We're away. The torpor of Christmas falls from us like discarded wrapping paper. Hangovers shed like reptile skin. Out into the last late days of the year. Out into football.
The road ahead is angelic light. The road ahead is grit and sleet. Clouds swap places with blue clarity like the elements are slow dancing with each other. One moment a sudden glare of blinding sunlight sweeps up the carriage way like a deadly laser beam. Next second it's raining again and the wheel of a lorry is throwing up spray, within which a tiny rainbow forms. You don't always see beauty where you expect it. Perhaps that should be today's motto.
Over the tops and weird swirling icy patterns form on the moorland. Down and across the flatland and into Hull. The whole place is fences and rebuilding. Boats glimpsed. Corner pubs. Flood defences.
Did I enjoy the drive? Yeah. Am I looking forward to the game? Not really. Ok. Just a little bit. Actually, now we're here, fucking bring it on.
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High pressing. Poveda. Madine. Poveda. Beesley can't shoot. Two players go down in the box... Jerry is snapping. C'mon Pool. This is a decent start.
The decent start doesn't last. We're penned in. We're subject to 1,2,3,4 attacks in a row. Each time we lose the second ball or we don't clear it far enough in first place. They're putting it across the face of goal, they're slicing a presentable chance into the stand, they're causing a panic at the far post - does Grimmy save that? I'm not sure. Now they're running the length of the pitch from left back to inside our box.
Come the fuck on Pool!
A clearance. Beesley, (who is playing on the right wing. The right. wing. Nope. Me neither.) slides in. The ball comes out beautifully. Madine holds it in the box. Yates darts. Madine thinks about finding him, then thinks about shooting but instead, just rolls it back to Sonny Carey. The little magician winds up and YESSSSS!!!!!!!
It's a beautiful finish, Carey is racing away, he's screaming and he's running to the corner. He's sliding on his knees. He's up and into the corner where he's embraced by teammates and tangerines from the terraces alike. Someone is hauled away, seemingly for enjoying themselves, with the surreal sight of Poveda grabbing his hand as he's dragged off by coppers... That was good.
It was so good, I barely notice that they nearly score straight away. It might. just. be. our. day.
Talking ofIan Yan he's tying their full back in a knot so ridiculous that when he's finished doing it, he literally laughs. The noise goes up a notch. There's some life in this lads feet. More of that sort of thing.
Beesley again coming inside, a beautiful square ball. Apparently he's a midfield general after all. Poveda has picked it up and he's drawing a diving stop from 20 yards out.
Marvin slices a ball into the box and causes all kind of unintended mayhem. Madine with a shot when the ball falls to him out of the blue. Their defence is really dreadful. They're pretty dreadful all round. How shit must they be? We're winning away.
To be fair, we aren't by far the greatest team the world has ever seen either and we're served a pre halftime warning as they nod one over unopposed.
The decent start doesn't last. We're penned in. We're subject to 1,2,3,4 attacks in a row. Each time we lose the second ball or we don't clear it far enough in first place. They're putting it across the face of goal, they're slicing a presentable chance into the stand, they're causing a panic at the far post - does Grimmy save that? I'm not sure. Now they're running the length of the pitch from left back to inside our box.
Come the fuck on Pool!
A clearance. Beesley, (who is playing on the right wing. The right. wing. Nope. Me neither.) slides in. The ball comes out beautifully. Madine holds it in the box. Yates darts. Madine thinks about finding him, then thinks about shooting but instead, just rolls it back to Sonny Carey. The little magician winds up and YESSSSS!!!!!!!
It's a beautiful finish, Carey is racing away, he's screaming and he's running to the corner. He's sliding on his knees. He's up and into the corner where he's embraced by teammates and tangerines from the terraces alike. Someone is hauled away, seemingly for enjoying themselves, with the surreal sight of Poveda grabbing his hand as he's dragged off by coppers... That was good.
It was so good, I barely notice that they nearly score straight away. It might. just. be. our. day.
Talking of
Beesley again coming inside, a beautiful square ball. Apparently he's a midfield general after all. Poveda has picked it up and he's drawing a diving stop from 20 yards out.
Marvin slices a ball into the box and causes all kind of unintended mayhem. Madine with a shot when the ball falls to him out of the blue. Their defence is really dreadful. They're pretty dreadful all round. How shit must they be? We're winning away.
To be fair, we aren't by far the greatest team the world has ever seen either and we're served a pre halftime warning as they nod one over unopposed.
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We've done ok. This is two poor teams playing an entertainingly low quality game with the odd flash of football in it. We've got our noses in front and Hull have to make the running now. We need this. We really, really need this.
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Jud is on, Jimmy's gone to left back. I think this is probably our best defence. I like the change. We're on top. We're moving it about quite nicely. There's a bit of shape to our play.
Poveda tries a little flick. It doesn't come off. As quick as a flash, Hull are down the other end and turning Thorniley round. It's one on one. Thorniley is floundering, Thorniley is wrestling their lad a bit, grasping hopefully. Their lad is going down and the ref is straight over with a red. This season can go and fuck itself. That change can fuck itself. Everything can fuck off.
They (thank fuck) put the free kick over.
Carey is at right back for a minute. Confusion reigns. Thommo comes on and the nimble feet of Poveda make way. As expected, things get harder
Connolly puts in a fabulous tackle at the last to stop a cross becoming a shot. Grimmy makes a brilliant low double save. It's offside, but it's still sensationally good. Jerry runs a mile back to stop a ball slung deep catching us out beyond the far post. Madine and Yates terrify everyone by playing football on the edge of our box and getting away with it.
Hull are coming again. Connolly is calm though, taking a ball down and looking, instead of lashing it away, clipping it to Patino. Charlie has played really well today, he's mostly been a right little pest in midfield but he shows his class with a curling pass into Carey who is racing away with him. Carey finds the keeper's legs, Yates smashes the rebound inches wide.
Thommo hooks a really good clearance away. Yates takes it down, he swerves and buys some space. He feeds Beesley. The wing wizard (he's playing on the left now - no, me neither still) is brought down. Surely? Ref? Nope. Obviously not. Cos it's us.
Now the ref ignores a completely obvious handball. The Hull lad is even wearing fucking gloves as if to rub it in. Thankfully, the ball whistles wide from the resultant play. I've had enough of feeling hard done by. We might be able to hold this. We even get away with Marvin completely air kicking one that any other week this would have resulted in a goal and probably a sending off as well.
Thommo gets tortured by their winger. He jumps to stop a cross that never comes. Instead, Hull knock it back up the line where the full back has an age to flight a ball in. Marvin gets caught under his man and the ball goes in. I kick something. It's harder than I expect. Fuck's sake Pool.
We have a go. Shayne comes on for
Marvin slides in and turns one past his own post, a good last ditch piece of defending. He's done pretty well overall. Grimmy 'accidentally' knocks the ball back into the stand after bouncing it about on his shoulders a few times. He gets booked. We sing his name. Quality shithouse behaviour. Love Grimmy me.
Hull manage to make not a lot out of the remaining seconds and the whistle goes. All in all. It's a point. It could have been more. It really could.
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We worked hard, there was some spirit and it was better than it has been in some recent games. I enjoyed it. It's a low bar I guess, but I don't ask for all that much. Turn up, try, follow a set of instructions as best you can and put a bit of a scrap up and I'm satisfied. Weirdly Beesley sort of worked out wide. I say 'sort of' as I'm not sure I ever want to see it again, but he's such a game runner that he managed not to be awful. All credit to him. YTS Gaz is ok with me. I'm expecting Chris Maxwell coming into the team on Thursday as a false nine.
I want today to be about Sonny's goal. The lad is a little diamond. The confidence to hit them will do him and consequently us, the world of good. I want it to be about Connolly's never ending determination, I want it to be about Yates' efforts and Patino's willingness to put a foot in. I want it to be about Grimmy taking his booking with a look of someone getting lectured by his geography teacher whilst his mate is grinning over the teacher's shoulder. I want it to be about Poveda's baffled excitement at how quickly his own feet move.
Instead, as is becoming wearily familiar - it's about anything but. It's about how we need more than battling points and of course, where was Michael Appleton? He certainly wasn't reading 'The Idiot's Guide To How to Get Angry People Onside' between the final whistle and his press conference. How, after 90 minutes where I didn't hear anything but support from the fans who trekked there, the main post-match talking point in the press conference surrounds booing 5 games ago or whatever it was, I really don't know.
Appleton has a point to some extent, but this is an experienced football manager and focusing on the crowd and snapping at the amenable local rag reporter for 'negativity' isn't really an act of supreme diplomacy. How hard was it to say 'Of course I appreciate people coming - they pay my wages - I wanted the players to get the credit and that's all there is to it - the fans were great today - next question?'
I've got a feeling that Thursday is literally make or break. We either come out and blaze Sheffield United off the pitch in a hitherto unseen blitz of tangerine fury and fire or we lose 3-1 and it all turns nasty on the telly.
Either way... bring it on.
Here's the archaeological record of Sonny Carey's knee slide so we can end on the shit that matters.
Onwards
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