The Highlands are great, Football is great. Imagine if you could cross the two? You'd get the Highland League which is pretty brilliant. Tonight though, it's not league action for in form Fraserburgh (anyone spotted the difference yet?) but Scottish tinpot cup 1st round day, in which they're up against Cowdenbeath.
With a league side in town and a temperate (by north Aberdeenshire standards) evening, a good crowd has gathered.
"Where's Bobby?"
"He's nae comin'"
"Why no?"
"He's in Peterhead"
*Murmured sympathy*
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From the off, Fraserburgh are in control. They're neat and tidy and work incredibly hard for each other. It impossible not to like a team who put this much effort in. It's impossible not to like a team who chat to the crowd during the warm up.
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0-0. I notice there's an advert for Harry's carpets. I wonder if Harry knows Terry?
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I move from by the side of the main stand to the cinder bank opposite. The stand is wonderful. Corrugated iron with some gaps where age has taken its toll, the roof held up with what look like wooden struts that could be from a Tudor mansion.
The cinder bank is brilliant too. There's a few Cowdenbeath fans and a flag. Loads of kids in Fraserburgh tops and the Broch (that's us) are playing towards us.
The star of the show is the diminutive no11*. He's skillful, he's wholehearted, he's feisty and he's by some margin the best player in either side and is at the heart of everything Fraserburgh do.
*In depth research later reveals he's a 19 year old ex Aberdeen player, Lewis Duncan. Sign.him.up.
They do everything except score. One chance goes begging when a lad runs through on goal but turns 180 degrees and looks for someone else to score. I don't think he was striker. Another bounces wide. A lovely diagonal sets the sub free, he pulls it back, three players hack at it and eventually one gets a shot, but it's into the keepers hands when anywhere else would do. A shot from distance whistles wide.
As time ticks on, the Blue Brasil come into it more, creating there one chances but still Fraserburgh threaten on the break. "C'mon the Broch" is muttered all around, shouted full throated by a few. There's applause and encouragement. There's "ooohs" as another chance goes begging.
The seconds tick by... we're heading into the final minute and towards penalties when disaster strikes. A low ball across goal is tucked away by a blue shirt. The 10 of so Cowdenbeath fans dance and the home fans begin to trudge out.
But wait. From the kick off, the Broch stream forward. There's a foul. The little no11 is over it. No6 (who has also had a really good game) puts his arm around him, speaks some encouragement, then walks away. He winds up, he hits it, it's low, to the keeper's right, it's arrowing at the bottom corner but there's a sprawling stop and the little wizard is denied.
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Football is magical. A decent night,a decent crowd, a good pitch, greasy after just a touch of rain, with two teams playing at full tilt. What more could you want? It was, aside from the outcome, a wonderful evening.
Fraserburgh were largely the better side. They deserved to win, they lost. Such is football. This is football beyond the theatrics, beyond the histrionics, beyond the spoiled tantrums of entitlement that follows in the wake of a defeat of a bigger club. As we walk out, stoic voices state
"if ye dinnae take yer chances ye willnae win"
"Aye"
"Ye cannae miss that many"
"No"
C'mon the Broch.
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