Grant Ward is Tangerine

A team needs a heartbeat. Grant Ward is central to all that we are and all that we do.

Grant Ward is graceful, lithe, balanced. He's an aesthetes dream of a player, he glides rather than strides, with a touch of silk that makes what others can't do look so easy, you barely notice the magic at work. 

At Swindon, the ball bobbled and spat like a ping pong ball on concrete, and only Grant could get it under his spell. Not even Sullay's magic feet could tame it and yet Ward made a terrible pitch look like pristine Wembley turf with the ball at his feet. 

Grant Ward is here and there, he's around, he's about and yet it never seems to be to be too much effort, he'll stretch, he'll slide, he'll go in for the 50/50 but somehow, he always seems in control. Nicking it, playing it just in time, yet it always seems that he means to do what he does. Never late, always just in time. 

Tracking back, Mcgeady wriggles and pivots, he weaves his magic. This is no normal footballer, this is mesmerising, this is enough to tie your legs in knots, a conjuror, a hypnotist but Ward waits, Ward shadows, Ward watches and when the time is right, Ward strikes and Mcgeady is left, without the ball, a wizard without the wand.

Ward is racing down the right, 20 seconds before, he'd been filling in at left back. He's straining everything to reach it, he's going up against his man, body to body, a collision, a tumble and Ward comes away with the ball.

In the centre, he gives, he goes. Perpetual motion, showing for the ball, always. Drop deep, touch, run left, run right, move forward, stop, start, stutter, feint, drop a shoulder, find the space. Defender under pressure, a quick sprint, a point, he takes, he pivots and spreads it. Simplicity. It's not simple really, but Grant does it so well, you barely notice it.

Again and again, he does his job. The engine of the engine room, he purrs, and sometimes he growls and from time to time there's a roar as he's lashing a shot from distance or skimming a cross. Mostly though, he's just there. Doing what needs to be done, whatever it is. No flashiness, no ego, no drama. Just doing the job, then the next job, then the next one. On and on. Never tiring, never letting up, never losing concentration or focus.

Jerry scores goals, Sullay spins magic, Dan Ballard, a granite hewn collosus, Maxwell a spring loaded panther, Garbutt a left foot to die for, Mitchell a sprinter and on and on but Ward knits it all together. Ward lets others play. Ward starts, prompts, probes. He tidies, he rescues and he goes again. Shows again.

Last night he was magnificent. He played so hard that by the end, he couldn't walk. He gave everything, he left nothing on the pitch. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. 

A metronome of a player. The steadiest beat imaginable. Smart, intelligent, silken but steely, an athlete. Rarely, the star but always just behind them, in build up, winning the ball, playing the pass, starting the break, stopping the break. Finding space, always there, always showing. The heartbeat of the team

Grant Ward is magnificent

Grant Ward is tangerine.