I'm only here because I want to see Kaddy one more time.
Nothing else. Honest. Really. I can't believe. I won't believe. I mustn't believe. As soon as I believe, the bubble will burst, the power will go out, the dream will die... I decided we'd definitely fucked it about 4 games ago. We can't stop winning since.
I almost forgot my ticket. Football is always pointless but travelling without it would have made this journey next level pointless.
Imagine that. I'd have had to have wandered around Reading (which seems to be mostly an industrial estate) listening to Radio Berkshire or wherever it is we are. It doesn't seem real wherever it is.
The world is normal till Birmingham. There's places and things to see from the car and then after that it's an eerie simulation, just a long road with verges that are too clear of litter to be normal. Beyond that, there's oddly well planted with spookily symmetrical trees, fields that seem so manicured they could be a painted backcloth from a play about rural England in 1811 and strange, dark coloured windowless buildings from the future plonked roadside. Think some kind of spy headquarters. There's signs to places, but apart from the edge of Oxford, I don't actually see anywhere till we hit Reading.
I suspect if I had forgotten my ticket and had to fill the time creatively, I'd have soon walked out of the edge of the simulation into a wire frame world that faded away to an indistinct haze.
The travel lodge I stay in doesn't really disabuse me of this feeling. It's all dark corridors heading away from reception. Am I the only person here? Will this hotel eat me? Maybe I'll be stuck in a never ending loop, cursed to walk these door lined walls forever more? Here it is an endless corporate video made in 1993. The ceiling has artex for fucks sake. This is a VHS world.
'Yeah, so what?' I hear you say. 'What about football and stuff you digressive blogging twat? That's why I read this'
Fucking hell. I dunno. What do you want me to say? We need to win. We need other teams to lose. You know this as well as I do. 12.30 is too soon to have any sort of in depth opinion about anything. It's rude making people play and watch football at that sort of time. I just want Kaddy to play well. Anything else is a bonus.
Who am I kidding? I'm not even fooling myself. I've driven to Reading for fucks sake. Of course I believe... COME ON YOU POOOOOOOOOOOL!
I find a place to park on the most edgeland industrial estate you could conceive of. This is truly nowhere. I decide, being of a contrary nature, that I won't walk down the main road towards the 'Select Car Leasing Stadium' (there's a name to move your soul if ever there was one) but instead, to walk a more circuitous route via the footpath I've seen on Google Maps.
The only problem is, I can't find the footpath. I've found a tip. I've found a distribution centre. I've found a fucking huge wall of brambles. I haven't found a thoroughfare. Hang on... There's a little cut through in the thicket. This must be it. Off I go, deep into a glade of pungent green. A narrow track runs down by the side of what I assume to be some sort of river. There are tiny blue forgetmenots and ruddy purple blooms I don't know the names of. There's thorny branches that catch on my coat. There's last year's dead vegetation standing skeletal and breaking underfoot. Fuck me, there's two deer lolloping in front of me and now charging away. This is an urban Amazon. There's the sound of sirens in the distance. There's a sense of wilderness. There's a discarded car battery. There's no human footprints only the patterns of cloven hooves. This is weirder than the Travel lodge. Maybe I'll find a dead body.
Now I've got a problem. I've reached the end of the path and I'm in a swamp. On two sides of me are vast pools of stagnant water. On the other side is a sewage works. I check my phone. This is clearly not the footpath. I'm on the wrong side of the river. For fucks sake me. My feet are wet. There's a smell of shit being treated in the air. I hope this isn't a metaphor.
I turn back.
I should have followed the crowd.
- WILL YOU GET TO THE FUCKING FOOTBALL YOU PRICK?
- ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT ME TO? YOU MUST KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. SURELY NO ONE READS THIS SHIT AS THEIR SOLE WAY OF FOLLOWING THE GAME?
- YES BUT I DON'T READ THIS BLOG FOR UPDATES ON YOUR PATHETIC ATTEMPTS AT URBAN EXPLORATION OR LOW AMBITION HOTEL STAYS
- FAIR POINT WELL MADE...
---
I knew I believed. Bees (BEEEEEEEEEEES) wins it. CJ (Ole!) belts down the right. He just toe pokes it ahead of him and runs past his man, then pulls it back into the box. Kyle Joseph (I am love, I can't deny) does a very good job of controlling it, turning and laying it off and there is the little man, the player of this and probably the preceding season as well to finish with what from where I am at the other end looks like a stupidly deft touch into the bottom corner. KADDY!!! YES! (DEMBELE AHA!)
There is a mania. The atmosphere has been great so far and we've come out and immediately taken charge of the game. When the celebrations calm down. I check my phone. We're FIFTH! FIFTH! Of course we are. We're a brilliant team, coming into form at just the right time and we're going to smash this, then smash the play offs, then smash the championship, then smash the Premier League, then smash Europe, then smash the World Club Championship and the biggest problem in a few years is going to be a sense of 'what now?'
The next half an hour makes me feel I might have got just ever so slightly ahead of myself. It's not long before 'Oxford have scored' starts to go round the stand. I respond with a shrug. Shit happens. We're still 6th though. 5th or 6th. It doesn't matter.
Reading are starting to do stuff. They seem to have worked out that whilst Coulson is quick, he's not very strong and whilst Jimmy is quite strong he's not very quick and therefore matched up their players to exploit their respective weaknesses. They obligingly balloon a few crosses into touch and have a really bad shot.
'Barnsley have scored' - this time I just sigh. I don't know what to say. There's a real mute impotence about relying on other teams you can't see. The atmosphere is dissipating. We're not exactly dominating the game and things aren't going for us elsewhere. C'mon Pool. C'mon the rest of League 1.
The ball breaks from a tussle. Kaddy has a little dart, he lays it - Joseph takes it in, takes it on, he hits it low and hard but the keeper is out and gets a touch to divert it over. Head in hands. He needed that. I feel like we needed that. C'mon Pool.
Reading cut us open in that space behind Jimmy again. The ball in - far post chance... they miss. I breathe out. As it stands though, it doesn't matter but the worst thing would be to throw away what we have now and to see results go our way elsewhere. That would hurt.
Sam Smith looks good to me. Our strikers look a bit lanky misfits in comparison. When the ball comes near Joseph he looks like my cat (Gary) playing with a bouncy ball, forever scampering trying to tame it. Beesley is winning headers but his build makes him look as if he's borrowed a kit from the PE cupboard having forgotten his own. Smith has strength, a bit of pace, a neat touch and his kit fits him. Reading flight a ball from the right. Smith has the freedom of the six yard box (Jimmy is like a clockwork toy that needs his key turning, flat footed and frozen) as he leaps and plants a very nice diving header home. No miracle from Grimmy. He can't do it every week. I am jealous of that goal.
---
There's a real sense of flatness now. The first half seemed to take forever. At some point we had a rousing collective chorus of fuck the EFL to lift the spirits but the excitement of the first few minutes seems a lifetime ago.
---
We start better. There's energy to us and renewed life to the crowd. Kaddy is closer to us and it's a wonder to see him as it always is. He slides CJ in with a ball so perfectly weighted it's more precise to the very gram than a drug dealer's scales. CJ cuts inside. There's a coming together and the ref decides it's a free kick or offside or something. Who knows? It's not the first or the last time he gives a weird decision. He runs like a geriatric as well and seems to make a point of 'not seeing' things.
CJ picks the ball up. He punts it ahead of him. He falls over. CJ is put away by Kaddy. He goes one way, then the other and that seems to make him dizzy. CJ jumping for the ball is the topic of conversation. I decide he looks like a mere-cat, a worried look on his face as he pops up and then retreats at the site of a predator. Sonny has a glimpse of goal, the ball flies over the top. We put together a truly lovely move, the one time all day that we play real football and it ends with Coulson on the overlap, blindsiding the whole defence, lining up a shot, my body tenses, ready to leap in celebration but instead, I twist in agony as he sends it a good 3 yards over the bar.
Joseph tangles with his man. It looks like a foul. It isn't given. The two players lie on the floor. The Reading player then essentially body slams Joseph into the ground. If the first one wasn't a foul, that's common assault. The geriatric stick insect that passes for an official isn't bothered. He's far too interested in watching Reading break up the pitch. Smith does well again, a neat header back, the ping it about quickly causing all kinds of confusion and then they slam the ball home. FUCK OFF.
Who am I kidding? I'm not even fooling myself. I've driven to Reading for fucks sake. Of course I believe... COME ON YOU POOOOOOOOOOOL!
I find a place to park on the most edgeland industrial estate you could conceive of. This is truly nowhere. I decide, being of a contrary nature, that I won't walk down the main road towards the 'Select Car Leasing Stadium' (there's a name to move your soul if ever there was one) but instead, to walk a more circuitous route via the footpath I've seen on Google Maps.
The only problem is, I can't find the footpath. I've found a tip. I've found a distribution centre. I've found a fucking huge wall of brambles. I haven't found a thoroughfare. Hang on... There's a little cut through in the thicket. This must be it. Off I go, deep into a glade of pungent green. A narrow track runs down by the side of what I assume to be some sort of river. There are tiny blue forgetmenots and ruddy purple blooms I don't know the names of. There's thorny branches that catch on my coat. There's last year's dead vegetation standing skeletal and breaking underfoot. Fuck me, there's two deer lolloping in front of me and now charging away. This is an urban Amazon. There's the sound of sirens in the distance. There's a sense of wilderness. There's a discarded car battery. There's no human footprints only the patterns of cloven hooves. This is weirder than the Travel lodge. Maybe I'll find a dead body.
Now I've got a problem. I've reached the end of the path and I'm in a swamp. On two sides of me are vast pools of stagnant water. On the other side is a sewage works. I check my phone. This is clearly not the footpath. I'm on the wrong side of the river. For fucks sake me. My feet are wet. There's a smell of shit being treated in the air. I hope this isn't a metaphor.
I turn back.
I should have followed the crowd.
- WILL YOU GET TO THE FUCKING FOOTBALL YOU PRICK?
- ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT ME TO? YOU MUST KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. SURELY NO ONE READS THIS SHIT AS THEIR SOLE WAY OF FOLLOWING THE GAME?
- YES BUT I DON'T READ THIS BLOG FOR UPDATES ON YOUR PATHETIC ATTEMPTS AT URBAN EXPLORATION OR LOW AMBITION HOTEL STAYS
- FAIR POINT WELL MADE...
---
I knew I believed. Bees (BEEEEEEEEEEES) wins it. CJ (Ole!) belts down the right. He just toe pokes it ahead of him and runs past his man, then pulls it back into the box. Kyle Joseph (I am love, I can't deny) does a very good job of controlling it, turning and laying it off and there is the little man, the player of this and probably the preceding season as well to finish with what from where I am at the other end looks like a stupidly deft touch into the bottom corner. KADDY!!! YES! (DEMBELE AHA!)
There is a mania. The atmosphere has been great so far and we've come out and immediately taken charge of the game. When the celebrations calm down. I check my phone. We're FIFTH! FIFTH! Of course we are. We're a brilliant team, coming into form at just the right time and we're going to smash this, then smash the play offs, then smash the championship, then smash the Premier League, then smash Europe, then smash the World Club Championship and the biggest problem in a few years is going to be a sense of 'what now?'
The next half an hour makes me feel I might have got just ever so slightly ahead of myself. It's not long before 'Oxford have scored' starts to go round the stand. I respond with a shrug. Shit happens. We're still 6th though. 5th or 6th. It doesn't matter.
Reading are starting to do stuff. They seem to have worked out that whilst Coulson is quick, he's not very strong and whilst Jimmy is quite strong he's not very quick and therefore matched up their players to exploit their respective weaknesses. They obligingly balloon a few crosses into touch and have a really bad shot.
'Barnsley have scored' - this time I just sigh. I don't know what to say. There's a real mute impotence about relying on other teams you can't see. The atmosphere is dissipating. We're not exactly dominating the game and things aren't going for us elsewhere. C'mon Pool. C'mon the rest of League 1.
The ball breaks from a tussle. Kaddy has a little dart, he lays it - Joseph takes it in, takes it on, he hits it low and hard but the keeper is out and gets a touch to divert it over. Head in hands. He needed that. I feel like we needed that. C'mon Pool.
Reading cut us open in that space behind Jimmy again. The ball in - far post chance... they miss. I breathe out. As it stands though, it doesn't matter but the worst thing would be to throw away what we have now and to see results go our way elsewhere. That would hurt.
Sam Smith looks good to me. Our strikers look a bit lanky misfits in comparison. When the ball comes near Joseph he looks like my cat (Gary) playing with a bouncy ball, forever scampering trying to tame it. Beesley is winning headers but his build makes him look as if he's borrowed a kit from the PE cupboard having forgotten his own. Smith has strength, a bit of pace, a neat touch and his kit fits him. Reading flight a ball from the right. Smith has the freedom of the six yard box (Jimmy is like a clockwork toy that needs his key turning, flat footed and frozen) as he leaps and plants a very nice diving header home. No miracle from Grimmy. He can't do it every week. I am jealous of that goal.
---
There's a real sense of flatness now. The first half seemed to take forever. At some point we had a rousing collective chorus of fuck the EFL to lift the spirits but the excitement of the first few minutes seems a lifetime ago.
---
We start better. There's energy to us and renewed life to the crowd. Kaddy is closer to us and it's a wonder to see him as it always is. He slides CJ in with a ball so perfectly weighted it's more precise to the very gram than a drug dealer's scales. CJ cuts inside. There's a coming together and the ref decides it's a free kick or offside or something. Who knows? It's not the first or the last time he gives a weird decision. He runs like a geriatric as well and seems to make a point of 'not seeing' things.
CJ picks the ball up. He punts it ahead of him. He falls over. CJ is put away by Kaddy. He goes one way, then the other and that seems to make him dizzy. CJ jumping for the ball is the topic of conversation. I decide he looks like a mere-cat, a worried look on his face as he pops up and then retreats at the site of a predator. Sonny has a glimpse of goal, the ball flies over the top. We put together a truly lovely move, the one time all day that we play real football and it ends with Coulson on the overlap, blindsiding the whole defence, lining up a shot, my body tenses, ready to leap in celebration but instead, I twist in agony as he sends it a good 3 yards over the bar.
Joseph tangles with his man. It looks like a foul. It isn't given. The two players lie on the floor. The Reading player then essentially body slams Joseph into the ground. If the first one wasn't a foul, that's common assault. The geriatric stick insect that passes for an official isn't bothered. He's far too interested in watching Reading break up the pitch. Smith does well again, a neat header back, the ping it about quickly causing all kinds of confusion and then they slam the ball home. FUCK OFF.
That goal hurt.
Kaddy, for about the 10th time gets bundled off the ball by someone nipping his ankles but again, the ref isn't interested. Why should he be? He's only here to give inexplicable fouls and faff about at corners and free kicks making us wait forever whilst he dicks about with spray and lectures. Fuck giving the actual fouls... and here we go again. They repeat the feat of running at us directly and moving about a bit combined with some passing and that ends up in the same outcome, Grimmy falling away, clawing at a ball he doesn't reach and the Reading fans celebrating like it's their derby against Chipping Norton or whoever their rivals actually are. Stupid home counties dickheads in their fake QPR kits. Fuck off. Fuck off. Football can fuck off too. I'm not even fucking bothered about it. It's shit. It's fucked. Fuck off. Mark fucking Clattenburg, fucking VAR, fucking stupid kick off times, investment funds, fucking bullshit everywhere and in the end Man City win anyway because the game is just an expression of global capital and the egos behind it and I hate it.
I've not taken this well at all. Byers lines up a shot. It's shit. He goes off soon after. He's done ok for us overall. I liked him.
Oxford concede a goal. That's just taking the piss if they lose it. Beesley has a header. It's tame.
We're huffing and puffing and going square and backwards. Critch hits on a tactical masterclass. What with us needing 3 quick fire goals in the last 9 minutes of the season in order to keep it alive and what with us not really needing to worry about conceding, because who gives a fuck if it's 4-1 or 3-1 when anything but a win won't do, it is borderline 4d chess genius level thinking that he decides not to bring on a young kid who scored a hat trick in his last game but the ever dependable Matty Virtue, who hasn't scored a league goal for us since god knows when.
To be fair to Matty Virtue he does ok, trying to run from deep and spreading the play quite adeptly a few times but we're at a point where we need a miracle, not some solid and reliable physicality.
Kaddy, for about the 10th time gets bundled off the ball by someone nipping his ankles but again, the ref isn't interested. Why should he be? He's only here to give inexplicable fouls and faff about at corners and free kicks making us wait forever whilst he dicks about with spray and lectures. Fuck giving the actual fouls... and here we go again. They repeat the feat of running at us directly and moving about a bit combined with some passing and that ends up in the same outcome, Grimmy falling away, clawing at a ball he doesn't reach and the Reading fans celebrating like it's their derby against Chipping Norton or whoever their rivals actually are. Stupid home counties dickheads in their fake QPR kits. Fuck off. Fuck off. Football can fuck off too. I'm not even fucking bothered about it. It's shit. It's fucked. Fuck off. Mark fucking Clattenburg, fucking VAR, fucking stupid kick off times, investment funds, fucking bullshit everywhere and in the end Man City win anyway because the game is just an expression of global capital and the egos behind it and I hate it.
I've not taken this well at all. Byers lines up a shot. It's shit. He goes off soon after. He's done ok for us overall. I liked him.
Oxford concede a goal. That's just taking the piss if they lose it. Beesley has a header. It's tame.
We're huffing and puffing and going square and backwards. Critch hits on a tactical masterclass. What with us needing 3 quick fire goals in the last 9 minutes of the season in order to keep it alive and what with us not really needing to worry about conceding, because who gives a fuck if it's 4-1 or 3-1 when anything but a win won't do, it is borderline 4d chess genius level thinking that he decides not to bring on a young kid who scored a hat trick in his last game but the ever dependable Matty Virtue, who hasn't scored a league goal for us since god knows when.
To be fair to Matty Virtue he does ok, trying to run from deep and spreading the play quite adeptly a few times but we're at a point where we need a miracle, not some solid and reliable physicality.
We try switching it a few times but aside from a stupidly good pass from within a crowd of player by (yes, obviously, who else?) Dembele, we seem to telegraph our intentions. One of those balls is hit towards Gabriel. It's nowhere near incisive enough. Reading tidy up except, they don't, the keeper slamming the ball against Gabriel who has followed through with some physical conviction and the ball has cannoned off him. Less YESSS... more 'hopeful applause and slightly renewed interest for a moment'
Barnsley have conceded. 1-1. That hurts. You can almost touch the holy grail, but it's too far away. It's like Scott of the Antarctic freezing to death in his tent only 11 miles from the supply depot. We've got about 180 seconds to score twice. It only takes a second to score a goal. 11 miles is half a days walk but you've got frostbite and scurvy. We've got the fag end of injury time. Which is a bit the same. A ball is spread wide. Jimmy runs after it looking like knackered granddad trying to catch a toddler who is charging about in a supermarket. The ball escapes out of play. Jimmy throws his head back and closes his eyes in despair. I know that feeling. He's a football god whatever happens. The blizzard rages. Captain Oates goes outside.
We don't score twice. Scott dies as does everyone else in the tent. You know that.
Fuck's sake Pool.
---
To be honest, my abiding feeling is one of relief. It's over. This hasn't been a vintage season. It's often been flat and frustrating with only an occasional sense of real excitement or tension. It's never really fitted together except for the games it did - but those games never seemed to create momentum or conviction. We won, we lost. We were never quite up there.
I feel a bit sad at the final whistle. Reading chant and as well they might. They've been to a dark place this season and I don't begrudge them celebrating with what they've got. There's polite applause from some, silence from others. Kaddy looks up at the stand. There's no chant for him. This is the last time we'll see some of these. I don't hate any of them. They're just not the right blend. There isn't enough there. It's not their fault individually. I don't hate Matty Virtue. I actually like Matty Virtue. I think he's a perfectly servicable footballer in the right team - but chucking him on in the dying throes of the season seems to sum up something about us. He's an honest and worthwhile player, but he's no game defining superstar. We've got a squad of that kind of player and we've been held together by Dembele and to a lesser (but still significant) extent Rhodes.
Too many games we've looked passive. Burton away was my personal nadir but you can pick any number of candidates. Critchley is right when he says 'we didn't lose it today, it's over 46 games' but something he says really sticks in my head when he comments that 'Reading left players up - they didn't need to worry about the outcome' as if that was cheating or some kind of dark art. Too many times this season I've watched us break and seen only one or two players charge into the box whilst other hold position in case the move break down. Too many times I've wondered 'why the fuck don't we chuck big Marv up for ten minutes?' or 'why are we all back in the box for their corners'
Critchley knows more about football than I ever will, but I've been haunted by the fact we just don't seem to risk enough, that we've played our best football when forced to attack by circumstance, that sometimes the shape of the team seems to come before instinct and incision and I've felt this since very early on and I felt it again today.
We've scored 65 goals, but only 26 of them haven't had a direct goal involvement (assist or goal) from one of Rhodes or Dembele. Take them away and it's not a glorious picture. Rhodes might be back, but he's 35 in the coming season. Dembele is a fucking player and a half and I wish him all the best. He's been a pleasure. If Rob Apter doesn't get his chance, there's something wrong with the club - but we can't pin our entire hopes on him. We need a forward line that can really play as a unit and options to change games. We need quality wide and we're short of it. If this was Gabriel's swansong, he made his point and we're losing a player of real quality. We need a new Byers to replace the new Dougall who replaced the original Dougall. There's definitely room to improve the defensive options. I'd not be surprised if Grimmy is a wanted man and without him, we'd not have won the games we did to have had a chance today.
All of that is for tomorrow and beyond. I wanted a reset last summer, I think we'll definitely have to have one this time around.
I still feel a kind of relief. It's mixed with a sadness. We'd have got Bolton and that would have been something. There's always next year though. There's always a Blackpool and they'll probably always bring frustration in equal measure to joy.
Barnsley have conceded. 1-1. That hurts. You can almost touch the holy grail, but it's too far away. It's like Scott of the Antarctic freezing to death in his tent only 11 miles from the supply depot. We've got about 180 seconds to score twice. It only takes a second to score a goal. 11 miles is half a days walk but you've got frostbite and scurvy. We've got the fag end of injury time. Which is a bit the same. A ball is spread wide. Jimmy runs after it looking like knackered granddad trying to catch a toddler who is charging about in a supermarket. The ball escapes out of play. Jimmy throws his head back and closes his eyes in despair. I know that feeling. He's a football god whatever happens. The blizzard rages. Captain Oates goes outside.
We don't score twice. Scott dies as does everyone else in the tent. You know that.
Fuck's sake Pool.
---
To be honest, my abiding feeling is one of relief. It's over. This hasn't been a vintage season. It's often been flat and frustrating with only an occasional sense of real excitement or tension. It's never really fitted together except for the games it did - but those games never seemed to create momentum or conviction. We won, we lost. We were never quite up there.
I feel a bit sad at the final whistle. Reading chant and as well they might. They've been to a dark place this season and I don't begrudge them celebrating with what they've got. There's polite applause from some, silence from others. Kaddy looks up at the stand. There's no chant for him. This is the last time we'll see some of these. I don't hate any of them. They're just not the right blend. There isn't enough there. It's not their fault individually. I don't hate Matty Virtue. I actually like Matty Virtue. I think he's a perfectly servicable footballer in the right team - but chucking him on in the dying throes of the season seems to sum up something about us. He's an honest and worthwhile player, but he's no game defining superstar. We've got a squad of that kind of player and we've been held together by Dembele and to a lesser (but still significant) extent Rhodes.
Too many games we've looked passive. Burton away was my personal nadir but you can pick any number of candidates. Critchley is right when he says 'we didn't lose it today, it's over 46 games' but something he says really sticks in my head when he comments that 'Reading left players up - they didn't need to worry about the outcome' as if that was cheating or some kind of dark art. Too many times this season I've watched us break and seen only one or two players charge into the box whilst other hold position in case the move break down. Too many times I've wondered 'why the fuck don't we chuck big Marv up for ten minutes?' or 'why are we all back in the box for their corners'
Critchley knows more about football than I ever will, but I've been haunted by the fact we just don't seem to risk enough, that we've played our best football when forced to attack by circumstance, that sometimes the shape of the team seems to come before instinct and incision and I've felt this since very early on and I felt it again today.
We've scored 65 goals, but only 26 of them haven't had a direct goal involvement (assist or goal) from one of Rhodes or Dembele. Take them away and it's not a glorious picture. Rhodes might be back, but he's 35 in the coming season. Dembele is a fucking player and a half and I wish him all the best. He's been a pleasure. If Rob Apter doesn't get his chance, there's something wrong with the club - but we can't pin our entire hopes on him. We need a forward line that can really play as a unit and options to change games. We need quality wide and we're short of it. If this was Gabriel's swansong, he made his point and we're losing a player of real quality. We need a new Byers to replace the new Dougall who replaced the original Dougall. There's definitely room to improve the defensive options. I'd not be surprised if Grimmy is a wanted man and without him, we'd not have won the games we did to have had a chance today.
All of that is for tomorrow and beyond. I wanted a reset last summer, I think we'll definitely have to have one this time around.
I still feel a kind of relief. It's mixed with a sadness. We'd have got Bolton and that would have been something. There's always next year though. There's always a Blackpool and they'll probably always bring frustration in equal measure to joy.
I just want us to be a bit more brave. I want our failure to be a bit more glorious. I want a bit more nous and bit more risk. I think we need that. I think this season has proved that. We've fallen short in a division where very few teams we've played have genuinely impressed me.
It is what it is. Should have re-signed Madine. It would all have been very different.
Onward
It is what it is. Should have re-signed Madine. It would all have been very different.
Onward
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