The Taming of the Shrews

Glynis Wright relives Tuesday's Cup-tie.

Imagine, if you will, Albion and Wolves at loggerheads, but with about 40 miles distance separating the two. That's what you've got with Shrewsbury and The Bulls: believe you me, there's no love lost between the pair of you, and because there's past 'form' aplenty in the ABH and criminal damage stakes, the plods much preferred to play the first game on a Sunday, and with a midday kick-off, so as to spike the guns of the alcoholically enthusiastic.

Not that it would have, mind: where there's a will there's a way, as loads of our followers demonstrated the time we played then non-league Wycombe Wanderers at their place in the FA Cup, around late 1992. In lieu of a pukka pub being open, our lot simply went to the off-licence around a mile or so distant, then completely denuded it of stock instead! So much so, latecomers were told it was a straight choice between some obscure sort of Polish spirit or other, possessing the additional 'bonus' of being able to strip linings from unsuspecting Black Country stomachs within a matter of seconds: either that, or bottles of shampoo!

Well, they certainly packed 'em in for this one: arriving at the ground with around 30 minutes to spare, quickly heading for the Main Stand entrance we wanted, we were completely taken aback to see a queue for The Meadow End (their answer to the Brummie) stretching right around the corner from the turnstile, something we hadn't seen there in years. Clearly, their gate was going to be truly humungous, as you would rightly expect for a replay as mouth-watering as that one.

The outcome lay in the form of Shrewsbury, now taking to the field of play, along with their not-so-amiable bovine 'hosts' for the evening. Incidentally, the characteristic sweet aroma of fast-brewing Bulmers sure hung heavy over the town that night: clearly, the recent apple glut had been very good for business indeed. But the music on the Edgar Street PA as both sides emerged from the tunnel - Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and 'When Two Tribes Go To War!' Not quite the spirit of mutual peace and reconciliation we were aiming for that Tuesday night, chaps, was it, now? Do promise you'll buck up!

The home side? Crippled by injuries of one sort or another, they'd had to resort to putting out a bit of a patched-up side for the night's frolics and festivities. The dearth of useful performers meant an unexpected debut to one Bulls youngster in particular, Luke Webb, (now wearing the number 21 shirt for the cider-slurpers!), and son of Neill Webb, he of former Manchester United and England fame. More about the lad later.

As both sides prepared to get the show on the road, I happened to notice, above what had been the Len Weston Stand, the 'Floors To Go' stand sponsorship advertising still there, despite the fact they'd actually gone into administration - a kind of 'Floors Have Gone', if you like. I could only hope that The Bulls had received payment up front for the sponsorship deal: when you're at that end of the League, the cash-flow situation can end up perilously-close to strangulation-point. In that kind of world, our own football club's rock-solid financial affairs and spending-power must seem to resemble more closely those of Man U, but in proportion, of course.

You could tell it was going to be that sort of game from the very first moment a ball was kicked in anger: within about five minutes of the start, two players, one from each side, had already ended up in the ref's little black book, the more bovine of the two for saying very naughty things indeed, as I saw it. Those opening minutes also revealed another fact: Shrewsbury were going through that Bulls defence like cascara through the human colon: it didn't help either that in keeping with the imminence of the festive season, Hereford were constantly gifting them the ball in some mighty dangerous situations. Add to that your keeper's shocking inability to lamp the ball straight when taking, say, goal-kicks, and you'd got one hell of a problem in the making. Were you on suicide pills, or what?

Time and time again, the visitors got the ball into that box: on each occasion it happened, somehow or another, The Bulls muddled through at the back; that, plus the sad fact the Gay Meadow mob couldn't hit a barn door at ten paces, helped the score stay bloodless, that half. Mind you, not wishing to be rude, it might just have been the case we were judging what was going on out there by the standards we normally apply to our own mob; as His Nibs commented at the time, adjusting to Division Two after the various rigours of the Championship meant a mental U-turn of truly ginormous proportions for the pair of us

But back to the football. Or, should that be the match official that night? Seemed like it: sure, you're not the most tolerant of crowds, sometimes, you Edgar Street lot, but you seemed to have a lot to moan about, justifiably so, I reckoned, as endless refereeing decisions seemed to go totally against you. That really got to one Herefordian lady in particular, sitting about four rows in front of me: let me put it this way, her temper was rising in direct proportion to the number of free-kicks conceded by the home side. And one in particular, where a Hereford player had sinned, the ref indicated the opposition 'play on', they'd done so, the other Shrewsbury lad had accepted the pass, and was about to proceed up the pitch with the ball - but the ref then pulled play back for the original offence! In the end, the lady couldn't contain her anger any longer, her red-mist fury coinciding with one of those strangely-hushed periods during any game when both sets of supporters mutually decide to shut up for a bit.

Swallow yer pea, ref, and give us all a bloody break was the cry, emitted with a wonderfully-fruity country accent, that finally rent the uncharacteristic silence, total agreement being signalled by the various sniggers and snorts of mirth that erupted around me. Actually, as the game progressed, the quality of her invective improved to such a degree, I began to wonder as to whether she was in the business of setting up as a seated rival to our very own John Homer, The Hawthorns answer to Nick Brade. Or Madame De Farge, a la Charles Dickens, and 'A Tale Of Two Cities'. It certainly seemed that way to me: I could only hope her arteries and veins would hold up against a drastically-elevated blood pressure for just long enough!

The half drawing to its close by then, looking at proceedings from both Baggies and Shrewsbury points of view, it seemed to me that the visitors, having missed endless chances that half, including a couple far easier to put into the back of the net than to stuff up, were trying to emulate our abortive Pride Park performance just the other week. There were lots of similarities, not least an astonishing inability to produce the 'killer ball' that would lead to a dead-cert goal, Derby somehow riding their luck completely, then going on to totally wreck our day deep into the second half!

Oh - and on a similar note, young Luke Webb was not having the happiest of debuts either, misplacing passes, losing the ball cheaply, that sort of thing; just about everything he tried to do out there went horribly wrong, landing his defensive colleagues in some pretty awful lumber on more than one occasion. By then, the crowd had picked up on his various deficiencies, and were expressing some displeasure with his performance, to put it mildly. A case of trying too hard, perhaps? That seemed to be what his team-mates thought: on more than one occasion, I spotted various senior pros trying to calm him down.

I must say I felt sorry for the lad, having seen more than one youthful player totally destroyed by a vindictive crowd before their first-team careers had properly started, even. Remember Scott Darton? You lot won't, but John Trewick, Albion's youth team coach back in 1993-94, certainly does. Not that I blame him for what happened, mind: former Baggies gaffer Keith Burkinshaw is the one that should really hang his head in shame over that one. Chucking kids into situations way beyond their capabilities is not a clever thing to do at any time, let alone a fraught game like this - but this particular example still had a massive twist in the tale to come.

With Shrewsbury calling most of the shots that first half, and much-weakened Hereford not in much of a position to do anything about it, the outcome of the second seemed but a formality. Mind you, we'd already arrived at a valid explanation as to why the Bulls weren't performing - it was all down to Marion, our normally minty chum, who'd, erm, forgotten to bring the talismanic half-time goods with her that night! Shame on you! A pox on all your Polos, not to mention tribulations on your Trebors, Marion! Mind you, 'Im Indoors came up with the perfect newspaper headline for her mint-less dilemma: 'United Lack Pep Thanks To No-Mint Marion!' Yersss - now go and have a good lie down, there's a nice lad.

The strange thing was, though, the expected second-course tatering never happened: in fact, the opposite seemed to apply, Hereford taking the game to them, pushing up, and using the flanks wisely. And they didn't like it one little bit: clearly, their rearguard was no great shakes, and given a goodly dollop of luck, The Bulls might even manage to hurt them a tad along the way. And, as the game progressed, the stronger Hereford seemed to get, and more accurate when shooting, too. What really made the difference, though, was Andy Williams being brought on as sub with around 20 minutes to go.

With the full benefit of his considerable experience now coming to the fore, nicking a result no longer seemed the sick joke it had during the first period. With just five minutes on the clock, and extra-time looming, Williams's proactive style finally paid off, when Shrewsbury conceded a free kick a matter of inches from the edge of the box, just inside the 'D'. Up stepped Connell for the Bulls - and without any fuss whatsoever, lamped it straight into the back of the net. Pandemonium in the Meadow End, naturally enough. As for their Salopian counterparts, situated behind the other goal, it was very much a case of 'The Silence Of The Fans'. I really felt for them: talk about a mugging.

But that wasn't the end of it: just two or so minutes later, United doubled their lead. A strange one, that goal: shades of Darren Carter versus Arsenal last season insofar as the precise moment ball left boot, you could sense exactly where it was headed for, the top left-hand corner of the net, and from a range of around 25 yards, too, possibly more. And even the name of the scorer was an eye-opener: well done, Luke Webb, for a first goal he'll not forget in a bloody long while. As for the visitors, they were headed for the exits in droves, with the strains of -Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio! - ringing in their ears all the way. And judging by the alacrity with which the plods were shifting to catch them up, it seemed highly-likely the town centre itself would shortly be bearing the full brunt of their collective ange. One thing I really love, that - a good Seventies or Eighties revival night!

So, on to the next round go The Bulls: get past ailing Port Vale at Edgar Street, and they're well and truly in the black bag with the big boys. But please, guys, ANYONE but the Baggies. Should that one come flying out of the hat, I don't think my nerves could take it!

Scandal - wot scandal? Heard that same night by the author of this piece, a little tale concerning one of Hereford's finest attending a certain local nightclub on the evening of the first Shrewsbury Cup game. Apparently, my Bulls-loving chum's got a mate who moonlights as a DJ for his sins, and it was while he was at this particular nightclub that one of Hereford's defenders, somewhat 'tired and emotional' by then, came up to him, saying: 'You fancy an 'Asamwah', then? I've had him in my pocket all afternoon!? Mind you, it being around the 25th time my chum's DJ mate had heard the same punch-line, the novelty had completely palled by then!

And, so as not to leave him out of the 'embarrassment stakes' completely, here's a couple for scoring debutant Luke Webb to do a decently coloured 'cherry' over. Once upon a time, there was a young dad who, after playing for Forest, finally got the transfer of his dreams, to Old Trafford, home of Man United, and their then-comparatively youthful gaffer, Alex Ferguson. Having signed on the dotted line for the Mancs, Dad, Mum, plus three-year-old Luke, were then given a tour of the ground by the well-pleased Fergie, finishing up in their Club Shop, where a number of teddy bears, all decked out in red and white, were on display. Handing one over to the awestruck little boy, finally, Fergie, trying like hell to play the 'kindly old Uncle' role, then asked young Luke what he was going to call his cuddly prize. His reply? 'Forest'!

And here's another one. According to my informant, it wasn't just Luke who has a predilection for spectacular debut goals, so did his dad, many moons ago, but for Man U instead. Not that his missus saw it, mind - she was frantically scrabbling around the floor of the stand, trying to locate the whereabouts of young Luke's crayon for him!

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