Football can weigh on your shoulders. It can drag you down. It can be dismal, miserable and boring. It can leave you wondering why you bother, what the point of it all is, leaving you sinking into a pit of collective misery. unable to save yourself or the doomed souls around you from the slough of despond that you've stumbled into. In short, unlike many alternative 'leisure pursuits' you could undertake in your weekends and evenings, football is pretty unique - in that it will regularly make you feel worse than you did before the game and what sort of a thing is that to spend your money on if you stop and think about it?
The thing is, if it wasn't like that, then you'd never have the opposite. If football was whatever else people do with their lives (if every other cake at the cafe at Dunhelm Mill was shite, would it be as inexplicably packed as it always is, whenever you have the misfortune to need to go to your local branch because everywhere else that sells a packet of screws has closed down? (RIP Wilko btw. A nation mourns you and your no frills practicality.))
Would we want football to be predictable and reassuringly reliable? Would we want it to be a simple transaction? You hand over your money, you get exactly what you paid for? Would we fuck. That would be boring. That would be wandering about the aisles of a retail barn, muttering inanely about the shite on the shelves and just basically waiting to die whilst nothing actually happens. A life without ups and downs and only in-betweens. Who wants that? We should, in fact, raise a glass to the piss poor defeats, the passionless capitulations and the mind numbing, soul deadening games that make you wonder what it is that the players do all week, because it doesn't seem to be practice playing football.
There are plenty of those days but then, there's always, always, next week. Next week becomes this week and usually we're thinking about next week again pretty quickly but once in a blue (tangerine) moon, to make it all worthwhile, there is this. The day when everything goes to plan, when everything you want to see plays out, right there, right now, in front of you. These days don't happen very often - but when they do, it is exactly the reason you suffer what you suffer. There's always next week and next week might be today and today was silken magic, spun by celestial powers. Today was the reason we all are who we are and do what we do and today was tangerine.
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The ball in gets a touch then an almighty scramble. I'm too far away to see anything but a whip sharp finish from within a crowd, a pistol shot that leaves the net taut and the players running away. I think it's him. It must be him. That's what he does. He's a sniper, he's a killer, he's all sinew and twitch fibres and movement and kill shots from angles and that was a point blank headshot of a goal, an opportunist pounce. It takes a split-second to take a life. Bang...
No one around me is quite sure. We *think* it's Jerry. Even the Kop doesn't seem as certain as you'd think it might, the goal being right in front of them.
"Blackpool's fourth goal, coming after 72 minutes, the scorer..."
Tony Parr milks the moment - a pause, dramatic, pregnant with anticipation...
"Blackpool's number 12..... Jerry.... Yates!!!!"
Nothing else in the world matters. He is back. He is home. He has scored. I am lost in the noise of all of us. No one could ask for more than that. There is nothing more to want. Life is complete. If you could synthesise this total and utter contentment in the form of a powder or pill, then you'd be on the verge of solving world conflict.
Where we going?
It didn't start quite as easily as it ended. Jerry is on the bench and despite some good, intense early pressing from the Pool, Posh are well in the game and cutting through us very easily. The first warning is all too simple to create for them, a ball in finds space behind our defence that probably shouldn't be there, a cross, an effort that looks like it's for certain going to ruin the buoyant mood, but then Bailey Peacock Farrell seems to appear out of nowhere, flinging himself and stopping the effort from a starting point that gave us no hope or expectation of him getting there. I've had my doubts about him, but he's in fine, fine form right now and the stop is as important as any of the attacking play yet to come.
It feels initially like two good teams and if we're honest, like Posh might be the better one. They're moving it well. Similar to the Stockport game, Pool are a threat on the break though, a laser guided ball from deep, (again great stuff from BPF) finds Dion and we push towards goal but are just unable to make it count. Posh have more control, quick passing, plenty of movement and incisive play. They get up the pitch again after Bowler dallies and is robbed after a short free kick. They're in again, there's a massive overload and we're running back in blind panic, no shape, just desperation. Somehow, they don't score, both BPF and the offside flag rob them - it's a moment where, if I were a Posh fan, I'd be bemused and furious at how we'd let the opportunity slip.
Then the game turns. Another freekick - this time, we don't play it short - Albie instead floats it up to the back of the box, Earle, who is imperious today, leaps, he gets a flick on that scuffs off his head, Casey, with the clumsy gait of a centre back doing attacking things, lifts it over his own head to help it on. It doesn't seem too threatening, but Williams nips in, like an opportunist thief who has spotted an unlocked car with the keys in the ignition and before the keeper can claim it, is there to flick it into the roof of the net. If we're absolutely frank, it's a really poor goal. I mean, it's a brilliant goal, I love the goal - but it feels exactly like a goal we'd concede. Posh must feel exactly like we seem to do have done far too often in recent years.
So often in the last however long it is, I've written 'and then the other team 'just score and it's far too simple' - well, here we are, leaping around after just scoring a simple goal, an opposition who did a load of good things but then just let our defenders run wild in their box and do what they wanted at a corner. It feels lovely. Up the fucking Pool!
It gets better though. It starts, as so much of what is good about us in recent matches does, with a crunching challenge from Karoy. We work it wide, Bloxham, Bowler, work it between them, we lose the ball, it comes back, we try again, finally Bowler can have a dart, a shot, a save - but there, as the ball pops lose, again, right in front of the keeper, is Dion Charles and again, the ball is in the net and again I can't help feeling that Peterborough really should have dealt with the threat two or three times before Dion popped up and that were the boot on the other foot I'd be raging about 'just letting them fucking dance around in our box and when they fuck up, basically picking it up and putting it on a tee for them to have another shot, then standing around like fucking teapots afterwards shaking our heads' - but I'm not, because I'm jumping about for the second time in a few minutes celebrating and not giving a fuck about what the possession stats say or whether football is 'fair' - because I've been on the other side of these two goals more times than I can count and to be the one looking across at the crestfallen opposition this week is what we all hope for.
From here, the Pool dominate. Posh's early promise evaporates. It's clearly a team with some skill and a team being coached to play - but the pressure to make something happen seems to destroy the early composure. They knock it about nicely enough within the initial build up, but they're ragged and forced as they move towards our goal. Our defenders cope nicely. Casey is immense today, so many well timed interceptions, blocks and headers. Earle is quality, like James Husband on great form, but made of concrete and rebar and 5 inches taller. Williamson continues to just look really good at football, CJ deserves so much credit for the last 6 months, where he's become actually good at defending, his pace filling in where Earle has none, his slight gait compensated for by Earle's bulk. Even Josh 'wing back' Bowler deserves mentioning in dispatches - he doesn't have his best attacking game ever, mixing some loose stuff with the usual stuff - but he's up and down the flanks, he's coming inside, he's *checks notes* tackling people and looking like he means it and *checks notes again* he heads one away, actually jumping into a duel with another player, something that I've literally never seen him do before ever.
Going forward, we're increasingly delightful. We press superbly, hunting in packs, penning Peterborough in. Charles is just gloriously horrible, always making contact with his man, unsettling, annoying, moving. Honeyman is a terrier. I've not really enjoyed him as often as hoped I might since he signed, but today he makes sense, stepping up, making the attacking two into a three and cutting off the pass, straight into the face of their defence and moving constantly. I've already run out of words for Karoy. He's just Karoy. Every week. Behind them, Morgan prompts and spreads and outside of them the wing backs gallop adventurously.
Bloxham though is simply magic. He doesn't score but he does everything else I could want from him. He's frustrated me in the past - a big lad who has seemed uncertain about how to use his heft to his advantage. He's had all the attributes but seemingly little grasp of how to assemble the pieces into the player I could see in my mind, a player all set up to be a terrific centre forward but spending his time hankering for fiddling around on the wing instead. It feels this year as if the penny might have dropped, as if things might be clicking into place. He's backing in, he's wrestling, he's rolling his man and racing away. He's got the touch, the skill, the pace and now, he's got the attitude. He's disruptive, he's movement, he's a joy to watch today and if he keeps playing like this, he's going to be a huge part of who we are and make it very hard for the rest of the strikers, none of whom have the physique and presence he has, to get a shirt off him.
There's a lull after we score the second, it's quite nice to enjoy it, and then we kick back in to it. We have a lovely, comfortable spell of possession, moving it calmly but quickly, back to front, around and back again, side to side and finally into space where a Bowler snapshot is saved. Dion, harrying as ever, nicks a loose ball, there's a shot, another shot, again from Bowler and another stop. Albie Morgan, possibly the greatest midfielder in all of football, slides in, takes it cleanly, the ball comes loose for Honeyman who charges in, slightly miss-hits his shot but forces another save.
This is fun. I like us being good.
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I don't think a whole lot at half time. I just want the game to start again. It makes a change to not be diagnosing what is wrong, but instead reflecting on what is right. 11 players who appear to understand their jobs, trust in each other and back each other up. What else is there to say? This is Blackpool FC though. It could all yet fall apart into a big heap on the ground and leave us bereft. It's the hope that kills you and so far, the game has generated a worrying amount of optimism within me.
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Bloxham is right back on it. He's hustling, fighting, bursting out of a tustle with a centre back, bearing down on goal and smacking it hard, low but just dragging it wide. He's like an old fashioned forward today, that would have been like a black and white goal, the kind you can see in your mind, with some big, raw boned bloke from the 1940s bludgeoning defenders and then smacking the heavy brown leather ball, strings and all, past a keeper in a woollen cap (that falls off as he hits the ground), to prompt frantic rattle swinging and much tossing of hats in the air within the crowd.
He's at it again, this time haring down the wing, him and Dion, like a tag team of fighters, exchanging passes, the return into the box just not quite right, but the intent and the attitude absolutely brilliant to see.
There's maybe a tiny spell in the second half where I worry for a moment that we might be running slightly out of steam. Posh don't entirely wilt and they come into it a little bit. We generally time our tackles and if we don't, Posh's composure in front of goal is entirely lacking, crosses loop out of play, cross field passes go astray and most enjoyably, one of their forwards manages to tackle himself when he seems more likely to score.
Even more enjoyably, right about the time I'm wondering if we might not regret making a bit more of our chances, we put our boot on their neck and press hard. Bowler darts infield. CJ loops a cross. Honeyman tidies up and has another go, it's an inviting ball and Karoy, running from deeper, springing, dreadlocks swinging like a graceful counterweight, twists his head and glances the ball down and away from the keeper, into the corner of the goal and we're done. That's it. We've won this game and no one deserves their moment of adulation for their effort thus far than Karoy Anderson. The simple precision and timing of it all was glorious.
This game just keeps on giving. Where another game might feel like a pleasant stroll to the line, there's the matter of the fella on the bench who has just stood up, stripped off his training top to reveal a familiar physique, both muscular and skinny all in one and now, is putting a tangerine shirt over his head for the first time in a long time. No one since the boycott ended and probably no one since the heady days of Holloway has been as universally adored, as totemic, as generally loved by all as Jerry Yates. He's a lad, he's ours, he's everyone's favourite because you can't not like him. It's just not an option.
This could be a fairy tale in a world that seems to serve up far more depression than joy. Dion is wandering off, Jerry is bouncing, he's swinging his arms and now, he crosses the white line, he sprints, his step all springy and full of acceleration, skittish and unpredictable but explosive, arrowing this way and that, like a deer in the woods, spooked by something only it can hear. Jerry is on another wavelength sometimes. It's like a strange dream that he's back. It's not a dream though. It's real.
A header is won. He's tracking, dropping, pulling away. He's rekindling a link with Bowler, the trust instantly there as a sharp pass to Josh shows. He's inviting others to give him the ball. I don't know if we ever really thought of him as 'a leader' - but here, in the flesh, you remember how at every kick off he bounced, he clapped, he talked non stop, to himself probably as much as anyone else. The main thing that comes flooding back is the energy he brings, the elastic, angular, darting movement, the restlessness - it makes you think about how so many others up front since have seemed so flat, predictable and how much Jerry was the player he was for us because of how much he gave to every second. He squats on his haunches for a moment. I am concerned, then I remember that he does that. He's never stationary. He can't be still. Up and down, like he's trying to shake out every last drop of something that's built up inside himself for the moment of matchday.
I've missed him.
Then, that moment. A corner from Clarkson, Earle leaps, his downwards header is powerful and the keeper falls and saves, it's quite brilliant, but there, a yard from goal, is a figure, tiny at a pitch lengths distance, but massive in mind and memory of every Pool fan. The ball is in the roof of the net. The finish is emphatic, the celebrations are almost muted at first, as if disbelieving. This day was already great, but what everyone wanted seems to have happened. Is it Jerry? It is isn't it? Is there a flag? What about a whistle? It all seems alright. Can this have happened?
Tony Parr's amplified voice spells it out: This is a fairy tale in real life. We're at heavens gates.
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What more can be said? We've looked good this year so far. Each game a little better, a little more assured, a little more fluent. We're capable of some serious football. We ended the match playing glorious triangles to the sound of 'ole!' We also have a new found nastiness and physical threat. It's not just brawn and height, it's the way we do things in unison, we back each other up. Yes, we lose the ball, but that's ok because sometimes we lose it trying to do something good and we go and win it back. That lets Josh or Albie try things and trying things makes chances and chances make goals. It's that which is the fine margin between side to side mind numbing football and galloping adventure and chances.
All of this is underpinned by fitness. We're not fading at the end of games, we're not simply a quick burst of energy and then flatness. We look the equals of others and perhaps fitter than some.
It's only a few games. The sample size is small. It's so easy to get carried away and for next week it all come crashing down - but if we don't let ourselves dream, if we don't enjoy days like this, then why do we sit through the many weeks of tedious shite? The remarkable thing is, as fluent as we were at times, I don't think this group is yet fully gelled. We see moments of remarkable football - but they've not been together long enough to totally have each other's wavelength yet. There's numerous players, some of whom would really put pressure on those in the starting line up, still not fit. To think, we could add 3,4,5 players to the squad yet who improve this, even if we didn't sign anyone else (which we should, we need an additional midfield body for the perfect depth) is reason for optimism. This result should give us confidence, but confidence can be dangerous - squad depth is a vital thing for protecting against complacency.
I don't think this is going to be plain sailing. We actually play quite dangerous football. In the first 20 minutes, we committed a lot forward and left ourselves quite open. I love that, lets keep doing it, but it will backfire on us at some point - for me, the key will be to keep our nerve and to keep doing it. Losing when you've risked winning is fine. Losing when you haven't is unforgivable. The quality we have will mean it will bear ripe fruit more often than rotten.
Top of the league means nothing after so few matches. Actually, fuck that. fuck that right off right now. This isn't some shitty ex pro guest spot on Sky Sports where we're talking in dull rent-a-quote boring, phoned in cliches. This is fanaticism, this is blind love, hopeless and doomed, but never wavering, this is hope, faith and escape into the tangerine dream land, the lush green grass, vivid against the greyness of the week. I'm not fucking minimising this, I'm drinking it in, every last drop of it and I don't care. I'm on the piss, drunk on joy.
We're top of the league, we won 4-0, Preston, Bolton and Burnley all lost and Jerry fucking Yates came home and scored a goal.
After Jerry scored and after I'd screamed out the immediate moment, for a moment, I watched and I listened. The noise echoed round from the Kop and picked up in power as it went, coming back and then being amplified again. I realised I was smiling. I realised I was grinning like an idiot. Childlike happiness. It's such a rare, fleeting thing.
I watched Jerry at the end, taking deep breaths, looking around him, soaking it up. A playground footballer on his home turf.
It can't get any better than this, can it Mick?
What a day.
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