There's an anticipation outside. I'm a bit late which adds to the urgency of it all. I've always panicked about missing kick offs since I was a kid and very rarely has it happened but an ill judged nip to Tesco before the game has delayed me (why did seemingly everyone in the Fylde Coast go to Clifton Drive Tesco before the match I wonder?) to the point where I'm storming down Bloomfield Road chancing my arm and testing the rule that 'you can't get run over on a match day' to near breaking point.
Steve Bruce has brought a certain simplicity to proceedings. I don't really think about the games much before they're here. We know how we're going to play and who is going to play. The only surprise today is that Elkan Baggot's reassuringly physical frame is replaced by Jimmy Husband's familiar but slightly more creaky one. Otherwise it's as you were and and as you'd expect.
I make it in plenty of time. Panic over.
Just the terror of the game to come.
---
The game is cagey as hell at first. Bolton move the ball nicely. We hassle and hurry them. Both sides show moments of quality - Bolton look astute at knocking it about and side to side, we look able to get the ball out to Robbie Apter who has brought his dancing shoes today. Both sides have moments of frailty as well. This is League One after all and there are mistakes for the crowd to seize on with characteristic delight. Nothing is as cruel as a football fan watching the slip ups of the opposition.
There are few early highlights. Fletcher looks sharp and nicks the ball away. Apter gets a couple of crosses in from positions that seem unlikely but shots are at a premium and the sides look well matched. Sometimes that's boring, but today, a febrile atmosphere and the expectation of a local derby makes this stalemate compelling.
The first shot comes from Carey, the ball breaking to him just inside the box. You can practically see his eyes widen in anticipation as he adjusts himself and smacks it hard and low, a last ditch block though is equal to the effort and the ball balloons over the top for a corner. The atmosphere grows. Evans clips it to Morgan outside the box. It's a curious choice. Morgan catches it beautifully, for a split second it looks like a goal for the ages, there's an intake of breath in the ground but another block stifles the roar. A scramble for a moment, the chance still alive, there's a scramble, physical chaos and then, thwack, Ashley Goals has cracked it, an uppercut of a shot, like a sober man in a drunken brawl connecting firmly with the jaw of a pissed up and staggering lout, the ball is lashed into the corner and we're on our feet and the joy is unbridled.
I hope to myself that the goal forces Bolton out and leaves space behind them. It suits us to play on the break, but really, the goal just forces them into putting us under a lot of pressure. If the early stages were even, increasingly the first half tilts in the favour of the away side and sees a lot of 'Pool chasing and a lot of Bolton possession, though one jaw dropping moment of skill from Ashley Fletcher demonstrates that 'there ain't nobody better' isn't merely ironic affection as he brings a ball under control with skill that would make Messi look leaden footed and spreads it to Apter with a decisiveness and vision that he simply didn't posses 6 months ago.
When their equaliser comes, it's like a replay of the goal we've conceded so often at home, the opposition whipping a ball in under no particular pressure and someone sneaking in and heading home unchallenged. We must have conceded this very goal about ten times now. It's their turn to make the noise and our turn to trudge dejectedly back to the halfway line.
The rest of the half is a hard watch. They up the tempo and we struggle to cope, the midfield is all but absent as a defensive force and Bolton are able to advance with alarming ease to the edge of the box. We block a shot, a shot is lashed wide, one is rifled inches past the post, a close range effort is close. Jimmy Husband is booked as he tangles awkwardly with a marauding Bolton forward and we generally get pulled all over the place.
Half time, when it finally arrives, is frankly a relief.
---
I'm glad we get in level. They look quite impressive and a lot less languid than they've looked on previous visits. It's as if Schumacher has taken the clockwork toy left by Ian Evatt and given it a good winding. We've not seen many teams this season as comfortable on the ball as them and when they increased the pace at which they moved in after their goal, they looked very dangerous. We've clung on a bit if I'm honest.
---
The second half starts. The noise swirls. There's a mist like rain and it's cold. This is football in England, this is the northern game. Insults traded on a grey day, block tackles, physicality. Sonny has a moment of freedom. He drops his patented Bobby Charlton style body swerve and gallops forward. The ground rises to its feet, Carey lays off, Fletcher runs on and though the ball is good, the run is well timed and the connection sweet, the ball is swept beyond the post. It's a much needed moment as it's the first time in a long time that we've broken their lines and threatened their goal. C'mon the Pool!
Then Sonny again, charging, shimmying, he's going past one, another and he's in! A clattering challenge and it looks for all the world, a penalty. The referee, a man with the manner of an office manager whose been in his job too long and doesn't really understand the modern technology he has to work with and is often behind the play exuding vibes of confusion, decides to book Sonny for diving even though it looks to me that he was in and winding up for a shot. Shit ref again. Shit ref again. (etc)
There's a fire burning now in this game and the chants are like smoke, the noise wending its way into the sky and warming the grey and mizzly air. On the pitch, another midfield tussle as Ennis controls, A Bolton foot pokes the ball away. Albie picks it up. A pocket of space in a game that has seen few, he rolls the ball under his foot and then, with the grace and balance of an ancient greek statue, arms out to steady the body against the exertion of the kick, lifts the most classically cultured of passes you can imagine, seeking the run of Ennis and finding him, with a lofted and curling ball that completely and utterly destroys the Bolton defence. A great pass is a moment of magic. It has none of the typical violence of a goal, but it's as deadly as a sharpened assassins' blade...
Ennis has plenty to do though, he's onto it, he's turning as if he might spin the keeper. Is he offside I wonder? I expect the flag to raise and for a moment, I fear it has done, because it's as if the game has stopped, such is the pace with which the next bit unfolds -, from his side on angle, the ball is lofted, it goes high, it seems to go so high that it must go over the bar, it's as if everyone has frozen, players on both sides following the trajectory of the ball as it loops up and then back down. I've got the time to think 'not again!' as I recall Jake Beesley's effort two weeks ago taking a similar journey to the roof of the net, but then, just as it seems that time had actually stopped, it suddenly starts again as the ball drops the right side of the line and bounces into the underside of the roof of the goal...
...The joy is without recent parallel. This is what we do this for. Ennis hurls himself into a double summersault and it looks as if the Kop might be collectively on the verge of doing the same as the limbs tangle in a leaping, tumbling and writhing mass of bodies. The subs, (including Beesley who looks happier than anyone despite the echoes of his miss) surge onto the pitch and embrace Ennis, it's one of those moments where you just forget and everything feels like pure elation. A brilliant set up and a brilliant finish, and brilliant, thick, heavy noise all around. Ennis again!!!
As in the first half, our goal stings Bolton into a response. They're quickly onto us and again as good at going forward as our midfield can be, it's not always as rugged the other way. They're able to smuggle some space on the edge of the box and fire a wicked effort that's bending for the bottom corner, Tryer though, does brilliantly, it's a hard save because he's got to get down low but also be strong and account for the curl and his stop is as sharp as they come and elicits a gasp of relief from behind his goal.
Do we make many more chances? I don't think we do - not till late on anyway. It's all Bolton. There's a moment of absolute delight as again, they have the space to shoot from distance and spot a gap, the effort is quick thinking, firing sharply at the near post as everyone seems to anticipate a far post cross, but it's not quite precise enough and lashes into the side netting, my heart skips a beat but gloriously the Bolton fans think it's in and launch into a full blown celebration of nothing at all and both the South Stand and Harry Tryer enjoy very much telling them to sit down and watch the game nicely and not to be so silly. The sound of things quietening down and mutterings of confusion are beautiful to behold.
A cross, a darting run from deep.... I wince, I brace myself for that sinking feeling and the hollow roar from my right. It never comes. Somehow he doesn't make contact. From the other side, another cross, Husband twist and leaps, surely putting something out of joint as he does, maybe he gets a touch, maybe he just puts them off, I don't know, I can barely watch but the ball skims across the goal, it's begging to be put home by someone, but mercifully it evades anyone in white and makes for the corner flag instead of the net.
There's a bit of relief for a few minutes as Bloxham comes on and has a couple of runs but it's temporary respite. We go to a 4-5-1. Silvera looks lost, CJ gets surprisingly stuck in. A ruck of bodies. We fling ourselves, we hack. CJ heads it away. CJ! of all people. Sonny blocks one, Sonny blocks another, Sonny hacks it away. Sonny, of all people! We're all in, no one left behind... In the box it's like a royal rumble, as everyone flings themselves and chases things. There's a desperation. A cross is hung up, contact is made and fuck... but Harry Tryer again, a step back, a spring and a clawing save palming it up and over the bar...
Bolton have their keeper up. The seconds are ticking away, there's only a pinch of sand left in the timer. I haven't been this nervous in a while. The ball in. Another scramble, it's like watching gaelic football at points and the ball, somehow pops out for us and is poked for Bloxham to run onto, the goal is empty, Bloxham is away, pictures come to mind in my head of CJ's long range empty net goal against PNE but he keeps running, it's the right thing to do to keep the ball and waste the seconds and just as it seems he might run all the way, he's yanked back, his shirt stretched to cover the gap between the players and the referee has no choice but to go to his pocket...
There then ensure a minute of surreal delay. The ref shows a yellow, we're outraged because Bloxham was bearing down on an empty goal, maybe the ref realises his error, maybe the lino points it out, maybe the lad says something to merit a second card, I don't know - but the card becomes red and it's celebrated like another goal...
It's a matter of time now. Time indeed ticks down because that's what time does. Bolton get battered, everywhere they go. Tyrer sings along in glorious accord with the stands. Sign him up!
The whistle goes. The ground erupts.
Bolton get battered. Everywhere they go. Ennis Again! Steve Bruce's Tangerine Army...
---
As a one off game, maybe we were slightly fortunate. On the balance of the season, that was nothing less than we deserved. Think of any number of performances where we haven't got the return we should have and weigh it against that. Think, for that matter of the Orient game last time at home - this game was some recompense for that - us, clinical with our chances and reliant on a really good performance from the keeper whilst they had a lot of the game and go home frustrated. We've had a share of unlucky defeats and draws and not very many fortunate wins. Let's take it and call it 'resolute' - It was a cracking game of football, physical, dramatic, not without quality.
The forwards are like some tribute to great old school strike partnerships, a little and large act that is becoming more of a joy to witness by the week. I thought we lost the midfield battle for large parts but made the most of the moments that emerged - Carey/Morgan/Evans is never going to win a meat grinder trench warfare battle, but it might have an absolutely glorious pass in it nonetheless and so it proved. At the back, we clung on, Husband I think deserves credit for doing what he always does - just doing what is asked of him and whilst he didn't look natural in the back 4 centre half role first half, he played well in the second and a crunching tackle late on, was exactly what you want from a captain when you are fighting for your last minutes lives in a local derby, Coulson had a difficult time from their width but stuck to it. He didn't get to go forward a lot but he battled and battled. Casey, as ever, was Casey but I thought Offiah was outstanding and the one player who really seemed to be able to get tight to Bolton and disrupt them. We will miss him. He is outstanding.
From here on in, What will be will be. I'm not getting into counting points and speculation. We've still got a lot to do and one mishap could still end the season and mishaps happen. I'm not sure we've got the depth and we're relying a lot on particular players in key roles - all that said, even though it looked over by February, it's turning to April and we're still alive. Just as important is the fact that today was a game that, for the first time in a long time, felt like Bloomfield Road. There was a buzz, proper noise, it felt like a crowd on the edge of their seats, a crowd in tune with the players, a crowd backing the side and a crowd that lifted us, rather than weighed down the occasion with surly muttering and apathy.
Today was a mix of our backing, some sheer effort and sticking to it when it wasn't going our way, some brilliant skill and clinical finishing and a little bit of the proverbial 'rub of the green'. Ultimately, I have no idea if we can do this - but I know that if we're going to, then we need more of all of the above. We can attack, we can defend, we can fight, we can play. We're not perfect, no. Fuck perfection, embrace tangerine. It's better than merely perfect. It's heavenly light itself.
You never know do you?
Onward.
---
I'm glad we get in level. They look quite impressive and a lot less languid than they've looked on previous visits. It's as if Schumacher has taken the clockwork toy left by Ian Evatt and given it a good winding. We've not seen many teams this season as comfortable on the ball as them and when they increased the pace at which they moved in after their goal, they looked very dangerous. We've clung on a bit if I'm honest.
---
The second half starts. The noise swirls. There's a mist like rain and it's cold. This is football in England, this is the northern game. Insults traded on a grey day, block tackles, physicality. Sonny has a moment of freedom. He drops his patented Bobby Charlton style body swerve and gallops forward. The ground rises to its feet, Carey lays off, Fletcher runs on and though the ball is good, the run is well timed and the connection sweet, the ball is swept beyond the post. It's a much needed moment as it's the first time in a long time that we've broken their lines and threatened their goal. C'mon the Pool!
Then Sonny again, charging, shimmying, he's going past one, another and he's in! A clattering challenge and it looks for all the world, a penalty. The referee, a man with the manner of an office manager whose been in his job too long and doesn't really understand the modern technology he has to work with and is often behind the play exuding vibes of confusion, decides to book Sonny for diving even though it looks to me that he was in and winding up for a shot. Shit ref again. Shit ref again. (etc)
There's a fire burning now in this game and the chants are like smoke, the noise wending its way into the sky and warming the grey and mizzly air. On the pitch, another midfield tussle as Ennis controls, A Bolton foot pokes the ball away. Albie picks it up. A pocket of space in a game that has seen few, he rolls the ball under his foot and then, with the grace and balance of an ancient greek statue, arms out to steady the body against the exertion of the kick, lifts the most classically cultured of passes you can imagine, seeking the run of Ennis and finding him, with a lofted and curling ball that completely and utterly destroys the Bolton defence. A great pass is a moment of magic. It has none of the typical violence of a goal, but it's as deadly as a sharpened assassins' blade...
Ennis has plenty to do though, he's onto it, he's turning as if he might spin the keeper. Is he offside I wonder? I expect the flag to raise and for a moment, I fear it has done, because it's as if the game has stopped, such is the pace with which the next bit unfolds -, from his side on angle, the ball is lofted, it goes high, it seems to go so high that it must go over the bar, it's as if everyone has frozen, players on both sides following the trajectory of the ball as it loops up and then back down. I've got the time to think 'not again!' as I recall Jake Beesley's effort two weeks ago taking a similar journey to the roof of the net, but then, just as it seems that time had actually stopped, it suddenly starts again as the ball drops the right side of the line and bounces into the underside of the roof of the goal...
...The joy is without recent parallel. This is what we do this for. Ennis hurls himself into a double summersault and it looks as if the Kop might be collectively on the verge of doing the same as the limbs tangle in a leaping, tumbling and writhing mass of bodies. The subs, (including Beesley who looks happier than anyone despite the echoes of his miss) surge onto the pitch and embrace Ennis, it's one of those moments where you just forget and everything feels like pure elation. A brilliant set up and a brilliant finish, and brilliant, thick, heavy noise all around. Ennis again!!!
As in the first half, our goal stings Bolton into a response. They're quickly onto us and again as good at going forward as our midfield can be, it's not always as rugged the other way. They're able to smuggle some space on the edge of the box and fire a wicked effort that's bending for the bottom corner, Tryer though, does brilliantly, it's a hard save because he's got to get down low but also be strong and account for the curl and his stop is as sharp as they come and elicits a gasp of relief from behind his goal.
Do we make many more chances? I don't think we do - not till late on anyway. It's all Bolton. There's a moment of absolute delight as again, they have the space to shoot from distance and spot a gap, the effort is quick thinking, firing sharply at the near post as everyone seems to anticipate a far post cross, but it's not quite precise enough and lashes into the side netting, my heart skips a beat but gloriously the Bolton fans think it's in and launch into a full blown celebration of nothing at all and both the South Stand and Harry Tryer enjoy very much telling them to sit down and watch the game nicely and not to be so silly. The sound of things quietening down and mutterings of confusion are beautiful to behold.
A cross, a darting run from deep.... I wince, I brace myself for that sinking feeling and the hollow roar from my right. It never comes. Somehow he doesn't make contact. From the other side, another cross, Husband twist and leaps, surely putting something out of joint as he does, maybe he gets a touch, maybe he just puts them off, I don't know, I can barely watch but the ball skims across the goal, it's begging to be put home by someone, but mercifully it evades anyone in white and makes for the corner flag instead of the net.
There's a bit of relief for a few minutes as Bloxham comes on and has a couple of runs but it's temporary respite. We go to a 4-5-1. Silvera looks lost, CJ gets surprisingly stuck in. A ruck of bodies. We fling ourselves, we hack. CJ heads it away. CJ! of all people. Sonny blocks one, Sonny blocks another, Sonny hacks it away. Sonny, of all people! We're all in, no one left behind... In the box it's like a royal rumble, as everyone flings themselves and chases things. There's a desperation. A cross is hung up, contact is made and fuck... but Harry Tryer again, a step back, a spring and a clawing save palming it up and over the bar...
Bolton have their keeper up. The seconds are ticking away, there's only a pinch of sand left in the timer. I haven't been this nervous in a while. The ball in. Another scramble, it's like watching gaelic football at points and the ball, somehow pops out for us and is poked for Bloxham to run onto, the goal is empty, Bloxham is away, pictures come to mind in my head of CJ's long range empty net goal against PNE but he keeps running, it's the right thing to do to keep the ball and waste the seconds and just as it seems he might run all the way, he's yanked back, his shirt stretched to cover the gap between the players and the referee has no choice but to go to his pocket...
There then ensure a minute of surreal delay. The ref shows a yellow, we're outraged because Bloxham was bearing down on an empty goal, maybe the ref realises his error, maybe the lino points it out, maybe the lad says something to merit a second card, I don't know - but the card becomes red and it's celebrated like another goal...
It's a matter of time now. Time indeed ticks down because that's what time does. Bolton get battered, everywhere they go. Tyrer sings along in glorious accord with the stands. Sign him up!
The whistle goes. The ground erupts.
Bolton get battered. Everywhere they go. Ennis Again! Steve Bruce's Tangerine Army...
---
As a one off game, maybe we were slightly fortunate. On the balance of the season, that was nothing less than we deserved. Think of any number of performances where we haven't got the return we should have and weigh it against that. Think, for that matter of the Orient game last time at home - this game was some recompense for that - us, clinical with our chances and reliant on a really good performance from the keeper whilst they had a lot of the game and go home frustrated. We've had a share of unlucky defeats and draws and not very many fortunate wins. Let's take it and call it 'resolute' - It was a cracking game of football, physical, dramatic, not without quality.
The forwards are like some tribute to great old school strike partnerships, a little and large act that is becoming more of a joy to witness by the week. I thought we lost the midfield battle for large parts but made the most of the moments that emerged - Carey/Morgan/Evans is never going to win a meat grinder trench warfare battle, but it might have an absolutely glorious pass in it nonetheless and so it proved. At the back, we clung on, Husband I think deserves credit for doing what he always does - just doing what is asked of him and whilst he didn't look natural in the back 4 centre half role first half, he played well in the second and a crunching tackle late on, was exactly what you want from a captain when you are fighting for your last minutes lives in a local derby, Coulson had a difficult time from their width but stuck to it. He didn't get to go forward a lot but he battled and battled. Casey, as ever, was Casey but I thought Offiah was outstanding and the one player who really seemed to be able to get tight to Bolton and disrupt them. We will miss him. He is outstanding.
From here on in, What will be will be. I'm not getting into counting points and speculation. We've still got a lot to do and one mishap could still end the season and mishaps happen. I'm not sure we've got the depth and we're relying a lot on particular players in key roles - all that said, even though it looked over by February, it's turning to April and we're still alive. Just as important is the fact that today was a game that, for the first time in a long time, felt like Bloomfield Road. There was a buzz, proper noise, it felt like a crowd on the edge of their seats, a crowd in tune with the players, a crowd backing the side and a crowd that lifted us, rather than weighed down the occasion with surly muttering and apathy.
Today was a mix of our backing, some sheer effort and sticking to it when it wasn't going our way, some brilliant skill and clinical finishing and a little bit of the proverbial 'rub of the green'. Ultimately, I have no idea if we can do this - but I know that if we're going to, then we need more of all of the above. We can attack, we can defend, we can fight, we can play. We're not perfect, no. Fuck perfection, embrace tangerine. It's better than merely perfect. It's heavenly light itself.
You never know do you?
Onward.
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