We're on the way. The bleak open views and quarry blasted hillsides of the Pennines have given way to the encroaching east coast flatlands and we're upon Darlington. There stands the Northern Echo arena, a stadium that sunk a grand old club and that now towers above the nothingness it surrounds like a great rust striped white elephant. As I'm contemplating hiring some of the optimistically (desperately?) advertised office space, I notice a kestrel, hovering in line with the roof stanchions, so close and still I can see the way its splayed feathers play the air like fingers of a concert pianist on a grand piano. We drive onward. A football ghost town left behind.
Boro is reassuring. In a world where the certainties of yesterday are long forgotten, it's one of the few places that feels like it always has done, at least to the outside eye. They don't mine coal in Wigan anymore and the Glasgow shipyards are TV studios and fancy flats. Newcastle's riverside is a drunken haze instead of wharfs and barely any trawlers sail from Fleetwood docks. But Middlesbrough still feels like a chemical town, the highrise A-road cutting through Victorian town centre splendour and giving panoramic views of famous bridges and science fiction factories, all pipework and brutalist concrete slabs.
I park. I pay the meter. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Press. Print.
"You don't have to pay today mate, it's weekdays only"
That's £3.40 Middlesbrough council didn't expect. I hope they spend it wisely. They owe me a win. Pool owe me nothing because they given me more than I could have asked for in recent times, but none the less, I'm hoping for something a bit more convincing than the soggy paper bag of a performance from Tuesday. I just want to see some fight, spirit, believe, aggression and intent. What will be will be.
The Riverside is one of the better new grounds and the concourse is soon full of Blackpool fans. I'm not sure about adding a distinctly Liverpool flavoured song to our song book, but the noise is great and who am I to decree what we sing? I've only ever started one chant off, a quick burst of 'Oh, Andy, Andy...." in the West Paddock in a game against (I think) Burnley that I was so gratified that others joined in with that I never attempted such a feat again. Allez, Allez, Allez...
Talking of combative midfield players that can dictate the middle of the park, Kev Stewart isn't on the bench. I'm worried about him. Jerry is on the bench though. I'm sort of worried about him a little bit. I'm hoping Keshi and John-Jules will be a fluid interchanging untrackable beast with two heads and Bowler and Lavery can profit from the space such confusion creates.
---
Things don't start well. We look rushed and unsettled and are a goal behind in what feels like no time. Boro take a short corner, work it deep, swing in a curling ball that arcs perfectly onto an overlapping Boro player appearing from deep. He wasn't offside, but everyone else surely was. Ryan Wintle has his arm in the air for about 10 seconds. Maxwell runs out of the goal as furious as I've ever seen him. Pool players surround the referee, the implore him to look at the big screen, as if somehow the officials will decide unilaterally to bring in VAR to the championship today. I add 'there were 4 of them a mile and a fucking half offside' as loud as I can in order to bolster the appeal. It's to no avail.
We struggle a bit to make an impression on the game. It's like we've just carried on from where we left off in the last match. This is a Neil Warnock side. You don't simply walk through such a team. Colin himself stalks the touchline. I say 'stalk', it's more of a bandy legged waddle these days. From a distance he looks like someone's nan. He's gone very pear shaped in his dotage. I always think his touched up face has the slight feel of the reconstructed face of burn victim under one of those clear plastic masks they wear. His skin is too smooth, his hairline weird as fuck. My lad thinks it's hilarious that they're managed by someone older than his grandad.
Lavery races away and pulls out a back heel, it's worked deep and Wintle strokes a cross, Boro get a touch but only to skim it across the box to John-Jules in acres of space. He kills it stone dead, he shifts inside and leaves the lad who has raced across staggering, he lines up his shot and... puts it into the crowd behind the goal. I have my hands on my head. He has his hands on his head. Everyone has their hands on their head bar the Boro fans behind the goal who have them wide apart in mockery at how far he was from so close. Chin up lad. Come on.
We play a bit like we're playing in treacle. We're ponderous at the back and there's not a lot of movement. Boro seem content to sit back and wait for us to make a mistake then pour forward. They hit the post with a thraking effort from outside the box that has Maxwell well beaten. We work it forward and we lose it. We work it forward and somehow manage to get Marvin in possession on the edge of the box several times when it would seem like anyone else on the team would be a more sensible option. A sloppy pass from Ekpiteta proves the point and we're lucky to get away with another swift break. We work it forward and then we go backwards. Bowler running with it seems like the only way through, but he's not brought his magic boots today, just the boots of a mere mortal.
Keogh takes it. He looks forward. Nothing shows. He shouts and Kenny snaps into action to take the ball from him. it goes back to Keogh. He controls, one of their lads charges him down. He shifts it sideways under pressure to Garbutt. Garbutt drives up the pitch. He gets tackled. The ball rebounds off him and out of play. Boro have a throw. That's the first 40-ish minutes of the first half in a nutshell. Critchley is making weird zigzag gestures with his arms. He's shouting. Positively hopping up and down. I'm getting the impression he's not especially chuffed. I think wild zigzagging arms whilst bouncing is Critch-speak for 'start fucking moving'
Late in the half, possibly inspired by the calmest man in football losing it a bit, we rally. We find a bit of space. We seem to collectively calm down somewhat. Keshi has a run, Bowler has a run. We defend a corner well even though the man behind me says out loud 'if this goes in we're fucked' which strikes me as tempting fate. We win a corner of our own. Lavery darts to the near post, he swivels, he connects, it's just over the top. Heads again in hands but it's been better.
---
Me and the fella to my left conclude that Critch won't make any subs. This doesn't stop me wanting to see Yates on for John Jules. The young lad is a good player but he's not making much headway. He's not winning anything in the air and his nuanced style isn't really finding the space it needs to work. What we've not done is utilise the width of the pitch. We've looked static and unable to shift the ball quickly. Even though I spent last week swearing that Yates and Lavery are incompatible, this game seems ripe for their hard running.
---
Me and the fella to my left conclude that Critch won't make any subs. This doesn't stop me wanting to see Yates on for John Jules. The young lad is a good player but he's not making much headway. He's not winning anything in the air and his nuanced style isn't really finding the space it needs to work. What we've not done is utilise the width of the pitch. We've looked static and unable to shift the ball quickly. Even though I spent last week swearing that Yates and Lavery are incompatible, this game seems ripe for their hard running.
We've not done too well, but we've not done disastrously badly either. Wintle has again impressed, Keogh has been really tidy, Lavery has come closest to unsettling the Boro backline and Dujon Sterling is likably committed and has scampered down the right to decent effect a few times and stood up in the tackle well, undaunted by an early skinning from Boro's silky skillful left winger.
---
Obviously, there are no subs. There were never going to be. It's Critch for fuck's sake!
We're off down the right, in comes a cross, Lavery darts, it evades him, John Jules stretches, he meets it, but it flashes wide. It's a good start. We're on our feet. The noise turns up. We can do this.
We're going forward again, the ball is in the box, Marvin nods it down, there's hacking and it's bouncing about and it's falling to Shayne, who is exactly who you'd want it to fall too, he's stuck his foot out, he's poked it, it's rolling, the keeper is wrong footed, it's still rolling, the defence are flat footed and looking horror, it's rolling, it's taking an age and it's striking the base of the post...
The noise goes up another notch.
Keshi is fouled. The free kick is tapped short. Keogh strides forward. What is he doing? Why give him the ball? He's approaching the box. He's bound to turn in a circle and either lose it or pass it backwards. But no, he's spotted something. He's scooping a fucking outrageous dinked ball over the top to Marvin, who is controlling it, turning and (no really, he is) slamming the ball home.
Pandemonium.
I lose myself and then find myself as I realise how loud I'm screaming a guttural cry of joy. I look down and see Crazy Uncle Richard is doing exactly the same. It's as if we're screaming at each other. He's absolutely unbridled. It's pure delight. I fucking love it. The whole team is in front of us and the place has gone mad. What a fucking moment. Keogh to Marvin. Goal. Who needs strikers?
Obviously, there are no subs. There were never going to be. It's Critch for fuck's sake!
We're off down the right, in comes a cross, Lavery darts, it evades him, John Jules stretches, he meets it, but it flashes wide. It's a good start. We're on our feet. The noise turns up. We can do this.
We're going forward again, the ball is in the box, Marvin nods it down, there's hacking and it's bouncing about and it's falling to Shayne, who is exactly who you'd want it to fall too, he's stuck his foot out, he's poked it, it's rolling, the keeper is wrong footed, it's still rolling, the defence are flat footed and looking horror, it's rolling, it's taking an age and it's striking the base of the post...
The noise goes up another notch.
Keshi is fouled. The free kick is tapped short. Keogh strides forward. What is he doing? Why give him the ball? He's approaching the box. He's bound to turn in a circle and either lose it or pass it backwards. But no, he's spotted something. He's scooping a fucking outrageous dinked ball over the top to Marvin, who is controlling it, turning and (no really, he is) slamming the ball home.
Pandemonium.
I lose myself and then find myself as I realise how loud I'm screaming a guttural cry of joy. I look down and see Crazy Uncle Richard is doing exactly the same. It's as if we're screaming at each other. He's absolutely unbridled. It's pure delight. I fucking love it. The whole team is in front of us and the place has gone mad. What a fucking moment. Keogh to Marvin. Goal. Who needs strikers?
Breathe. Another round of the Ally-Ally-oh. Another chorus of Tangerine. More Seaside! More Barmy Army! I fucking love this. I fucking love it. We never stop.
Boro skid forward, like an out of control car with broken brakes, they swerve left and right, the ball comes to the nearside about 12 yards out, a driven shot, a sprawling Pool player and a diving Maxwell keep it out. A wake up call? Just a reason to get louder. We clear the corner. Louder still.
Gary Madine replaces John-Jules. Oi! Oi! Oi!
Can we hold on? We get a corner on our side. A bit of relief. Madine is close to it, but he's being held down clearly. Nothing doing though. We get another corner on the other side. I watch Big Gaz, idling on the edge of the box, like nuclear submarine waiting to dive. The ball is delivered, Madine goes but it never reaches him, there's melee at the near post, a touch sends it towards goal, a Boro player dives in, the ball skews off him and the net billows. Lavery runs away as if he touched it home. I don't know what happened but I don't care... It's electric. I'm weightless. We're all weightless. This is what we live for.
Boro bring on their exotic Argentine no 10. It's not long before he hits a stupidly good up and down fading, dipping, swerving effort that looks for all the world like it's going in before it strikes the underside of the bar. They force a stop from Maxwell. More songs. A sub. Where you going? On the piss. Shirtless Jerry is serenaded on to the pitch.
They force a stop. We break. That's the pattern. Nothing Maxwell has to do is too terrifying and it feels like we could get a third. Keshi storms away. Bowler storms away. He even passes it. They launch it into the box, we head it clear. They launch it again, we head it once, twice, it comes back. Gary Madine does the best defensive header I've ever seen, nodding it firmly across the box onto the the very blade of grass that the full back needs it to just run up the pitch. That radar...
They bombard us again. Jerry has it by our goal line. He whacks it away, over the halfway line. Their full back comes out to meet it to launch it again but he's put under pressure by... Jerry Yates. He's chased his own clearance and nearly made it as well. That is why you never, ever, ever slate Jerry Yates. It doesn't matter if he's scored. He does that. Normal strikers don't do that. Shirtless Jerry does. We love Shirtless Jerry.
There's 6 minutes of injury time. 6? Where's he got that from? There's balls into the box. There's Maxwell catching it. There's a breathless run from us. There's basically just a jumble of things. We win a corner. Garbutt is fist pumping in time to the chanting. Wintle implore us for even more noise, his face breaking into a grin as we respond. There's Madine, holding it up for a good 10, 15 seconds as he does. The injury time lasts way longer than 6 minutes. It's past 5pm. We're still playing. Is this ref taking the piss? They break. It's a really fucking terrifying break. Gabriel shadows his man "For fuck's sake, FOUL HIM!!!" Gabriel does. It's an excellent foul. They don't make anything of the free kick. Still we play. Will this game ever end?
It ends. Pure joy erupts.
---
Critch again is positively King Billy-esque at the end (there's no higher praise. Billy was one of the greatests humans, never mind Blackpool managers, ever) as he applauds and then carried on the wave of his emotions, punches a clenched fist in the air. We roar. We roar again as he thumps his fist against the badge on his tracksuit top. He's special this lad. Surely, by now he's earned more than to be doubted after every game that he doesn't win. He's just so focussed. So intense and yet so measured and calm at the same time and these moments where he lets out what must burn inside to drive him are fucking great. There's nothing cheap about Critch. Nothing but hard work and polite, carefully spoken steel.
We sing. We file out. We float away home.
I haven't the heart to dissect it. It's not the point after such a brilliant day. Not everyone was perfect, but fuck it. Sometimes you should just enjoy life. That was fucking fabulous.
utmp
Boro skid forward, like an out of control car with broken brakes, they swerve left and right, the ball comes to the nearside about 12 yards out, a driven shot, a sprawling Pool player and a diving Maxwell keep it out. A wake up call? Just a reason to get louder. We clear the corner. Louder still.
Gary Madine replaces John-Jules. Oi! Oi! Oi!
Can we hold on? We get a corner on our side. A bit of relief. Madine is close to it, but he's being held down clearly. Nothing doing though. We get another corner on the other side. I watch Big Gaz, idling on the edge of the box, like nuclear submarine waiting to dive. The ball is delivered, Madine goes but it never reaches him, there's melee at the near post, a touch sends it towards goal, a Boro player dives in, the ball skews off him and the net billows. Lavery runs away as if he touched it home. I don't know what happened but I don't care... It's electric. I'm weightless. We're all weightless. This is what we live for.
Boro bring on their exotic Argentine no 10. It's not long before he hits a stupidly good up and down fading, dipping, swerving effort that looks for all the world like it's going in before it strikes the underside of the bar. They force a stop from Maxwell. More songs. A sub. Where you going? On the piss. Shirtless Jerry is serenaded on to the pitch.
They force a stop. We break. That's the pattern. Nothing Maxwell has to do is too terrifying and it feels like we could get a third. Keshi storms away. Bowler storms away. He even passes it. They launch it into the box, we head it clear. They launch it again, we head it once, twice, it comes back. Gary Madine does the best defensive header I've ever seen, nodding it firmly across the box onto the the very blade of grass that the full back needs it to just run up the pitch. That radar...
They bombard us again. Jerry has it by our goal line. He whacks it away, over the halfway line. Their full back comes out to meet it to launch it again but he's put under pressure by... Jerry Yates. He's chased his own clearance and nearly made it as well. That is why you never, ever, ever slate Jerry Yates. It doesn't matter if he's scored. He does that. Normal strikers don't do that. Shirtless Jerry does. We love Shirtless Jerry.
There's 6 minutes of injury time. 6? Where's he got that from? There's balls into the box. There's Maxwell catching it. There's a breathless run from us. There's basically just a jumble of things. We win a corner. Garbutt is fist pumping in time to the chanting. Wintle implore us for even more noise, his face breaking into a grin as we respond. There's Madine, holding it up for a good 10, 15 seconds as he does. The injury time lasts way longer than 6 minutes. It's past 5pm. We're still playing. Is this ref taking the piss? They break. It's a really fucking terrifying break. Gabriel shadows his man "For fuck's sake, FOUL HIM!!!" Gabriel does. It's an excellent foul. They don't make anything of the free kick. Still we play. Will this game ever end?
It ends. Pure joy erupts.
---
Critch again is positively King Billy-esque at the end (there's no higher praise. Billy was one of the greatests humans, never mind Blackpool managers, ever) as he applauds and then carried on the wave of his emotions, punches a clenched fist in the air. We roar. We roar again as he thumps his fist against the badge on his tracksuit top. He's special this lad. Surely, by now he's earned more than to be doubted after every game that he doesn't win. He's just so focussed. So intense and yet so measured and calm at the same time and these moments where he lets out what must burn inside to drive him are fucking great. There's nothing cheap about Critch. Nothing but hard work and polite, carefully spoken steel.
We sing. We file out. We float away home.
I haven't the heart to dissect it. It's not the point after such a brilliant day. Not everyone was perfect, but fuck it. Sometimes you should just enjoy life. That was fucking fabulous.
utmp
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Excellent 👍⚽️😎🕺🍊
ReplyDeleteBrilliant Matt!
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