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Glynis Wright, who has watched more Hereford matches than Albion this season, recalks the Chester game
We happy vacationers took to the green swarths of Hereford on Saturday, and the nascent Football League side that bears its name. Having got there, and headed into town for a couple of routine pre-match purchases, we were both rendered totally astonished - not to mention speechless - by the somewhat anachronistic sight that greeted the pair of us as we trotted over the dual carriageway that acts as a 'sort-of' town bypass. Coppers, loads of 'em, gurt great agglutinations of constabulary: big uns; little 'uns, both male and female; Specials; 'proper coppers'; and all propping up just about every street corner imaginable between Social Services HQ and the ugly rash of chain stores and banks that dwelt in fiscally-advantaged splendour on the nearby High Street.
All this expense for sodding Chester City? When Albion last played them, back in the early nineties, it was all they could do to whip up a coach-load of followers, never mind a notorious hooligan following, police CCTV cameras recording every single twitch of their limbs for 'future proceedings'. In fact, if my memory serves me well, the very last time the Baggies played them in the League, we ended up taking no less than three out of the four sides of their bijou ground for ourselves, not to mention all three points - and not a single shaven-headed, clenched-fist-and-broken-glass merchant in sight anywhere. Blimey, talk about a throwback to the Seventies: had I really wanted to relive such dubious delights yesterday, I'd have rerun those tapes of 'Life On Mars' I still have gathering dust in my DVD pile.
'Im Indoors being the nice chappie he is, and having previously offered to help those splendid chaps at Talking Bull with a wee stint of selling, we had to be back at the ground fairly early. Just as well, really, as Nick Brade, he of the fiendishly-ghastly Independent Supporters Association fund-raising quizzes, was awaiting our pleasure with a rotten great pile of fanzines stacked well-high, and all ready to flog. The next 30 minutes passed pleasantly enough, though, my other half giving the old vocal chords plenty of welly - if you've ever been unfortunate enough to stand in close proximity whilst he's in full flow, then you'll know only too well what I'm banging on about, for sure - and this column doing its level-best to regain its correct electrolyte levels by swigging copiously from a small bottle of cherry Coke. Oh - and we were even recognised by a couple of Albion supporters come to the game for their own little 'footie fix'. Incidentally, if you happen to like 'surreal', cop this: an ALBION supporter buying a Hereford fanzine from another Albion supporter! Although wearing an Albion T-shirt, the lad used the secret code-phrase that instantly identifies those of similar ilk these days, viz: "If we don't find another striker, and quick, we're stuffed!"
Once inside the ground, finally - I think I've mentioned this before, but all Hereford turnstile operators seemingly have only two speeds at their disposal, 'dead slow' and 'stop' (probably all that scrumpy cider!) and that's why an early entrance is strongly recommended! - we took our usual seats, gallantly preserved for us by Mavis, Nick Brade's mum, keeping our B Block seats pristine in the face of others who wanted to claim that choice bit of real-estate for themselves. Gerroff - it's ours!
The game? Well, if I was a 'proper' Herefordian, and not a Baggie, right now, I'd be pretty strongly convinced by now that there really is someone Up There, looking out for that club, and all who sail in it. Hereford? First half, quite awful, actually. Same troubles as per the previous game, very little communication between defence and keeper, defence and midfield, and midfield-front line. It wasn't just that, mind; lacking former Baggie Tam Mkandawire, out because of a nasty-looking knock to the head sustained during the previous game, for reasons best known to themselves, The Bulls decided to employ 'kick-and-rush, hoof-and/or lump-it' tactics, none of which was their bag, really. They weren't at all comfortable playing that way, and, to be quite frank, the fact that they didn't go inside at the interval one or more in arrears I found quite astonishing. The opposition must have been cursing their luck- or lack of it - richly. As I said to 'Im Indoors, just before the start of the second half: "You'll be lucky to come out of this with just a single point to show for it." The fact he didn't once try to argue otherwise spoke volumes, as far as I was concerned.
The half-time news from St. Mary's being quite pleasing, still, I was able to concentrate more fully upon what was happening out there in front of me. Having finally seen the error of their ways during the interval, the Bulls then decided to change tack. No more abortive attempts to put snow on the spheroid, but a change to 3-5-2 instead. At least it gave this country's Ballistic Missile Early Warning system a sorely-needed break. Much better: suddenly, balls were being played to feet, as the Good Lord God had intended Man to play the game, and although Chester were still looking more than capable of striking first, it didn't quite seem the cut and dried affair it had done during the first sitting.
Suddenly, with around 20 minutes to go, and very much against the overall run of play, Hereford struck Fleetwood, 70, and Richard Rose, just two minutes later. After that cruel blow, the steam evaporated from Chester quicker than from a hospital meal trolley about to dish up on the wards: with all the poison now well and truly neutralised, the remainder of the game was a comparative doddle. Roll on, Coventry!
