Today is the day. I can feel it in my bones. The optimism rising, the conviction in my stride as I walk to the ground, the certainty in the way I bound up the steps to my seat, comfortable in the knowledge that today will be the day we see wizardry from the men in tangerine. The trouble is, my bones aren't very reliable in this regard as I've felt this exact sense at least 8 times before this year. The crystal ball has been cloudy, the tea leaves have made weird patterns, the oracle at Delphi has uttered even more gibberish than normal.
So, who the fuck knows?
Who the fuck knows who Mick will pick? He springs a wildcard and plucks Fiorini from left field but otherwise, the team looks handy. 2 out of 3 of the flair players are on the pitch from the beginning and we look like we've got a nice blend and balance on paper. Paper is only paper though and in practice, on the pitch, the best laid plans have had a habit of going up in smoke this year.
C'mon Pool!
---
We start well. We pretty much always start well before it goes wrong. We have a couple of shots blocked! We win a corner! The ground is absolutely vibrating with the desire to see us take the fight to them, the early attacking created a kind of delirium born of desperation. Come the fuck on Pool!
It always starts well and then it goes wrong. Stoke away on the left. They've been absolutely terrible so far, passing it out of play and looking half asleep. This time though, they whip it, fizzing and dipping across the box. An anxious intake of breath from all. It's met firmly but the ball screws up and away over the bar. Everyone breathes out. We got away with that.
Rogers battling and dribbling at the same time. He wrestles with two men whilst shifting the ball from one foot to another. You can practically hear Mick turning round to Josh Bowler and going 'look at that son, we'll have you doing that before the season is out' - the ball runs loose, but for once, it runs kindly. Fiorini, all snappy intent so far plays a whip crack sharp pass that curls into Poveda's path. This man excites. I'd call him electric if that hadn't been taken. He's like a catherine wheel that has flown off its nail and is careering free. I swear when he touches it, sparks come from his boots. He's a scurrying ball of sonic energy, a blue hedgehog spinning and cartwheeling between obstacles at impossible speed. He lazes for a moment, he cuts inside, he picks up pace, he goes to shoot and the ball hits a thigh and loops, completely wrong footing the keeper, into the back of the net.
The ground seems to tilt out of focus. That was too easy. I feel light headed. I feel elated. We're fucking winning. The noise goes up another notch. Mick McCarthy's Tangerine Army. Du du d-d-d-du-du... POVEDA!
I couldn't tell you what happened for a while. It's like I've got vertigo. Every week you come and you hope, but something crushes that. I was kind of, for the first time really, thinking, well, if we lose, that's probably it and here we are, winning. Suddenly, everything is even more important. Everything is heightened. I mean, fucking hell, I know we've just gone one up at home to the team in 18th but I'm feeling as if we're beating Barcelona in a one off European game or something like that. That's how bad this season has been. I love football.
Stoke carry on being a bit shit for a while and then it's like they decide to try and play a bit of football and they're much better for it. A shot is flashed across goal that has Maxwell scrambling and then leaping full stretch to watch it wide. He manages to block one point blank at the near post. He sticks out a leg in the opposite direction to which he's travelling to foil a close range effort. He does more than this though, he's always pretty good at stopping shots, but he also comes and claims a few, plucking crosses out and calming nerves. I might be #teamgrimmy to my very core, but the beardless keeper has done very well.
It's not like we're clinging on, but it's not like we're commanding the game either. The whistle goes. I still feel a bit odd. We're fucking winning!
---
For once, we took advantage of our customary decent 10 minutes at the beginning of the game. Otherwise, it's been pretty much like every other week of late. We've picked up some bookings, we've fought hard, we've looked a little bit lightweight despite that but for once, we've had the bounce of the ball in a scrappy game instead of the opposition. It can't last.
---
Fiorini has gone off. He looked really good until late in the half, he tired. Fear not, because we've replaced the skilful midfield tyro who was spreading play nicely, being feisty in the tackle and showing beautiful control in tight spaces with his exact equivalent, the apple of big Mick's eye, CJ 'close control a speciality' Hamilton! C'mon Ceej!
This half falls quickly into a pattern. Stoke attack, we repel them or they run it out of play and then we boot it long, lose the ball and repeat. Maxwell has had a good game, but he just keeps kicking it back to Stoke. I never thought I'd miss those pointless interludes of play where the keeper kicked it to Keogh and Keogh kicked it to the full back and then the full back kicked it to Keogh and he kicked it to the other full back before finally, either Keogh or the keeper bunged it long, but right now, they seem like a stroke of genius as at least for 30 seconds, we're not being attacked by the other team.
It's all Stoke, except they're not actually doing that much with it. Nelson is commanding. Connolly is playing like a captain. Jimmy is just being Jimmy. At one point the ball spins out of the mixer and it looks as if we can break on the left - Jimmy trots after it so slowly, you know he's just thinking of the fact that if no one tucks in and he doesn't make it, we're screwed. Fuck the glory, hold the shape. Super Jimmy Husband.
The screw is tightening though. We're making headers deeper and deeper. We're shadowing runners closer and closer to the goal. A flash of hope suddenly. The ball is belted away. Morgan Rogers, who is surprisingly useful in the air wins the flick. Jerry half controls it and then lets it run. CJ is through, CJ is surging past the defender, CJ is shooting, but he's pulled it too far across the far post and now he's burying his head in the turf. Head up CJ. C'mon POOOL!
Another save, another block. More headers and more tracking runners. More noise. The crowd is constant. The noise is nonstop. Every time I go to take a breath, another chant starts up. At some point, Connolly manages to stumble his way back and throw himself full length at their attackers feet to head the ball off them from face down on the ground.
Now the noise of confusion. What is Mick doing? There's Thommo, dreadlocks and all. There's Jordan Gabriel, looking muscular and focused. There's Luke fucking Garbutt? That's 3 full backs Mick. Three. Why are you putting two left backs on? What is going on. Who is coming off? Lyons. Ok, that makes sense for Gabriel. Poveda? Rogers? For two left backs? For fuck's sake Mick.
I'm still processing this confusion as Stoke are flying down the right. It's whipped in, it's glanced, it takes a deflection and, you've got to say, it's been coming and probably, on balance is deserved but no... Maxwell has made an astonishing save. You can sometimes see a goal coming in a way that means when it happens, it feels almost like slow motion, but that happened in a fraction of a second and was absolutely blinding, Maxwell reacted with the instantaneous involuntary trigger instinct of spring loaded trap and flicked the ball away and round the post when, for all the world it looked as if he would be, at best, waving it home and tumbling into the goal with the ball. I still can't quite conceive that he saved it.
The crowd rise as one. The game goes on. I sometimes think it's a bit unfair that keepers rarely get the kind of acclaim that scorers receive. That was every bit as visceral a moment as when Jerry crashes one home but there's no chance for a goalie to milk the applause.
Micks madness appears to have method behind it. We've gone to 5 at the back with Jimmy inside Thommo and Luke Garbutt is on the left side of midfield. Along the row someone points out that our left flank is CJ, Garbutt and Thompson and that means we must surely self destruct at some point. I'm beyond caring. I just want the game over. We've come too far to lose this. Dougall heads over from a rare Pool foray forward.
A free kick to Stoke. Fuuuck. It grazes the outside of the post and hits the side netting. For a second I thought it was in, but I realise before the Stoke fans realise that it isn't. There's nothing more satisfying than goading the opposition in a moment like that. Maxwell's reward for his earlier heroics is to crash his head into the post. He's ok. I think he's milking it to take the sting out of the game. I hope he is. He's up.
More time. More Nelson, more wrestling. More noise. The Great Escape. More Mick McCarthy's Tangerine Army. More half clearances. More half chances to break fluffed by the wrong ball or a slightly heavy version of the right one. Glancing left to the clock. More bookings. Thompson gets booked but the ref brandishes the card with Dougall in between him and Thommo and I think for a moment that Kenny has been dismissed.
They break on us. We stand off. They run the ball sideways. They've got space. Husband launches himself. It's a clean foul if that makes sense. He's chopped the lad down on purpose, but he's kept his studs down. It's a yellow. It's a good chance for them. It needed doing though, because they'd have had a better one if he hadn't done that. I'm so tense I can barely move. The drum is still pulsing. It's like the heartbeat in my temples. The wall is lined up like a major infrastructure project, Nelson the main weight bearing concrete lintel and everyone else arranged around him. I feel sick. They're going to score. The whistle goes. In my head everything goes silent. Maxwell tweaks his shorts, claps his hands, sets himself. Their lad goes to strike it. I can't watch.
It's over the top. The celebrations are incredible. People clap as if we've actually done something of merit. Sound starts again. I'm pretty sure that for a moment, everything had gone black and white. Everything is cheered from here on in. The slightest bit of anything worth celebrating is glorious. We fuck about in the corner. We win a few throw ins. We win a corner. We take a short corner. We're seeing this out aren't we?
More great escape. Allez Allez Allez! We're seeing this out!
Stoke come again though, last seconds surely. How long? How long? A minute and a half says someone behind me who has had the astonishing presence of mind to note the point injury time started. Their last attack. They're overloading us. I can hear that hollow, static, scratchy, cold, white noise sound the other team make when they score. There's a shot. Was there a handball? It's not away. There's another effort that crashes into someone. Again handball maybe? No. Don't think that. A whistle. FUCK NO. Surely not. He's not given a penalty? He can't have!
He hasn't. It's the final whistle. My heart was in my mouth. I nearly vomited it out and let it go slithering down the steps in front of me. All of that and I was too nervous to even celebrate the actual end of the game. It's ok though. It's over.
The 'Pool are singing. The ground is as one. I feel weirdly like crying. I don't cry at football. I've never cried at football, at least not since I was very, very small but I'm oddly emotional now considering we've just beaten a mediocre side who aren't much higher than us. I dunno. I think it's just because this team have had no luck and to be honest, have maybe played better than this (at least in some senses) and lost and that, stupid as it all is, there's still all to play for and that, in this strange charade that is football, is all you want, for their to be a next week that means something.
Poveda dances like a cheeky kid in school who knows he's got the attention on him. Gabriel does his serious fist clenching thing. Most of them just look absolutely shattered and relieved. Mick watches on. I hope he's going to say something like 'Good lad Pov, don't bloody milk it though, it were a deflection. See what happens though when you don't chip it like a bloody diva. Listen to Uncle Mick and you won't go far wrong' but he just gives him a big bear hug which, frankly, given the meeting of worlds that that is, you can't fail to smile at.
---
What else is there to say? Complete and utter fight from them all. A crowd completely behind the team. Was it that different from quite a few other games this season? I suspect if you looked at the numbers and watched it back dispassionately, probably not. Who actually watches football like that though? I'll ask again. Was it that different from quite a few games this season? Fuck, yes. Of course it was!
We fucking WON!
We're staying up cos we're fucking Blackpool. (Never in doubt)
Onwards.
The crowd rise as one. The game goes on. I sometimes think it's a bit unfair that keepers rarely get the kind of acclaim that scorers receive. That was every bit as visceral a moment as when Jerry crashes one home but there's no chance for a goalie to milk the applause.
Micks madness appears to have method behind it. We've gone to 5 at the back with Jimmy inside Thommo and Luke Garbutt is on the left side of midfield. Along the row someone points out that our left flank is CJ, Garbutt and Thompson and that means we must surely self destruct at some point. I'm beyond caring. I just want the game over. We've come too far to lose this. Dougall heads over from a rare Pool foray forward.
A free kick to Stoke. Fuuuck. It grazes the outside of the post and hits the side netting. For a second I thought it was in, but I realise before the Stoke fans realise that it isn't. There's nothing more satisfying than goading the opposition in a moment like that. Maxwell's reward for his earlier heroics is to crash his head into the post. He's ok. I think he's milking it to take the sting out of the game. I hope he is. He's up.
More time. More Nelson, more wrestling. More noise. The Great Escape. More Mick McCarthy's Tangerine Army. More half clearances. More half chances to break fluffed by the wrong ball or a slightly heavy version of the right one. Glancing left to the clock. More bookings. Thompson gets booked but the ref brandishes the card with Dougall in between him and Thommo and I think for a moment that Kenny has been dismissed.
They break on us. We stand off. They run the ball sideways. They've got space. Husband launches himself. It's a clean foul if that makes sense. He's chopped the lad down on purpose, but he's kept his studs down. It's a yellow. It's a good chance for them. It needed doing though, because they'd have had a better one if he hadn't done that. I'm so tense I can barely move. The drum is still pulsing. It's like the heartbeat in my temples. The wall is lined up like a major infrastructure project, Nelson the main weight bearing concrete lintel and everyone else arranged around him. I feel sick. They're going to score. The whistle goes. In my head everything goes silent. Maxwell tweaks his shorts, claps his hands, sets himself. Their lad goes to strike it. I can't watch.
It's over the top. The celebrations are incredible. People clap as if we've actually done something of merit. Sound starts again. I'm pretty sure that for a moment, everything had gone black and white. Everything is cheered from here on in. The slightest bit of anything worth celebrating is glorious. We fuck about in the corner. We win a few throw ins. We win a corner. We take a short corner. We're seeing this out aren't we?
More great escape. Allez Allez Allez! We're seeing this out!
Stoke come again though, last seconds surely. How long? How long? A minute and a half says someone behind me who has had the astonishing presence of mind to note the point injury time started. Their last attack. They're overloading us. I can hear that hollow, static, scratchy, cold, white noise sound the other team make when they score. There's a shot. Was there a handball? It's not away. There's another effort that crashes into someone. Again handball maybe? No. Don't think that. A whistle. FUCK NO. Surely not. He's not given a penalty? He can't have!
He hasn't. It's the final whistle. My heart was in my mouth. I nearly vomited it out and let it go slithering down the steps in front of me. All of that and I was too nervous to even celebrate the actual end of the game. It's ok though. It's over.
The 'Pool are singing. The ground is as one. I feel weirdly like crying. I don't cry at football. I've never cried at football, at least not since I was very, very small but I'm oddly emotional now considering we've just beaten a mediocre side who aren't much higher than us. I dunno. I think it's just because this team have had no luck and to be honest, have maybe played better than this (at least in some senses) and lost and that, stupid as it all is, there's still all to play for and that, in this strange charade that is football, is all you want, for their to be a next week that means something.
Poveda dances like a cheeky kid in school who knows he's got the attention on him. Gabriel does his serious fist clenching thing. Most of them just look absolutely shattered and relieved. Mick watches on. I hope he's going to say something like 'Good lad Pov, don't bloody milk it though, it were a deflection. See what happens though when you don't chip it like a bloody diva. Listen to Uncle Mick and you won't go far wrong' but he just gives him a big bear hug which, frankly, given the meeting of worlds that that is, you can't fail to smile at.
What else is there to say? Complete and utter fight from them all. A crowd completely behind the team. Was it that different from quite a few other games this season? I suspect if you looked at the numbers and watched it back dispassionately, probably not. Who actually watches football like that though? I'll ask again. Was it that different from quite a few games this season? Fuck, yes. Of course it was!
We fucking WON!
We're staying up cos we're fucking Blackpool. (Never in doubt)
Onwards.
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