeed greeting for Marion, a little pre-match ritual 'for luck' they've been indulging in for years, apparently! There you are - I told you Talking Bill would show up today! Shame about him missing Tuesday night's jollifications, though - on the other hand - so elevated were the ambient adrenalin-levels in that stand that night, I reckon the lad would have gone into 'meltdown' with the sheer raw emotion of it all. But that's Bill for you.
The best news for the Bulls' aficionados, though, was word that Stuart Fleetwood, hat-trick hero of the hour versus Coventry, and pulled off towards the end with what looked suspiciously like a hamstring problem, would be playing after all! Coo - talk about a miracle recovery! Mind you, at the time, I did say to 'Im Indoors that although it looked like a hamstring, the very fact the lad had been able to hobble after a fashion for a while afterwards - reluctant to leave the action, I suppose, his own elevated adrenalin levels acting as a natural 'painkiller' - indicated the problem to be at the 'mild' end of the scale, rather than anything really worrying. Had the hamstring really 'gone' that night, it might well have been a stretcher job. But then, another thought occurred to me. Suppose Hereford, for whatever reason, were rushing him back? Could it be that by opting for the short-term continuance of effective firepower, they might simply land both themselves and the player in a whole heap of lumber instead? Hmmmmmm.
Back to the game, then. By now, the Bulls had started the ball rolling, both literally and metaphorically, and in brilliant sunshine, too, with a stiffish breeze keeping the temperature down to reasonable levels out there. Time also for Nick to cease and desist his selling duties, vault the partition sundering the left side from the right, then quite unceremoniously plonk his gluteus maximus right next to his mum. Meanwhile, on the pitch, after the initial exchanges had been dispensed with, it was being made abundantly clear that there would not be a continuance of the superiority Hereford had enjoyed over Coventry City just a few nights previously; not just due to the expected 'After The Lord Mayor's Show' Syndrome manifesting itself, Pools needed the points, badly - and it showed.
The result? Unlike the midweek Cup-tie, any sort of game-plan involving flowing football was almost impossible to discern, and had the number of attempts on goal counted towards the final result, then undoubtedly, Hartlepool would have won it in a walk. It was they, not The Bulls, who were showing the greater initiative at that point in the game. With less than ten minutes gone, Pools left The Bulls almost for dead with a devastating run down one of the flanks. Over went the cross, and with the Hereford custodian seemingly floundering badly in an effort to cut out the danger, it sure looked as though the ball was as good as crossed the line - and had Bullock, lurking in close proximity to the near post, been able to stretch sufficiently to connect, then it would have been all over for The Bulls, but, try as he might, he couldn't, much to the relief of the distinctly-battered home rearguard, no doubt.
Mind you, after that one-handed demolition of the Sky Blues defence the other night, Fleetwood's reputation had spread as far as the north-east, it would seem. You only had to watch what happened every time Pools grabbed a corner to see that. Look in the vicinity of the centre-circle, and there he'd be, shiny scarlet boots and all - and accompanied at all times by one, and sometimes two, jailers. Such close personal attention from the visitors meant, of course, that they weren't about to stand on ceremony. Some of the tackles were quite ugly in their execution, with the inevitable result that by the time the first half had reached its mid-point, Pools had not only racked up a fair number of fouls on the poor mite, but had two names in the ref's book also. Not only that, Fleetwood's 'shadow' seemed most reluctant to part with him, thereby begging the question from me that come half-time and the Hereford striker answering the inevitable call of Nature, would his newly acquired 'bosom pal' dutifully follow him to the ablutions as well?
With around 25 gone, the home side had yet another humungous let-off right in front of goal: Hartlepool's Matty Roberts crossed across the face of goal, and very close to the goal-line itself. Again, all the blasted thing needed was a toe-poke in, but with poor Eifion Williams seemingly involved in an impromptu game of 'Twister' out there, he couldn't quite apply the coup de grace.
With all that pressure and them not even getting a sniff of a goal, you just knew what was coming next. Football has this nasty habit of extracting the maximum embarrassment from opposing sides, doesn't it? With just under 15 of the half to go, The Bulls finally clicked into gear. A lovely example of 'pass and move' at its very best, I'd say, brought to fruition by Bulls player Tim Sills. Well, the header was his, but the custodial cock-up pure Paul Crichton! Confucius he say, 'keeper that have butter-fingers, not have good playing career?! So rumour has it. Anyway, whatever the root cause, it came pretty much against the run of play, the Bulls, once more, imbibing liberally at The Well Of Pure Luck. One-nil to them, and complete and utter blind fury for Pools head honcho Danny Wilson, no doubt! (Thought: was the 'thudding' noise I heard shortly after the goal that of the visitors' leader's ample nut taking it out on the nearest wall, perchance?)
Just moments after that, the home side's luck held again, the nasty-looking strike finding the 'wrong' side of the near post instead of the side that counted. That was followed by a ticklish sort of stop for the Hereford keeper, unsighted somewhat because of a crowd of players in front of him, pushed away for a corner, and glad for it to do so, no doubt.
The interval I spent contemplating the lad Fleetwood, and idly speculating whether or not our favourite football club might be tempted to come in for him towards the end of the transfer window. He certainly ticked all the right boxes: youngish, fast - bloody fast, in fact - a good scoring record for The Bulls, but had to leave Cardiff City under a bit of a cloud after a nasty car accident. It would seem that Edgar Street is the place players head for when they want a bit of a second chance, and Fleetwood's success seems to be a case in point. Will Robbo bite, I wonder? Oh - one other thought, while we all indulged in the obligatory mint-chomping fest. What had been the Len Weston Stand, now rejoicing in the monicker 'Floors-2-Go'. A strange name, that. Does that mean they turn up at your house and take away your existing floor, leaving you with just the bottomless pit where the foundations once were, I wonder?
But back to business - and, in no time at all, a Bulls penalty. Perhaps Hartlepool should take heed in future of the old adage: 'Beware of Greeks bearing gifts' - One minute there was the ball, seemingly heading for the comparative safety of Pools keeper Konstantopoulos and his great big mitts, with Fleetwood in pursuit, but well out of reach. And that's the precise moment the 'suicide pills' chose to work on the Pools defender, folkies! For reasons best known to himself, instead of leaving it be, he stopped the red-booted menace illegally, hence the ref pointing towards the spot almost instantaneously. Oh whoops! As for the conversion, that was left to the lad Purdie, a task he accomplished with consummate ease.
But the game wasn't over yet for the visitors. Just minutes later, they finally achieved what they should have done in the first half i.e. score. Justice done to some extent, I suppose, post-penalty sub Brown potting the pink after a splendid ball delivered from the right. At that particular point, The Bloke Behind Me - never one to mince his words, ever! - decided the time was ripe for the remainder of the stand to hear his dulcet tones, all of which mainly centred around the loudly-bawled observation: 'It's all YOUR fault, Ferrall?..- a statement that sure got my imagination working overtime.
War in the Middle East? ?It's all YOUR fault, Ferrall?.- Global warming in imminent danger of triggering an unstoppable runaway greenhouse effect? 'It's all YOUR fault, etc.!? An inexorable rise in Islamic fundamentalism? Yep - I reckon you've got the picture, by now! Well, it had me giggling fit to bust, at any rate, although I daresay Chummy behind me wouldn't have seen the funny side!
It was about this time also that Talking Bill's foghorn of a voice really began to impose its decibel-laden presence on the proceedings. Yet another Hartlepool foul, miles from the box, and there he was, on his feet: 'THAT'S A CLEAR GOALSCORING OPPORTUNITY, REFEREE!? and bawled in tones that must surely have deafened bystanders located as far away as the Cathedral grounds! Knowing Bill for the time I have, I've now come to the conclusion that his criteria for the commission of what is in essence a 'sending-off' offence encompasses just about every opposition infringement taking place on the ground. Mind you, while I'm banging on about infringements, former Baggie Tam Mkandawire was dead lucky not to get an early bath following what was, in essence, a last-ditch tackle to prevent Pools from equalising. Fortunately for the Bulls, the offence was deemed to have occurred on the 'right' side of the 18-yard line.
25 minutes gone, now, and Fleetwood was visibly flagging. Was that just down to running his fundament off the whole game, or was it the knock? Whatever the cause, he was quickly taken off in tandem with Sills, Connell and Williams the replacements, with about 20 to go. A timely move, for just moments later, the Bulls bagged Number Three, the perpetrator of the damage being none other than substitute Williams. A lovely build-up, too, with Travis on the flank making the accurate cross possible; all the lad had to do was prod it home.
And - a cheeky 40-yard Purdie effort apart - that, my leetle lieblings, was that. Another three-pointer for the Bulls - albeit a tad jammy - and, as I intimated earlier, a monster headache for poor Danny Wilson, still stuck too close to the bottom of the table for comfort. Next up for us will be the Rochdale caper; as we haven't got a game next weekend, and because neither of us have visited Spotland for quite some time, we've now decided that next weekend is high time we did so. Provided the Bulls can turn it on in the entertaining manner they have of late, then the encounter should be a pretty lively one, I reckon..
GLYNIS WRIGHT
