Right lads. It can't be as bad as Tuesday. Lets be at this. Herald the new dawn of tangerine wizardry. C'mon you POOOOOOOL. Bowler! On the wing! Jerry! Down the middle! Lyons! Marauding from full back! CJ! er... Ok. Let's keep things in perspective. It's more balanced anyway.
This will be much better.
I'm sure of it.
---
I don't know what to write.
The first half was like trying to ride a bike on sand. It was like wading through a lake choked by weeds. It was a car, stuck in the mud, revving, wheels spinning, juddering but going nowhere, never breaking free of the sludge. It wasn't what it was, it was more that it wasn't. Nothing happened.
Some things must have happened.
One of their players looked like a rubbish Dimitar Berbetov impersonator.
Chris Maxwell made a good save. Tom Trybull becomes the latest in a long line of 'players we signed in the hope they'd not be injured again even though they have a history of being injured who are now injured probably because they've got a history of being injured'
We scored an offside goal that no one seems that bothered about so was probably offside.
Apart from Josh Bowler surprisingly taking a throw in I really don't know if I can think of anything else. My head is numb with the futility of it all. What the fuck was that? It was like watching two shit armies launching misfiring outdated weapons that might explode behind their own lines as easily as land in enemy territory. It was nuclear winter football.
36 minutes. Applause. Really, this is all that matters. You don't know what game will be your last. You don't know who will not be there tomorrow, next week. Nothing is forever. Before the game, silence. Tragedy of a scale we can't even process. Weighed against that, the fact we're now down to the bones of the squad again doesn't really seem that important. We bury our own. Life is always precarious. Those silent heavy days where existence is cloaked in anguish. Where you feel so much that everything seems out of focus. Grief is like snow. It deadens everything around you. Sometimes we need to be amongst people. Sometimes we need to cry. Sometimes it's fucking hard work just to walk in a straight line.
Be kind. The price of human decency doesn't rise with inflation. Never let the bastards win.
---
I don't really have anything to say. My lad says 'dad, they should paint the goalposts at half time' and I look at him confusedly. "Would be more fun watching them dry than watching this match"
"That's quite good. I'll use that in the blog" I tell him.
He demands 10% of the profits or a flat fee of £10.32. I decide just to use it regardless. I'll await the lawsuit. You don't not pay me for me to give the money you don't give me away.
---
Carey has a bit of a spell where he looks half decent. A great ball. A spin. A back heel. Some feisty wide play where he just will not give up. Another good ball whipped in from wide. We have a shot! A shot! Everyone!!! A shot! Look! We kicked the ball at the goal! The keeper saves it easily but it was a nonetheless a shot. They can't take that from us. The playoff push starts here.
Josh Bowler takes another throw. Why is the talented mercurial winger throwing the ball to the fullback so the fullback can try and dribble round the opposition? I've not yet got my UEFA pro-licence and I don't have a tactics board but I think we've got that the wrong way round. Just saying.
Whilst we're on questions, why does Maxwell take so long to kick the ball out when we're so little that allowing the other team to get set and kicking it somewhere just short of the halfway line is bound to bring pressure on to us? Why don't we take quick goal kicks and throw ins and set pieces quicker as the one thing that's likely to break down this dour wall of South Yorkshire grime and gritstone is being fast, nippy and skillful and we've (hard as it is to discern) actually got players who actually fit that description.
A long ball over the top. CJ gets round his man. CJ looks a bit like a horse running wild that doesn't know what to do now it's off the race track. He kind of runs round the ball and aims a tentative leg at it. It heads in the opposite direction to the goal. Oh CJ. CJ. CJ. CJ CJ.
Josh Bowler takes another throw. Why is the talented mercurial winger throwing the ball to the fullback so the fullback can try and dribble round the opposition? I've not yet got my UEFA pro-licence and I don't have a tactics board but I think we've got that the wrong way round. Just saying.
Whilst we're on questions, why does Maxwell take so long to kick the ball out when we're so little that allowing the other team to get set and kicking it somewhere just short of the halfway line is bound to bring pressure on to us? Why don't we take quick goal kicks and throw ins and set pieces quicker as the one thing that's likely to break down this dour wall of South Yorkshire grime and gritstone is being fast, nippy and skillful and we've (hard as it is to discern) actually got players who actually fit that description.
A long ball over the top. CJ gets round his man. CJ looks a bit like a horse running wild that doesn't know what to do now it's off the race track. He kind of runs round the ball and aims a tentative leg at it. It heads in the opposite direction to the goal. Oh CJ. CJ. CJ. CJ CJ.
I sigh. Everyone sighs. CJ sighs. Poor ol CJ.
Fuck. No. Jerry is down. I'm going home. I'm actually just leaving now and not coming back. Jerry hobbles on. It appears he's ok. I thought it was a muscle strain but it seems to just be a knock. I don't think he's quite right to be honest but we've got no strikers on the bench so unless we fancy play the 'false 9 Mickball' style which involves knocking it long to absolutely no one, Jerry must carry on.
Fuck. No. Jerry is down. I'm going home. I'm actually just leaving now and not coming back. Jerry hobbles on. It appears he's ok. I thought it was a muscle strain but it seems to just be a knock. I don't think he's quite right to be honest but we've got no strikers on the bench so unless we fancy play the 'false 9 Mickball' style which involves knocking it long to absolutely no one, Jerry must carry on.
Morgan Rogers comes on. He is quite good. Rotherham have a spell of looking as if they might score but they're also a bit shite so they don't. They're far less arsed than we are about scoring because they've got more points than us and are away from home, but they look as if they might get a goal despite not particularly being bothered about it. I think they hit the post from another free kick that looks suspiciously like it goes through a gap in the wall.
Go on Josh. Go on Josh, Go on Josh. He pulls it across. Rogers slides... Oh, it's agonisingly close. Rogers gets some treatment because of course he does. If you sign for Blackpool, subsection 5 of FA rule 3 states 'you must get injured within 4 games of your debut' - Rogers is ok. How didn't we score that?
Tom Eaves comes on. I bet Mick wishes he played for us. So do I to be honest. Why does everyone else have players?
Time is ticking. This game has corroded my soul. It's been horrible. I'm so on edge and yet also weirdly resigned to it. I want Poveda on but I also feel as if there's no point bringing Poveda on because he's even less Mickball than the players who are already on and we're resolutely Mickball. I reckon Poveda will only beat 3 players, lift it over the keeper, leap over him, spin round and go to back heel the ball (that's already going in) into the goal only to hit the post. This would send Mick into such a rage that he'll kick the goals over and use the posts to smash everything he can see in a blind furious frustration that footballers can't just see how the game is a matter of simple percentages. On balance, to be fair, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, that would be entertainment. TC would probably have to do the press conference.
Go on Josh. Go on Josh, Go on Josh. He pulls it across. Rogers slides... Oh, it's agonisingly close. Rogers gets some treatment because of course he does. If you sign for Blackpool, subsection 5 of FA rule 3 states 'you must get injured within 4 games of your debut' - Rogers is ok. How didn't we score that?
Tom Eaves comes on. I bet Mick wishes he played for us. So do I to be honest. Why does everyone else have players?
Time is ticking. This game has corroded my soul. It's been horrible. I'm so on edge and yet also weirdly resigned to it. I want Poveda on but I also feel as if there's no point bringing Poveda on because he's even less Mickball than the players who are already on and we're resolutely Mickball. I reckon Poveda will only beat 3 players, lift it over the keeper, leap over him, spin round and go to back heel the ball (that's already going in) into the goal only to hit the post. This would send Mick into such a rage that he'll kick the goals over and use the posts to smash everything he can see in a blind furious frustration that footballers can't just see how the game is a matter of simple percentages. On balance, to be fair, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, that would be entertainment. TC would probably have to do the press conference.
'That was shite.'
'Fuck's sake, who is that to?'
'C'mon, fucking c'mon'
'These are awful'
'We're as bad'
'We're fucking worse'
'FUCKING GET A FOOT IN'
People are leaving. The ball is in the air. Again. It's dropping. Jerry is running onto it. It's so close, the keeper, the sniper with a sore leg, the keeper will get it, no Jerry has got it, he's shooting, it's saved. Carey shoots, Bowler gets in the way, the ball screws about, I feel like I want to be sick. Bowler shoots, Carey gets in the way. FOR FUCKS SAKE POOL. JUST FUCKING SCORE. GIVE US SOME FUCKING JOY! PLEASE!
I feel like I want to cry. Nothing has happened but it feels like my body and mind has been through a mangle. I actually watch the last three minutes on my knees, leaning on the empty seat in front of me. It's kind of meditative seeing the game from this odd standpoint. From outside of my own body, my consciousness observes Rotherham hitting the bar.
I breathe deeply and exhale. There's some general scrambling. Grey skies and lurid LED boards. A squall of seagulls. Thousands of faces facing the same way. Some etched with years of pain, some freshly hurting but still hoping. Some snarling, some sad. Some just looking wryly on in grim acceptance of whatever comes.
I love it here.
Even when it's this bad.
---
We're not done. We're fucking Blackpool for fucks sake. We'll fuck up what we should win and win what we should fuck up. There's no energy in me for a dissection. The defenders were good, especially Jud who was actually really properly good. The players tried. It didn't work. It was probably typified by Carey not quite being quick enough to break away but chasing down the lad who tackled him and diving in to stop him clearing it. A huge effort that actually just yielded a throw to them. That was really the story of it all.
This manager has got a set of players that are probably as far away from the set of players he wants to try the things he thinks we need to do as he could imagine. After Trybull went off, that was just about the least 'Mickball' set of players you could imagine. At least we've got a load of big lads on the treatment table and suspended so that's all good. What a transfer strategy. What a triumph this year has been. Lets just leave all that for now. I can't face it.
We're fucking Blackpool and we're not going down.
We'll have to try again until it clicks. It's that simple. We ain't done. Never.
Onwards
(For Lee, who I didn't know apart from as some words shared and seen on the internet, but whose passing is perspective, tragedy and sadness. We're all tangerine. Forever and whatever. It's a strange life. It's a strange love we all share - but it's all we have and it's real in a world where sometimes it's hard to feel anything about anything)
RIP Lee x)
People are leaving. The ball is in the air. Again. It's dropping. Jerry is running onto it. It's so close, the keeper, the sniper with a sore leg, the keeper will get it, no Jerry has got it, he's shooting, it's saved. Carey shoots, Bowler gets in the way, the ball screws about, I feel like I want to be sick. Bowler shoots, Carey gets in the way. FOR FUCKS SAKE POOL. JUST FUCKING SCORE. GIVE US SOME FUCKING JOY! PLEASE!
I feel like I want to cry. Nothing has happened but it feels like my body and mind has been through a mangle. I actually watch the last three minutes on my knees, leaning on the empty seat in front of me. It's kind of meditative seeing the game from this odd standpoint. From outside of my own body, my consciousness observes Rotherham hitting the bar.
I breathe deeply and exhale. There's some general scrambling. Grey skies and lurid LED boards. A squall of seagulls. Thousands of faces facing the same way. Some etched with years of pain, some freshly hurting but still hoping. Some snarling, some sad. Some just looking wryly on in grim acceptance of whatever comes.
I love it here.
Even when it's this bad.
---
We're not done. We're fucking Blackpool for fucks sake. We'll fuck up what we should win and win what we should fuck up. There's no energy in me for a dissection. The defenders were good, especially Jud who was actually really properly good. The players tried. It didn't work. It was probably typified by Carey not quite being quick enough to break away but chasing down the lad who tackled him and diving in to stop him clearing it. A huge effort that actually just yielded a throw to them. That was really the story of it all.
This manager has got a set of players that are probably as far away from the set of players he wants to try the things he thinks we need to do as he could imagine. After Trybull went off, that was just about the least 'Mickball' set of players you could imagine. At least we've got a load of big lads on the treatment table and suspended so that's all good. What a transfer strategy. What a triumph this year has been. Lets just leave all that for now. I can't face it.
We're fucking Blackpool and we're not going down.
We'll have to try again until it clicks. It's that simple. We ain't done. Never.
Onwards
(For Lee, who I didn't know apart from as some words shared and seen on the internet, but whose passing is perspective, tragedy and sadness. We're all tangerine. Forever and whatever. It's a strange life. It's a strange love we all share - but it's all we have and it's real in a world where sometimes it's hard to feel anything about anything)
RIP Lee x)
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