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You don't need a load of shite today. Let's get straight into it.
The roulette wheel has been well and truly spun. Some things that were always going to happen have happened (Ollie Turton was always, always, always playing at right back) and some things that surprised even dedicated Critchologists have too. It's a back four which is simple enough, but Jordan Thorniley is rewarded for a string of excellent performances by being dropped in place of Jimmy Husband, who is a football god with a lovely haircut but I can't help think of as a mainly a left back...
The midfield feels a bit weird as well. Embleton plays, not in itself not a huge shock, but will be on the right (or the left perhaps) with Kevin Stewart returning to partner Kenny Dougall and Keshi on the other side. Or is it a diamond of some kind, with Stewart sitting deep, Dougall and Embleton in midfield and Keshi at the tip?
Up front, it's simple enough. There's Jerry, rested and ready and Ellis Simms, bang on form. The question is - will this side be getting the ball to them? I don't like Stewart and Dougall playing together, but maybe the combined creativity of Embleton and Keshi will counteract that. Keshi loves to roam about and Embleton always plays better with another player to swap with. It's not the team I'd have picked, but then the team I'd have picked would have been impossible as Sullay and Grant Ward aren't fit.
Who knows anyway... I've been wrong a million times and Big Gaz is on the bench, so if all else fails, get him on and knock it long and let the Gary magic happen.
Critch is on telly, looking as impish as he ever has. The sound is down, and the silence puts emphasis on his face, fluctuating between cheeky side eyes mischief, steeliness and slight flashes of well disguised but undeniable panic. The players are shot artfully as they warm up - they're an arms whirling, shuttle running, tangerine machine. You don't get this on iFollow do you? Mind you, iFollow don't fuck people around with kick off times either so it's a two way street.
Karl Robinson is on now. He looks like a man who would frequent a slightly upmarket pub, talking really loudly at the bar about his round of golf and whose political views would hinge on common sense and commons sense would be whatever he thinks. The Oxford fans seem a bit too neatly arranged around the stadium. A generic commentator man, pronounces 'The play offs' in that Sky TV voice which is part commentator, part film trailer voice over. A graphic confirms that Chris Maxwell is the best goalie in the world. Critch has ditched both the big coat and the body warmer and gone for a hooded tracksuit top/jacket for a light shower. I realise the Oxford fans remind me of a subbuteo stadium where there aren't enough little figures to give the sense of a capacity and the owner has arranged them a bit too neatly to look natural.
Fucking hell - lets get on with it...
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Oxford put a few passes together. We swarm and close off their openings. Jerry has a nice touch. Nothing comes of it. Then there's a lose touch and Oxford are steaming through. Jimmy and Ballard are either side. Jimmy launches into a tackle. The whistle goes. Fuck no! We've been here before... I SAID WE SHOULDN'T PLAY HIM AT CENTRE BACK!!! FUCK ME... It's a yellow. Thank fuck for that. The free kick is dangerously central, but it's belted into the wall. Jesus...
Our touch isn't quite there but we have a little spell of pressure. We have a couple of crosses from Turton and Embleton blacked but then Brandon Barker has an insane run, the length of the pitch. It's stupidly good, he doesn't even seem to be running that fast, just gliding past anyone and everyone. He lays it off at the last, Jimmy dives in again, I wince, the ball is blocked away and we emerge unscathed. I double check. Jimmy is still there.
Finally we have a corner. Turton, Simms and Embleton working on the right to win. They flick it away at the far post. The ground rises for Jordan Banks. Critch applauds. I'm generally not given to sentiment, but... It's a moment to take pause, if ever there was one.
Embleton tries to play a little first time flick for Jerry. It's cut out. We have one of those little phases of passing we do so well but Stewart is robbed in possession and the momentum shifts to them and they do a mirror image of what we were doing. Turton tries to send Keshi away, but the ball is a fraction too heavy. Oxford play right up the edge of our box, we force them all the way back.
Garbutt, Keshi and Simms link well wide and suddenly we're in. Simms fires it, it's blocked, pops up for Keshi who drills it, drawing a good stop, it falls for Embleton who hits it low but the man on the line
Suddenly we're in this. Keshi shimmering past a man. Jimmy being scythed down. It's deep free kick. Embleton lifts it well, it dips nicely, it's cleared but badly, sliced across goal and then, fucking hell... it's not Fred Titmus, but Ollie Turton! He's going to put it wide of the post and then fall over... BUT HE DOESN'T - He can't miss, he doesn't miss. He's Ollie Turton football genius. YESSSSS!
Get big Gaz on. Pissing around in the corner for 65 mins will do. What's this though? A lofted ball from the centre circle. Disco Ellis takes it, flicks it over his own shoulder, runs around and rifles it home. It is a sublime finish. I am pretty much speechless. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
I've not really noticed the crowd so much, but I notice their silence. I hear their boos when Jerry skins their man, gets round the back and then goes down in the challenge. So quickly had I readjusted to the crowd, their silence and restless murmuring is more jarring than them in full voice.
Maxwell gets told off for pissing about in the six yard box. Critch makes some notes. I reckon they're basically 'YES! YES! YES! IT'S A FUCKING MASTERCLASS' There's a shout for a penalty as a cross strikes Jimmy's hand. I don't know the rules now, but in ref yourself park football, Jimmy would be shouting 'ball to hand' and the game would roll on. Oxford break with lightning pace, Sykes skids it across. Dougall hares back, blocks tumbling, rolling, coming back to his feet and we clear.
The shots of the crowd from the side are like those pictures of the beaches in the height of Covid shaming last summer, making it look like the ground is packed when it's really 3/4 empty. Brandon Barker weaves another spell, before dinking a pass so cute it's sickening, a forward darts to the near post, turns it back and a shot is crashed into Dan Ballard from about 15 yards out.
Keshi gets booked, seemingly for getting pushed twice. (I've ignored the timewasting dribbling away of the ball because, well, it's us...) We end the half well, with Simms nearly finding Keshi with a crossfield ball and Embleton nearly sending Simms through with another eye of the needle pass that doesn't quite get through.
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Well. Aren't we good? I thought they started better, but we just knocked in two goals, kind of out of nowhere and since then, we've kept them more or less at arms length. Barker looks terrifying but so far we've prevented them getting a shot on target and aside from a couple of punches, I can't remember Maxwell making a save. Jimmy has given me a few palpitations but we've looked pretty solid since. Garbutt has looked crisp and purposeful and Dougall has been at his best, one of those games where seems to be moving faster and further than everyone else and to have added +1 to his base level skills. Maybe Mike Garrity has given him an extra bottle of Lucozade or something. He has been terrific.
This is made for us. We love to play on the break. We've got pace on the bench and Super Gaz and his magnetic boots in the corner. The depressing men on Sky talk about the game in such a boring way at half time. I don't even look up to see who they are. I miss the barely worth the effort graphics of iFollow.
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Oxford start as you'd expect, on the offensive. They earn a couple of fouls, they force a few headed clearances. Our passing is a bit off, like the start of the first half, but Embleton gives us the first moment, Simms holding it up well, then laying it for the loanee, who just glides inside, past one then another before popping a low drive just wide of the right hand past from the edge of the box.
Finally Oxford work a chance. Henry splits the defence, Sykes races through. There's a cheeky little touch in the back from Ollie 'Goal!' Turton that maybe puts him off and super Chris Maxwell races out does what he does, standing up strongly and beating Syke's drilled effort away.
Not so fragile anymore Luke has proved to be still quite fragile after all Luke and Jordan Thorniley comes on. There's a weird bit where now returned to left back Jimmy is the heart of everything for 90 seconds. There's also a nagging feeling that if Oxford get their pace running at this pair of centre halves, they could get some joy.
Jimmy is provider again, a lovely ball that curls away from the keeper, evades a lunging defender and finds Yates, it's a tight angle but it's Jerry and it could be the killer. It isn't and the ball is sailing into the car park. Even a sniper misses the odd shot. Yate's miss was understandable, but James Henry's a few minutes later is a bad one. It goes without saying Barker provides, racing down the left, then having the vision to cut it back beyond the players racing to the near post. Henry has only Dougall rushing to the scene a little too late like someone trying vainly to catch a falling vase to worry about, but he just strokes it way over the top.
It encourages Oxford though. They win some more set plays. The ball seems to get stuck in a mass of players from one cross and rolls out to Maxwell, when it looked like it might fly out of the pack more dangerously. There's near post cross cut out and a few corners but finally, we calm it down with bit of passing and force a corner of our own. We keep it on that flank for ages. We force another corner. Embleton does a grand job of taking as long as he can taking them, but less of a grand job in actually delivering a dangerous ball. Oxford bring on two subs. Karl Robinson toys with a sharpie and shouts like a competitive dad at a swimming gala.
Yates and Simms are blocked off. Husband, Dougall and Ballard block off yellow shirts. Oxford come again, they link it well, they're pacy, they're bearing down on goal, but there's Ballard, with a foot in, there's Stewart with a toe in, there's a ball away, Simms collecting, turning, laying off, there's Jerry racing forward, he's clear, he's pulling away, he's reeled back in, but he's no one trick pony, he's no selfish one note finisher, he's sliding in Simms who is, if the phrase means anything, a finisher and finish he does, a deft poke under the keeper. It's DREAMLAND!
We bring on Demi and Gabriel. Embleton and Anderson depart. Brandon Barker goes off for Oxford in one of the less explicable moves by the angry swimming dad. Then, it's the man, the myth, the legend, Gary Madine for shirtless and selfless Jerry.
Maxwell takes a few crosses very well. Turton heroically takes about 20 seconds to decide where a throw in should go. Kevin Stewart surprises himself by having a shot. Maxwell has a bit of a tepid punch, but as has happened all night, one of us is first to the loose ball and Ballard completes Maxwell's half finished work.
Karl Robinson now has his coat on looking sulky as if one of the pool attendants has told him to shut up, sit down and keep quiet or get kicked out. Oxford are out of ideas. We're stringing 5 along the back and forcing them out, then looking to pick them off. We're a decent ball from Demi away from a goal Machine shaped cherry on a very tasty cake as he lurks at the far post, entirely unmarked. When Oxford do trick their why through, Dan Ballard makes the most outrageous defensive header, more of a save than a clearance. We are so solid, I half wonder if we could do without a keeper and play 11 outfield players.
Oxford's night has gone badly and they finish with 10 players as the influential Branigan limps off. A really half hearted 'Yellows' breaks out, but the little plastic figures in the Subbuteo stands have had enough. You get the feeling, they'd have gone home some time ago if they weren't glued to their seats.
The whistle.
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Wow. We're a machine. Why do I even bother second guessing the team selections any more? Simms was pivotal, Dougall was the beating heart, Ballard was pure hewn granite but every single one of them was magic. There is nothing else to say. I could write for a week and not explain how good they were tonight, how measured under pressure, how hard they worked for each other and how fucking great it is that Ollie Turton of all people set us on the way as it sort of defines what this teams is. The whole, the sum of the parts and all that Aristotle stuff...
This was just about the perfect performance. Tactically spot on, executed brilliantly, clinical and incredibly solid, bodies on the line, canny, calm but explosive just at the right time.
Just don't print the details for Wembley in the programme...
MAGIC!
UTMP
Karl Robinson now has his coat on looking sulky as if one of the pool attendants has told him to shut up, sit down and keep quiet or get kicked out. Oxford are out of ideas. We're stringing 5 along the back and forcing them out, then looking to pick them off. We're a decent ball from Demi away from a goal Machine shaped cherry on a very tasty cake as he lurks at the far post, entirely unmarked. When Oxford do trick their why through, Dan Ballard makes the most outrageous defensive header, more of a save than a clearance. We are so solid, I half wonder if we could do without a keeper and play 11 outfield players.
Oxford's night has gone badly and they finish with 10 players as the influential Branigan limps off. A really half hearted 'Yellows' breaks out, but the little plastic figures in the Subbuteo stands have had enough. You get the feeling, they'd have gone home some time ago if they weren't glued to their seats.
The whistle.
---
Wow. We're a machine. Why do I even bother second guessing the team selections any more? Simms was pivotal, Dougall was the beating heart, Ballard was pure hewn granite but every single one of them was magic. There is nothing else to say. I could write for a week and not explain how good they were tonight, how measured under pressure, how hard they worked for each other and how fucking great it is that Ollie Turton of all people set us on the way as it sort of defines what this teams is. The whole, the sum of the parts and all that Aristotle stuff...
This was just about the perfect performance. Tactically spot on, executed brilliantly, clinical and incredibly solid, bodies on the line, canny, calm but explosive just at the right time.
Just don't print the details for Wembley in the programme...
MAGIC!
UTMP
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Very comprehensive - a special write on a very happy night
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