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| Spoiler: We won (again)... |
As if by magic, the sunshine appears. We've been in darkness for months, locked away through winter and to compound it, the summer has been in hiding up till now, but we're up and out into beautiful blue skies. We're soon past some has been milltown that haven't graced the top flight this century... We're over the big bridge at Warrington. We're past distant power station cooling towers, through green flanked motorway valleys. I see a red kite soaring on the air currents. I see rolling fields of green and yellow and farmhouses of pink stone. I see poppies, growing in the gravel at the end of a slip road. What colour are they? Tangerine of course.
It's a sign. Everything is a sign. The. Pool. Are. Going. Up.
Getting to Wembley is a piece of piss until you get to Wembley. We sweat in the car for an hour trying to find the mirage that is the official parking, forever 2.4 miles away, permanently 10 mins from our destination, but never seeming to get any closer. The signs direct me to a closed road, the alternative route the satnav suggests sends me to the world's busiest road instead. I'm getting seriously panicky. But suddenly, there it is. Let's be honest, parking is a fucking boring topic, but for a minute or two, I considered just dumping the car, torching it and then trying to buy a new one for the way home.
First thing I do when we get in, is scan the warm up... and thank fuck... Dan Ballard plays but wait... Ellis Simms is out!... It doesn't matter, it won't matter, it can't matter. We. Are. Going. Up. 4-5-1 will be fine, Mitchell, Keshi and Embleton is a creative force to be reckoned with. Dougall and Stewart are rock solid. Jerry will run the line because Jerry is Jerry and Jerry a god waiting for us at the gates of heaven. To top it off, as if to cheer us up in case we're worried at missing Simms, Critch has popped CJ on the bench...
What could possibly go wrong?
---
Flames leap into the air, the sound of the two sets of fans mingle in the heat. We're off. Lincoln wander down the right. They just seem to stroll through, a ball comes in, it's low, close to Maxwell. He kneels, anticipating a touch that never comes, from a forward rushing to the near post, instead, it skips off the turf, past him ... Ollie Turton goes to clear... but he doesn't clear and instead, turns it into the net.
What the fuck just happened? I'm literally on my knees. There's heads in hands all around. What the actual fuck just happened? A narrative is supposed to start with equilibrium before the problem is introduced, not kick off with the problem immediately... This is Cardiff 2001 stuff. My head has gone. We're on our feet now. We've picked ourselves up. We're roaring them on. We're swaying with the punch and now we're springing back, stamping, clapping, screaming, urging them on.
The metal casing on the stand is the drum. The roof of the tier above is being punched. There's noise swirling. We're on our feet. It'll take more than a goal to beat us... C'mon Pool...
To be honest, I have no real idea if what I'm writing is any sort of order... This is a dream taking place in waking life. We try to regain composure by passing it about but the ball looks slow and the grass looks too lush, too thick. The energy isn't there. Keshi is busy, but he looks too eager, running into traffic, spraying first time balls that no one can read. Garbutt gets booked for a big lunging slide in the corner and I'm not enjoying this at all.
It seems to take forever for us to have a shot. Luke of the lovely locks curls a free kick into the arms of the keeper. At least we've had a go now. But they come forward and Grant cracks one off the post. Heads turn to the sky, a square of blue framed by the grey Wembley roof. Surely this can't go wrong. It is going wrong. We really aren't playing very well. Lincoln are snapping into us, Lincoln are tigerish and dangerous. We're flat and slower than normal.
Demi heads one well over the top. Jimmy steps forward, he runs, he lays wide, the cross comes in, Jimmy keeps going, he stretches, he just can't reach and there's Demi again, on the overlap, charging on to it, striking it, catching it on the full, hammering it, but the keeper beats it away.
There's a roar, there's a renewal of belief. There's a wave of noise. The walls are beaten again.
Jerry chases down, Jerry wins it, Jerry sprints forward down the middle, he's away, then he's not but he's no one trick pony this lad, a little turn buys the space and the ball he plays to Embleton is perfectly weighted. Embleton is onto it... we're urging a shot and the shot comes, charged down, back to Embleton, who shifts it sideways and YESSSSSSSSSSS! It's Kenny Dougal, driving it, crisp and low, fading away from the keeper. There's delirium... Yes! We needed that. We needed that and we got it. The fella next to me lifts me off my feet. I nearly go over the seats behind me. It's been a nervy start, but that's the release we needed.
If I'm not sure about the beginning of the game, from this point on, it's more or less a blur. At some point Embleton dribbles a weak shot at the keeper. Demi has a decent header well saved, leaping far higher than he has a right too. Lincoln balloon a shot over the top and then the half time whistle goes. What order that happened in is anyone's guess.
---
Fucking hell. I have no wise thoughts. I'm done in and it's only half time. I though Demi did a great job in getting us moving forward, showing a purpose when we lacked it, I enjoyed a beautiful outside of the foot ball by Dan Ballard and a sublime pass from Kevin Stewart, but everything is just a jumble in my head. We've got this. We've got to have got this. We're back into it, we finally started putting things together and we're too good to let go of everything we've done. Aren't we? Surely?
---
The second half is even more confusing to recall than what went before, it's too intense to think about what's happening as it happened and thus, it's just noise and random images... I don't think too much happened for a bit... then a ball comes in from the right, Jerry kills it, he shapes to spin, but then lays it back and there's Kenny Dougall, taking it in his stride and unleashing an arrow into the bottom corner... This time I lift the fella next to me. The noise is even louder. It's insane, there's about the same number of people you might get for a decent tie in the LDV trophy group stages on a Tuesday night, but it's a cauldron. Dougall's name echoes round the ground, bouncing down off the empty top tiers, meeting the next chorus rising from the tangerine army.... ONE TWO THREE FOUR! OHEEOH, SUPER KENNY DOUGALL!!!
I can't even pretend I can do the rest of the game justice. I can tell you Gary Madine (he's a Goal Machine) comes on. We're right on top, Madine and Yates look a handful. Madine is more than just a presence - he plays a lovely diagonal for Keshi who is stopped by a desperate tackle that sees him limp off. At some point before that, he did a fucking outrageous spin and flick past three players. If he looked a bit eager in the first half, he purred his way through the second... I can tell you that CJ Hamilton replaces him. I love Critch's subs today. Going for it. Not getting cagey, trying to put the boot on their throat and press down.
At another point, Madine nods a header just over the top from a little dinked Garbutt free kick. A few times CJ makes getting away on the right look like a piece of piss. Jerry plays one of the most sublime passes I've ever seen from wide left. What happened before or after that image, I dunno, but the lad can play. Similarly, he has a ridiculously clever little flick in the box at one point. He's so much better than just a whippet up front. He's a really fucking good footballer.
Flames leap into the air, the sound of the two sets of fans mingle in the heat. We're off. Lincoln wander down the right. They just seem to stroll through, a ball comes in, it's low, close to Maxwell. He kneels, anticipating a touch that never comes, from a forward rushing to the near post, instead, it skips off the turf, past him ... Ollie Turton goes to clear... but he doesn't clear and instead, turns it into the net.
What the fuck just happened? I'm literally on my knees. There's heads in hands all around. What the actual fuck just happened? A narrative is supposed to start with equilibrium before the problem is introduced, not kick off with the problem immediately... This is Cardiff 2001 stuff. My head has gone. We're on our feet now. We've picked ourselves up. We're roaring them on. We're swaying with the punch and now we're springing back, stamping, clapping, screaming, urging them on.
The metal casing on the stand is the drum. The roof of the tier above is being punched. There's noise swirling. We're on our feet. It'll take more than a goal to beat us... C'mon Pool...
To be honest, I have no real idea if what I'm writing is any sort of order... This is a dream taking place in waking life. We try to regain composure by passing it about but the ball looks slow and the grass looks too lush, too thick. The energy isn't there. Keshi is busy, but he looks too eager, running into traffic, spraying first time balls that no one can read. Garbutt gets booked for a big lunging slide in the corner and I'm not enjoying this at all.
It seems to take forever for us to have a shot. Luke of the lovely locks curls a free kick into the arms of the keeper. At least we've had a go now. But they come forward and Grant cracks one off the post. Heads turn to the sky, a square of blue framed by the grey Wembley roof. Surely this can't go wrong. It is going wrong. We really aren't playing very well. Lincoln are snapping into us, Lincoln are tigerish and dangerous. We're flat and slower than normal.
Demi heads one well over the top. Jimmy steps forward, he runs, he lays wide, the cross comes in, Jimmy keeps going, he stretches, he just can't reach and there's Demi again, on the overlap, charging on to it, striking it, catching it on the full, hammering it, but the keeper beats it away.
There's a roar, there's a renewal of belief. There's a wave of noise. The walls are beaten again.
Jerry chases down, Jerry wins it, Jerry sprints forward down the middle, he's away, then he's not but he's no one trick pony this lad, a little turn buys the space and the ball he plays to Embleton is perfectly weighted. Embleton is onto it... we're urging a shot and the shot comes, charged down, back to Embleton, who shifts it sideways and YESSSSSSSSSSS! It's Kenny Dougal, driving it, crisp and low, fading away from the keeper. There's delirium... Yes! We needed that. We needed that and we got it. The fella next to me lifts me off my feet. I nearly go over the seats behind me. It's been a nervy start, but that's the release we needed.
If I'm not sure about the beginning of the game, from this point on, it's more or less a blur. At some point Embleton dribbles a weak shot at the keeper. Demi has a decent header well saved, leaping far higher than he has a right too. Lincoln balloon a shot over the top and then the half time whistle goes. What order that happened in is anyone's guess.
---
Fucking hell. I have no wise thoughts. I'm done in and it's only half time. I though Demi did a great job in getting us moving forward, showing a purpose when we lacked it, I enjoyed a beautiful outside of the foot ball by Dan Ballard and a sublime pass from Kevin Stewart, but everything is just a jumble in my head. We've got this. We've got to have got this. We're back into it, we finally started putting things together and we're too good to let go of everything we've done. Aren't we? Surely?
---
The second half is even more confusing to recall than what went before, it's too intense to think about what's happening as it happened and thus, it's just noise and random images... I don't think too much happened for a bit... then a ball comes in from the right, Jerry kills it, he shapes to spin, but then lays it back and there's Kenny Dougall, taking it in his stride and unleashing an arrow into the bottom corner... This time I lift the fella next to me. The noise is even louder. It's insane, there's about the same number of people you might get for a decent tie in the LDV trophy group stages on a Tuesday night, but it's a cauldron. Dougall's name echoes round the ground, bouncing down off the empty top tiers, meeting the next chorus rising from the tangerine army.... ONE TWO THREE FOUR! OHEEOH, SUPER KENNY DOUGALL!!!
 |
| He never gives the ball away.... |
I can't even pretend I can do the rest of the game justice. I can tell you Gary Madine (he's a Goal Machine) comes on. We're right on top, Madine and Yates look a handful. Madine is more than just a presence - he plays a lovely diagonal for Keshi who is stopped by a desperate tackle that sees him limp off. At some point before that, he did a fucking outrageous spin and flick past three players. If he looked a bit eager in the first half, he purred his way through the second... I can tell you that CJ Hamilton replaces him. I love Critch's subs today. Going for it. Not getting cagey, trying to put the boot on their throat and press down.
At another point, Madine nods a header just over the top from a little dinked Garbutt free kick. A few times CJ makes getting away on the right look like a piece of piss. Jerry plays one of the most sublime passes I've ever seen from wide left. What happened before or after that image, I dunno, but the lad can play. Similarly, he has a ridiculously clever little flick in the box at one point. He's so much better than just a whippet up front. He's a really fucking good footballer.
He almost, almost, almost puts the game to bed. Dougall plays in Madine, the goal machine shows his insanely good radar as he dummies it, and lets it run through his legs, Jerry is through, we're up as one, he's lifted it, over the keeper, we're about to let it all go, but it's just too cute a flick and Lincoln can scramble back and scrape it away.
Then there's pressure. Grant Ward is on, Embleton is off. Lincoln aren't done. There's a horrible cross, at some point Maxwell has one of those crazy punches and we scramble it away. The ball seems to whistle across the face off goal more times than I'd like. Jordan Thorniley comes on. Shirtless Jerry goes off. There's pointing at the back. There's tireless running, there's a wonderful, wonderful shithouse challenge from Kenny Dougall, calmly taking a man down, perfectly judged so it can only be a yellow and we can all get back. Jimmy is leaping and sliding. Garbutt snaps into a perfect tackle. Lincoln are pressing...
The clock ticks on. The crowd is announced to a rousing chorus of 'Fuck the EFL' The clock ticks on some more... All the screens and a PA you can actually hear, but I've no idea how much injury time there is. Their keeper is up. We clear, they win it back. The keeper comes up again. We clear, but they win it back again and the keeper stays up... This is brilliant stuff, but I'd really rather it was over, much as I like it when goalies go mad. Somewhere in all this, Lincoln come a bit close, but as it goes over, wide or whatever actually happened, all I can remember is cheering like we'd scored. Again, a wave of noise goes round the horseshoe of Pool fans and it's clear, we've done this... It's just a matter of time now...
We clear it, CJ races down the right, CJ is pulled down, or maybe he's knocked his man down. There's a whistle and for a second or so, I'm looking to see who the free kick is too, but then I notice that our lads are sprinting, their arms are aloft, their sliding, Jerry is dancing and that it's all over and WE. ARE. GOING. UP!!! Me and my new best mate hug again. The noise goes up another notch.
---
For reasons best known to people who are paid loads of money to run football, the trophy is presented behind a big cardboard screen facing away from the majority of the Pool fans. It doesn't matter, because there's 15 minutes of celebration that not even the EFL can fuck up. Simon Sadler (he's one of our own) applauds. Demi lifts the cup again and again and again. The crowd roars again and again and again. Critch is grinning his impish best, his eyes are twinkling like christmas lights. He's eschewed the big coat, he's cast off the body warmer, and is resplendent in a champagne soaked white polo shirt. Sullay and Grant Ward embrace. Ellis Simms limps around, a grin from ear to ear. Jerry conducts the fans, bottle in hand.
There's a few moments where I just watch. I drink in the noise. The fists punching the air in rhythm to the chants, the sheer delight all around. All this club has been through. All that is still to come. This wonderful, strange and magical thing that entranced me by accident 30 years ago. This thing that I thought I'd lost and that now, I've never felt more strongly. Wembley comes and Wembley goes but this feels like something else. The players sprint and slide. We roar once more.
In the background, the Lincoln fans have applauded their team, they've had a magnificent season and yet, they've slunk away, heads bowed. It's over for them. You win sometimes, you lose sometimes and today, we won. We're back where we were. It's all football, whatever league it is, but it's PNE, it's Blackburn, it's West Brom, it's Forest, Derby, QPR, Sheffield United and so on and so on... It's the second tier and we're in it and we won't be there just to enjoy it and cling on for dear life either... Critchley won't see it like that. Sadler won't see it like that. We're really, really back this time... The warmth from the fans to the club. The genuine sense that it's a two way street.
Pinch yourself. There's a fella in a suit on the pitch who owns the club and we love him. We're singing his name. He's not one of that lot. He's anything but that. He's not part of some consortium of investors who fancied expanding their portfolio. He's not some crazy middle east tycoon who fancies a club to play with who picked Blackpool out of a list of names. He's one of our own and we're only just getting started on this journey...
What a season. What a strange time. What an end to it all. What are beautiful thing it is to be tangerine
Thanks for reading this shite this year... In a bit x
utmp
Then there's pressure. Grant Ward is on, Embleton is off. Lincoln aren't done. There's a horrible cross, at some point Maxwell has one of those crazy punches and we scramble it away. The ball seems to whistle across the face off goal more times than I'd like. Jordan Thorniley comes on. Shirtless Jerry goes off. There's pointing at the back. There's tireless running, there's a wonderful, wonderful shithouse challenge from Kenny Dougall, calmly taking a man down, perfectly judged so it can only be a yellow and we can all get back. Jimmy is leaping and sliding. Garbutt snaps into a perfect tackle. Lincoln are pressing...
The clock ticks on. The crowd is announced to a rousing chorus of 'Fuck the EFL' The clock ticks on some more... All the screens and a PA you can actually hear, but I've no idea how much injury time there is. Their keeper is up. We clear, they win it back. The keeper comes up again. We clear, but they win it back again and the keeper stays up... This is brilliant stuff, but I'd really rather it was over, much as I like it when goalies go mad. Somewhere in all this, Lincoln come a bit close, but as it goes over, wide or whatever actually happened, all I can remember is cheering like we'd scored. Again, a wave of noise goes round the horseshoe of Pool fans and it's clear, we've done this... It's just a matter of time now...
We clear it, CJ races down the right, CJ is pulled down, or maybe he's knocked his man down. There's a whistle and for a second or so, I'm looking to see who the free kick is too, but then I notice that our lads are sprinting, their arms are aloft, their sliding, Jerry is dancing and that it's all over and WE. ARE. GOING. UP!!! Me and my new best mate hug again. The noise goes up another notch.
---
For reasons best known to people who are paid loads of money to run football, the trophy is presented behind a big cardboard screen facing away from the majority of the Pool fans. It doesn't matter, because there's 15 minutes of celebration that not even the EFL can fuck up. Simon Sadler (he's one of our own) applauds. Demi lifts the cup again and again and again. The crowd roars again and again and again. Critch is grinning his impish best, his eyes are twinkling like christmas lights. He's eschewed the big coat, he's cast off the body warmer, and is resplendent in a champagne soaked white polo shirt. Sullay and Grant Ward embrace. Ellis Simms limps around, a grin from ear to ear. Jerry conducts the fans, bottle in hand.
There's a few moments where I just watch. I drink in the noise. The fists punching the air in rhythm to the chants, the sheer delight all around. All this club has been through. All that is still to come. This wonderful, strange and magical thing that entranced me by accident 30 years ago. This thing that I thought I'd lost and that now, I've never felt more strongly. Wembley comes and Wembley goes but this feels like something else. The players sprint and slide. We roar once more.
In the background, the Lincoln fans have applauded their team, they've had a magnificent season and yet, they've slunk away, heads bowed. It's over for them. You win sometimes, you lose sometimes and today, we won. We're back where we were. It's all football, whatever league it is, but it's PNE, it's Blackburn, it's West Brom, it's Forest, Derby, QPR, Sheffield United and so on and so on... It's the second tier and we're in it and we won't be there just to enjoy it and cling on for dear life either... Critchley won't see it like that. Sadler won't see it like that. We're really, really back this time... The warmth from the fans to the club. The genuine sense that it's a two way street.
Pinch yourself. There's a fella in a suit on the pitch who owns the club and we love him. We're singing his name. He's not one of that lot. He's anything but that. He's not part of some consortium of investors who fancied expanding their portfolio. He's not some crazy middle east tycoon who fancies a club to play with who picked Blackpool out of a list of names. He's one of our own and we're only just getting started on this journey...
What a season. What a strange time. What an end to it all. What are beautiful thing it is to be tangerine
Thanks for reading this shite this year... In a bit x
utmp
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ReplyDeleteGreat read felt as if I was right there with you. UTMP
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