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Oh, dear - not a good night at all for The Bulls last Tuesday, was it? We've finally discovered the real reason behind Hereford's awful defensive lapse this evening, mind - and it's nothing whatsoever to do with what Graham Turner and Tucka Trewick are telling their charges to do, either . Blame the mints ? OK - Poor Marion, Nick Brade's mum's matchday mate: as I've mentioned before, one of her duties pre-match is to purchase a goodly supply of soft (and therefore deemed 'lucky' by all participants) mints for all to munch come the break, but on Tuesday night, she just happened to use a different shop from which to purchase her regular supplies - and, calamity! They didn't stock the particular brand she'd wanted, so she had to resort to the purchase of Polos in the end! So now you know, Marion's the one to castigate and ostracise regarding tonight, OK? One point for further debate, mind - does this lack of 'lucky' mints also affect the fortunes of football teams playing well over 100 miles up the M6, I wonder? If that's the case, then I reckon poor Marion's got an awful lot of explaining to do the very next time we meet!
It seems to neutral old me that right now, Hereford are having to make some pretty painful adjustments to the differing demands of the higher sphere they now find themselves in. It's one thing to completely bedazzle the Conference with wonderfully scintillating attacking stuff, of course, but quite another to make it work at League level, which is why they're producing some pretty mixed results of late. And although they dipped, that Wycombe game certainly had its moments. But that was all a couple of hours away that evening, as we joined the M5, and with the rapidly-sinking sun lending a considerable amount of colour to the sky, headed hell for leather towards the Worcester South intersection, where the Ring Road and it's curious wibbly-wobbly, twisty-bendy trunk road turn-off awaited us.
But as we left the motorway and joined the ring-road proper, a bit of a mystery confronted us both. In the shape of three or four guys, all dressed in tracksuits, and clearly awaiting the arrival of either a minibus or a coach. By the general cut of their jib, they looked for all the world like footballers - but with a full fixture-list going full-blast tonight, just who the hell did they play for? Couldn't have been another League side, surely. The only show in town - literally - were The Bulls, and neither club boasted red badges for tracksuits. Could they be Conference wallahs, perchance? Not very likely: once more, Hereford and Worcester suffers from a positive dearth of Conference sides. There's Kiddy, of course, but they'd have been picking up at two intersections further North, surely? And, come to think about it - so cash-strapped are they these days, I doubt very much whether they'd be bussing their players to and from a hotel pre-match. Oh, well - I guess we'll just have to carry on in blissful ignorance, or something!
As we negotiated the bypass and headed towards the turn-off serving cider country's Cathedral City, once more, we set Steeleye Span ringing in our ears. Blame all this folk-rock malarkey on me, by the way, as I only returned to that particular fold about a couple of years ago, and by pure accident, too. To be more specific, 'Im Indoors managed to win some competition or other on local radio back then, and the prize was £100 worth of rare records of one's choice, one of his selections being a 'best of' Fairport Convention CD. So taken by that was I - and my other half, too, which surprised me greatly! - we decided to further add to our collection, and it's because of that I'm now rapidly rediscovering what it was about the genre that made me go out and buy so many Steeleye Span albums some thirty-odd years ago, when I was but a student. What's amazed me, though is the speed with which 'Im Indoors has taken to the stuff; folk music is very much about story-telling, social comment, wondrous deeds, 'orrible murder, the arcane workings of the supernatural, evil witches, that sort of thing, and I'd never once realised before that oh-so-practical hubby could ever be moved by a combination of emotive words and music, its roots going back to antiquity, almost.
But once more, I digress. The season being just on the cusp of transformation from summer into autumn, it came as no surprise to see such a plethora of seasonal goodies on sale either by the roadside, or from nearby farms and/or small businesses. Damsons seem to be popular right now in your part of the world (oh, by the way, anyone know any good recipes that use 'em, as I've now got a bloody great bagful at home to show for my trouble!), as do the region's staple export, apples, cooking, cider and eating, respectively, of course. Pumpkins, Halloween, for the use of, or otherwise? No problem either. Also up for grabs were cobs of sweetcorn - maize, to you, squire - runner beans, blackberries, and - wait for it - Koi carp! Koi carp? Yep, you got it, or could, had you visited the small building that housed 'em in one particular village we passed. As for the Russiam tank parked in that garage forecourt situated about halfway to the city, world fail me. Perhaps someone might like to flog that, too?
No traffic problems for once, so we were very early arriving, getting on the car park adjacent to the ground with a good 30 minutes to spare. Time to shift an ice-cream or two had the van been there, which it wasn't, sadly, something that sent vague alarm-bells a-jangling in my other half's superstitious brain. No pre-match ice cream? Calamity! Oh, well, nothing more to do than go in, then - and as we did, a pleasant surprise awaited us. Hereford had actually made the connection, albeit belated, between the efficiency of their staff on the particular gate we used, and the size of the queue as kick-off approached. They'd put a relatively young person on that turnstile, for once, which meant that the inward flow of bodies was a delightfully rapid one. At long last - but it didn't half take a long time before the penny finally dropped, chaps! Mind you, we did have one amusing moment as we waited to go in - immediately before us in the short queue was a bloke with a coat bearing the legend 'Zak Dingle Golf Society' on the back. The sort of golf that doesn't require mathematical skills to keep track of one's score, perchance?
Landing in our usual sockets just as the setting sun turned the sky beyond to an absolute riot of yellows, oranges and reds, we quickly realised we weren't the first. Beating us to it were Nick's little bunch, Mum Mavis and her mate Marion, telling sundry tales of woe concerning what had gone wrong for the Bulls on Saturday, when they'd ended up going down by four goals to one. Didn't stop them signing up for the next two away trips, though, one of which was Bristol Rovers. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they occupying yet another temporary home these days, pending the completion of some ground improvement or other at their usual gaff?
As befitted their impressive start to the season, not to mention the fact they'd only lost six away games since the start of LAST season, the visitors, Wycombe, had brought with them am impressive away support, three or four coaches-worth, we'd already noted, as we passed 'em on the way in. A very noisy lot, too, with someone banging away for dear life on that inevitable decibel-laden adjunct to Second Division life these days, a bloody deafening bass drum. As for the team news, after the weekend stonking they'd had, Graham Turner seemed to have embarked upon a reprise for that mid-thirties Nazi German phenomenon, The Night Of The Long Knives. A fair number of changes to the regular line-up ensued: Giles out and replaced by Jeanin at the back; Beckwith relegated to the bench, and Gulliver taking his place in central defence, and Sheldon, Connell and Williams plonked in midfield, only two of whom were recognised midfielders. Such is one's fate when you're tasting football at that end of the market, sadly.
Out came both sides, then, with ex-Baggie Tam Mkandawire leading the little Bulls mascot for the night, a very small girl indeed, by the hand, and very bemused by the situation he looked, too. I can only imagine that while with us, he'd never once envisaged responsibility for small children comprising one of his duties once he'd joined the ranks of the adult pros! And, as both sides tossed up, over the barrier vaulted Nick Brade (one of these days, I bet he's going to badly misjudge it, and end up talking at soprano pitch for ever more (ever thought of wearing a cricketer's box to future home games, Nick?), fresh from his latest money-grabbing - er, no, better make that 'fund-raising' - exploits. After all, he's a damn sight bigger than me, and it's always better to be a live coward then a dead hero. Well, that's what my First World War veteran granddad used to say when I was small, and who am I to argue?
Wycombe are old-hat to we Baggies, of course. I remember us playing them in the second round of the Cup back in our Third Division days, on a bitterly cold 1992 Sunday. It just so happened that Sky were showing the game 'live', with Barmy Bobby Gould their 'resident expert', something that prompted a plethora of Albionites, still absolutely furious with Gould after the appalling way he'd cocked up the club when manager the previous season, to gather at the foot of the ladder that led to the distinctly Heath Robinson-looking commentary position, then proceed to tell him his immediate, medium and long-term fortune, all the while using an extremely colourful vocabulary to map it out for him! Because of the early kick-off, it wasn't possible to visit pubs for a pre-match drink - but that didn't stop our intrepid and resourceful travelling band from obtaining what they reckoned was their rightful due. The answer? Simple - find the nearest off-licence, and within a matter of an hour or so, completely denude it of its entire stock of falling-down-water! Although a daunting prospect to behold, were you a netural casually watching, the challenge of locust-stripping the stock until naught was left save sundry kids' drinks proved no hardship whatsoever to such seasoned Black Country boozers, of course. That game ended in a 2-2 stalemate, after we'd gone two up over the course of the first half, but Bob Taylor soon rectified matters come the midweek Hawthorns replay, knocking in the winner about ten minutes or so from the end. And, by doing so, prevented me from landing into all sorts of trouble with my then-employers, but that's another tale altogether!
Returning to the current game, then, the way Wycombe had set out their stall was certainly novel. They seemed to be employing a 3-1-4-2 type-formation, something seen far more at Premiership level than this particular footballing backwater. 'Im Indoors reckoned it was something originally devised by former manager (and yet another ex-Baggie!) John Gorman. In contrast, all that Hereford could come up with by way of reply were moves with 'hump-it-and-hope' very much in mind. Not a satisfactory state of affairs for supporters by now educated to expect a far higher standard of football from their favourites; as you would imagine, comments emanating from the main stand, our location, were both pithy and cutting in content! From my - neutral, remember! - point of view, I reckoned that Hereford would do really well to get a draw from the game, so good were the opposition at going forward.
As the game developed beyond opening gambits, though, it was so nearly Hereford that got off the mark first. Finding himself in possession about 6 yards in front of goal, and not quite believing his luck, no doubt, the lad made an absolute pig's ear of what should have been a textbook strike. Oh dear. From the resultant goal-kick, the visitors broke out at speed - their party-trick, it would appear - that midfield and forward line was bloody quick, believe you me, and damn near surgically sliced the home defence to shreds the first time of asking. It was only the intervention of Lady Luck that finally saved the Bulls, but all was nearly forgiven just minutes later when the aptly-named Fleetwood broke on the right, then cut in and drew a respectable save from the Wycombe custodian.
To be absolutely fair, though, it was Wycombe who were looking far more likely to open their account, so it came as absolutely no surprise to me whatsoever to see them do precisely that with about 30 minutes on the clock. What was different, however, was the weird manner in which they took the lead. Talk about an overdose of suicide pills: up to that point, the home side had managed to soak up pretty much everything Wycombe had thrown at them, but that was quickly brought to an end when both Tam Mkandawire and Bulls keeper Tynan tried to combine to sort out what looked like a bog-standard headed backpass to me.
Sure, there was a Wycombe forward in close attendance, but as the pass was headed, it should have been a piece of the proverbial for the keeper to scoop the bladder into his hot little mitts. Now this is where my thoughts and those of Nick Brade differ: I opined that Tam had headed the ball with way too much force, thereby preventing his colleague from taking it cleanly, but Nick reckoned Tynan 'bottled it'. Hmmmmm. Well, he knows these players far better than I do, I suppose. Any road up, the result was still acutely embarrassing, the ball trickling forlornly into the back of an unguarded net, right in front of a distinctly-traumatised Meadow End, much to the delight of the noise-merchants in the away end A repeat performance of one conceded the previous Saturday, apparently, so my chums told me. Were I Cornish, I would have fingered the Tommyknockers, while 1940's RAF people would have no doubt accused resident gremlins of skulduggery. Whatever the cause, be it trolls, hobgoblins, Nibelungen or plain old pixies, it was still a complete and utter balls-up. Oh, whoops.
That strike seemed to put additional life into the visitors, and the Bulls were exceedingly lucky to go in come the interval still one in arrears. As for the doings of another football club slugging it out 'oop North', thus far, the night had proved somewhat frustrating. With about 20 minutes gone, the scoreboard flashed up some 'latest scores': for reasons best known to the scoreboard-wallah, those delightful Dingles - that's Wolverhampton Wanderers to those uninitiated in Black Country folklore - were deemed worthy of mention, but of our doings, not a bloody whisper. Not only that, for some reason, we couldn't get The Fart, our Baggies-supporting partner in crime, on his mobile come the break, only discovering our game was bloodless after just about every half-time in creation was finally read out
The second half cometh, then - and with it, what seemed very much like a change of tack from The Bulls. Right from the start, they came out with all guns blazing, and much to my surprise, Wycombe didn't like it one little bit, started to make mistakes. Uncharacteristically bad ones. And, with around five minutes on the clock, that enterprising start paid off in heaps, for which the Bulls have Andy Williams to thank. No, not the American singer, just a chap who managed to grab the ball pretty close to the box, proceed to flay the hides off three Wycombe defenders in succession en-route to the traget, draw the ball into a very narrow angle indeed to goal, towards the right hand side of the box - at that point, I genuinely thought he'd completely blown the chance - then as coolly as you'd like, whacked the ball right underneath their keeper for an equaliser that completely raised the roof, and rightly so. Impressed? Sure was. Even Wayne Rooney himself couldn't have done it better.
That unexpected equaliser must have really stung the visitors, because after that, their hate-glands really started secreting copiously. Not only did play become rather 'robust', the Bulls were very lucky indeed to avoid conceding when an opposition player waltzed through their rearguard as if it wasn't there, leaving the lad to deliver the killer blow via a 'one-on-one' with Hereford's Tynan - who promptly redeemed himself for his earlier lapse by bravely diving at the feet of his attacker just as he was about to pull the trigger. Just a momentary respite for the home side, though: not long after that, the lad Easter made it two for Wycombe, who were extremely unlucky not to further add to their total by the end of the game. Having said that, though, during the first minute of a three-minute period added on for stoppages, Hereford's Sills was extremely unlucky not to restore parity, only some fine work from the Wycombe keeper preventing them from dropping two of their eagerly-anticipated three points at the very last gasp.
And that was that. As I said earlier, much fury from the pair of us when we finally learned the full-time score from Deepdale, but not nearly as much fury as Hereford must have experienced in missing out on that serendipitous last-chance grab at a possible equaliser. Perhaps it's not inconceivable that Hereford might find it ultimately worth their while to put their normal attacking 'pass and move' instincts into cold storage for a while, and concentrate on survival in this division. Complete anathema to a good many Edgar Street regulars, to be sure, but as I said to my other half as we both headed across the vast car park post-final-whistle, there were times when one could consider it highly-advisable to sacrifice one small battle only, in order to more readily secure complete victory in the much bigger war much later on. In other words, concentrate less on the fancy stuff, and go for much more robust tactics instead. Come the next home game I attend, it should be instructive indeed to ascertain what, if anything, they've done to make that fairytale promotion even more special, to ensure that the club enjoys Football League status for many years to come. Something tells me I won't be too disappointed. But before you lot get to that stage, be a darling. Just make Sure Marion doesn't cock up her half-time mint supply ever again - OK?
