2 week lie down needed: the Mighty vs Blackburn Rovers

Strap in. It's bumpy ride. 

Proper journalists would do a proper introduction. There isn't one because proper journalists wouldn't have to do their actual job on a Saturday till 2.30pm, leaving them with a mad dash across town because their actual job is proper journalism. Proper journalists wouldn't have to run from where they'd parked the car, risking life and limb to get across roads in attempt to get into the ground before anything happened. Proper journalists wouldn't find out out about the first goal on Lidl car park from a bloke looking a bit bemusedly at them legging it between cars and saying 'I think they've scored' and motioning in the general direction of the stadium. Proper journalists wouldn't have to stop for a minute to catch their breath and hear the sound of the cheers and chanting wafting on the air towards them. 

You get the idea. I missed kick off. Luckily, I'm not a proper journalist but shite blogger instead so it doesn't matter. Not being a proper journalist also means I can swear profusely in what follows and don't really have to bother about putting things in the right order because, frankly, who the fuck knows exactly what happened after that game? You want facts and that? Look up one of those websites that turns everything into a graph for fucks sake.   

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I get in at about 8 minutes past 3. "1-0, Lavery" says the steward. We're on the attack. I don't even know the team. Madine is playing. TJJ isn't. Bowler is there, Yates is not. I start to squeeze into my row to get to my seat. We're still having what is turning into a very good attack and I've realised now that I am that twat that pushes past you at a crucial moment. I don't know what to do. I've gone too far to go back, but I have to push past more people. I can't stay where I am. If we score, someone might thump me for being in the way. I would deserve it. Maybe I'll ban myself for 3 years. I push determinedly on. We don't score. I sit down. I'm fucking knackered. Work is shit. Running is shit. Missing the first goal is shit. 

Blackburn are shit. This is a surprise. I already knew work was shit so that's no shock, but I expected Blackburn to be good. We're cutting them to ribbons. Shayne is on fire and their defence is terrified. Bowler is flickering fitfully and not quite exploding into flames but their defence is still terrified. Big Gaz. Big Gaz. Ladies and gentlemen. It's Gary Madine. He's not on fire, he's gone full nuclear, flicking, chesting, prompting, controlling, laying it off. Their defence is not so much terrified as numbly impotent in the face of his genius. We look superb. Madine does a back heel flick down the line to set Keshi away and all the shite of the workday week melts into nothingness. 

Lavery goes wide, he goes round his man and the Rovers defender barges him. Lavery goes down in a heap. No foul? Why the fuck not? The fans from the next milltown along from Burnley bay and howl at him but Shayne is not pretending. Off he goes. A strange cameo, a goal and some brilliant running but cut cruelly short. On comes Shirtless Jerry to reunite himself with the football phenomena that is Gaz Maz. 

Yates is the ideal replacement for Lavery. We don't really break stride. We're moving the ball so well. Wintle is crisp and clever. Dougall is having one of those games where he rats to perfection. Keshi is getting away on the left. Garbut is getting up the pitch. His relationship with Keshi is blossoming. Sterling the same on the right, he's so good, it doesn't really matter that Bowler doesn't defend. With Madine in form, we look balanced, we have options. We play it short, we move it directly, we spread play, we do triangles. We mix it up in the best possible way. 

Keshi gets away on the left again, a ball comes in, it's a beauty and oh. my. fucking. god, it's the Goal Machine, steaming in. I love goals like this, I love thumping headers from big strikers. They're timeless. Yes, there's all the tiki taka Cruyff love in stuff, there's pressing and moving through phases of play, there's Bielsa and Lobanovsky, there's Samba football, all of that glorious, intricate, technical, special stuff but, really, is there anything better than a big lad, steaming in at the far post to knock a cross home like they always have, like they do on Pathe news reels where all the crowd wave their rattles and throw their caps in the air... like they do on 70s football clips where the crowds tumble down terraces as the ball hits the net, like they've been doing forever and ever... 

My hat is about to be launched, rattle ready to be cranked, I'm about to tumble down the south stand, Madine has killed his run, peddled backwards and now he's coming towards it, he's launching himself into a dive, he meets it perfectly, it's headed downward, on a true path to goal but somehow their keeper stops it... 

For fuck's sake. Can I not have anything nice? 

But wait! What's this? It's the one player everyone of tangerine persuasion wants to score. It's Jerry 'deadly last year but a bit lost this year' Yates and he's found himself now, he's tucking it home with a mini diving header of his own, like he's copying Gaz but on a smaller scale, the keeper is sprawled on the floor, Jerry is wheeling away and we're going mental and this was worth running in the rain like a lunatic for because we're 2-0 up and we're on fire and JERRY YATES HAS SCORED... WHERE WE GOING?!!! (the answer is, not on the piss just yet, not before we've been over to shush the away fans first. Who doesn't love Jerry?) 

Still we play. Still Blackburn are absolutely dire. They keep giving the ball away. Their touch is awful. We keep winning the second ball and attacking. It's one of those halfs you never want to end. We make chances. We scuff it about in the six yard box. Crazy Uncle Richard has a wonderful run right to the D but loses heart and passes sideways when the whole world wanted him to have a shot. We are so far and away the better side that it feels like the fag end of last year and battering Northampton or someone. 

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I've not eaten or drunk anything since 7.30 this morning and that was just a brew and a single piece of toast and it's now 3.50pm. I'm deliriously happy though. That was fucking brilliant. I think Maxwell made a save somewhere in the half but what I've seen has been us, at our best, better than I thought our best was, utterly dismantling a decent-ish championship side. That Copa-America lad they bang on about hasn't had a sniff. This could be 4 or 5 if we can play like that again. 

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Miracles abound and I get a drink at half time. Can this day get any better? 

The answer is no. It can't. (well, not until later anyway) 

Firstly, tricky Dicky Keogh, the world's best centre half* has gone off and been replaced by Jimmy 'are we definitely sure he's not a left back?' Husband

*certainly he is if you narrow it down to ones with mad eyebrows that look like they're velcroed on. 

Secondly, shit Blackburn have swapped shirts with good Blackburn. They look exactly the same as each other, but one is shit and one isn't. The second half side start immediately doing everything the first half one didn't. They press, they harry, they give us no time. They pass to each other. They run past us instead of into us. They win headers and shut down our passing game with no real problem. 

Where has this come from? Just as I'm thinking 'we just need to weather this, it can't last' they sweep a ball across the box from a deepish right sided position and that fucking lad from the Copa America just runs in and scores. Maxwell and Sterling are helpless. The worst sort of goals are ones that seem so easy. 

Fucking hell. C'mon Pool! 

What follows is pure hell. Blackburn pour forward. We scramble, we slide, we fight for everything but they fight just as hard. They look like they're fresh and we look like we're clinging on. To be honest, seeing as they barely played in the first half, it's not surprising they've got energy. Maxwell bursts out of goal, completely fluffs his kick and then has to run backward, getting back just in time to stop a shot from the edge of the box that pops out and he has to pounce on. Thank fuck for Chris Maxwell. Even when he's making mistakes he makes me feel glad he's there. We'll need him, every ounce of his organisational skills and leadership, especially without Keogh. 

Maxwell is down. What is this game? Why is it always like this for Pool? He's getting treatment. I feel a bit sick. He's testing his leg. It's really not right. I'm not a physio but I've stood behind lots of goals watching lots of keepers and even the late Les Sealey (RIP) moved better than this when he couldn't be arsed playing for us. He's carrying on. I want him to carry on cos he's the best keeper in the world, but a keeper on one leg is no keeper. He smacks a clearance, it's a good one but immediately he pulls up. He's done. He goes down again. I feel sicker. He's hobbling off with the two physios. He shrugs off their arms, he hugs Stuart Moore, he's in his ear, talking to him for a good 20 seconds before letting go and on comes the largely unknown property to guard the goal. It's all a bit weird. I feel strangely emotional at Maxwell being injured. I don't know quite why but I feel really protective of him. I think it's cos he's a bit special, he's the sort of footballing keeper combined with a genuinely focused and determined leader type character you can't easily replace and because he's one of those players who've played the football of their life for us.  

Blackburn carry on in the same manner. We can't put passes together. The Goal Machine wins it, the ref blows for a foul. The Goal Machine wrestles the ball under control but it's nipped away from him. Jerry tries a turn but the ball won't roll. Bowler runs into traffic. Keshi gets clattered. Fuck my life, why is this game like this? Keshi is in agony. Not another one? Surely. Keshi gets up. He's got no choice. 

Marvin gets booked. He's actually, for once in his life not timed a slide to perfection. They burst in. Dujon Sterling flies in, he takes the ball, the man going with it. I wince in anticipation of a whistle and breathe out when it doesn't come and wince again when I see that Sterling has hurt himself now. All these injuries and the Viking isn't even on the pitch. It's a good job as he'd probably have been decapitated if he'd played in this game. 

Corners, headers just wide. Shots dragged wide with Moore diving after them. Runs into the box, around the box. Marvin skidding in and blocking a shot. Jimmy heading it in a weird direction. The stand groans. C'mon you fucking miserable bastards, GET BEHIND THEM... The ball cut across, Jimmy air kicks, it's horrible, it's horrific but it's smuggled away at the far post and we survive. GET BEHIND THEM!!!!!!!!! 

Jerry at right back. Even Bowler is tackling back. Wintle makes a beautiful professional foul, chasing back as they break, bursting through, the defence being peeled away like paint by a blow torch until he slides in and clips/wrestles his man down. A yellow card has never been applauded so wholeheartedly. Jimmy has settled down. Bowler has done some quality shithouse stuff, kicking the ball away to waste time. Moore is spotting up his goal kicks perfectly, checking carefully for the exact blade of grass he wants. 

The Copa-America novelty player scores, but it's offside and it's one of those great ones where we see the flag before he does. We cheer it in. It relieves some tension. We're getting there. Bit by bit. We're leggy, we're tired but as the timer runs down, we're putting everything into it. . Keshi has totally gone. He's playing just in front of Garbutt and he's barely able to jump, but he's doing his bit, running on fumes. Madine is lumbering but he still presses and occupies their defence. We're hanging on. Bowler has a shot. It's wide. Madine has a run but he can't find the pace to put himself in a shooting position. It's ok though, because we pass it about instead and maybe things are calming down. 

8 minutes!!! 8 minutes? Are we playing till Blackburn score or something? What the fuck?! They've practically been allowed to disembowel our team and the ref has found 8 minutes to let them score. Fuck off. Fuck off. I can't watch this. Fuck off. We do well. We get it up to Madine, he pisses about in the corner with it. It's beautiful to see. We do it again. We can just do this for 8 minutes! 

We can't.

They get down the right. They get a cross, there's a header, then another header, it's looping in, I'm feeling like what it must feel like to realise your plane is falling out of the sky when Stuart Moore goes backward, springs and tips it away. The plane comes out of the nose dive. We survive. The ground is electric. All three sides are on their feet. Moore clutches the ball to his chest from the next move. We're on our feet again. A minute ago I tasted death, now I feel like what I can only describe as ecstasy as the entire ground bounces, as the noise ricochets around. There's moments when your life just feels right, sunsets on a long drive, when you just look at the person you are in love with and feel a delirious calm, when your kid does something that makes you proud, when you first felt the kiss of MDMA and the moment when the music was just right or whatever the fuck it may be and there's this. This. I can't put it into words. It's fucking incredible. This is something else. It's always been special when it's like this, but it's more special than it's ever been. Week after week, we make this noise, they play their hearts out and the noise just grows. I want to savour every second of it. I want this to last forever. Every fucking person in the ground as one. This is out of body stuff. 

Moore kicks. The whistle blows.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

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It's recency bias that makes you think the last game was the most dramatic or most intense but I really struggle to think of a game recently where I've been that on edge and where I've been that wound up. Wembley was 2-1 but it was the opposite in that we started beautifully here and ended clinging on whereas Wembley felt like a win from the moment we equalised. Maybe Sunderland away with Maxwell's string of wonder saves, but that was on the telly...  Maybe Fulham this year, but I dunno, this seemed a level up from that. 

Don't take clinging on as a criticism. We clung on with the fire and fight of a team that doesn't ever know it's beaten. We lost 3 of the most important players we could lose. I kept looking at the bench and remembering we couldn't do anything. Madine played his first 90 minutes since Wigan away in January. That was surely not the plan. 

We clung on pretty fucking well and apart from Moore's wonder save Rovers didn't come that close. We were superb in the first half and I have to say, Blackburn were very good in the second. Some of their individual work was superb, their aggression in the tackle really something to behold. But we beat them, probably because we were a better team compared to their superior individuals. We're in the top half. We're taking points, taking them regularly and not just against the weakest sides. We're playing football, we're winning ugly, we're playing triangles, we're throwing ourselves full length in blocks. We're Wintle's short passes and clever fouls, we're Keshi's impudence, Marvin's timing, Kenny pragmatism and Bowler's completely impractical magic. We're skill and little nippy darting forwards and we're Big Gaz at the far post.

Let's not think of injuries. Let's remember instead that we're fucking WIZARDS! 

I'm going to lie down in dark now. 

utmp 

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