I'm starting to think that there's very little point or purpose to all this other than some kind of sick joke to amuse the unknown powers behind the universe. There's been a lot of speculation by various civilisations over the years as to why stuff happens and what it all means. Moral codes dictated by oldl Fellas in clouds with beards, zenshit and robes, elephant headed dudes with loads of arms, gods on Greek mountains and all that stuff. I'm not sure any of them are a thing. I don't know... Like a stoned student, I feel like saying 'what if we are all living in a simulation maaaaaan.'????
That argument is a logical dead end. It's unprovable. We MIGHT indeed be living in a simulation (maaaan) but there's no way of knowing, so it's not really worth talking about. Put down your spliff, switch off your TV set, do something less boring instead etc.
Except, I think I've stumbled across the evidence. Whilst post 18th century liberal thinking would have us as all special and unique beings, with complexity and beauty, I think we're literally just numbers. I'm not talking of the mystery of DNA (what is it, where does it come from, why do we go to such lengths to pass it on) - I actually think we're all merely the attendance figures generated by a game of Football Manager and 'god' such as they are, is a PNE fan who has decided to tinker with the game editor and subject Blackpool FC to as much painful and tortuous misery as he can this season. There's something so wilfully cruel about the way each paper cut is inflicted that our bleeding out seems like it can't be merely self inflicted. The universe hates us. I do not exist. Reality is a sham. This is probably what I have to tell myself because right now, if they bulldozed the ground and stuck up a Wickes or something instead, it feels like it would probably do my mindset some good overall.
Half time, I'm sharing a rare bit of (very) cautious optimism. We've not been 'brilliant' or even 'pretty good' - we've been 'alright' (ish) and we've been on top (sort of). The stats are fairly even in terms of chances, but Wycombe's big moments have come largely from our mistakes and we've, for the first time this season, put in a half of football where we've looked vaguely coherent. We've pressured a bit, we've pressed quite well (relative to 'not pressing at all'). We've been in their half more than they've been in our half. It makes some sort of sense to see the players on the pitch in the places they are playing. We've had some crosses! Some passes! We've managed some moves where we retain the ball! We haven't simply panicked and banged it long (well, not every time) Stop the press, tell the world... the Pool are going up etc!!!
The goal feels loosely speaking, deserved. We don't always make the most of good positions (in fact, we look quite blunt in that regard), but to be honest, for most of the season we've not made good positions at all so lets not get sniffy about 'quality in the final third' because, fuck me, we've got into the final third and that's a start. It's a taken really well by Fletcher (there ain't nobody better, cos they're all in bandages and plaster) from a cute touch on by Bloxham. I'm delighted because this out of form, out of sorts, somewhat patched up side have looked better today and I wanted them to get the reward, to get some confidence and to carry on playing like this. CJ looks good in a wide attacking role. I don't care if we're supposed to damn players by previous performances (I hear someone in the toilets saying 'the keeper is the problem' as if they've not noticed anything else since the first few games) but his movement in a position where he doesn't have to think about defending much is so much better. We bought him to play 433 and we've almost never played it since. The midfield actually has some presence in it as we've got enough players there. We're not overrun. We show a bit of patience. You'll not believe this, but sometimes our players move around a bit and make some space for each other sometimes - I know! Incredible! It's like watching Brazil. (Ok, it's like watching Brazil who've got their boots on the wrong feet and blindfolds on, but it's at least something starting to resemble a 21st century football team playing to a plan and trying to make it work)
It looks like the first few bricks of some foundations to me. It's not a row of bricks, it's just one or two - It's not something to build your hopes of champions league glory upon yet, but it's something that a few more bricks could be laid next to rather than just what the rest of the season has been - a big shitty, muddy field full of stagnant water. We've not even dug a trench to put the bricks in to date, let alone laid anything down. Dobs and Blinks have done a bit of spadework. Well done. More and better please, but carry on...
Why is Banks coming on? I'm scanning the players. Maybe Bloxham - assist aside, he's not really impacted the game... CJ? surely not, he's played pretty well... I can't work it out, but then Tony Parr explains that Albie Morgan is back in the changing room and my heart sinks. This can only be an injury. My whatsapp group speculates and someone points out that Morgan pulled up and stopped running shortly before the end of the half (possibly round the time his awful pass presented them with their best chance)
We're fucking cursed. We're back to 442 because throwing in Upton is probably too much too soon at this point.
Maybe it will be ok?
It's not ok. The shallow trench of the first half fills up with water almost straight away. The bricks are submerged by a tide of Wycombe. The mortar and cement dissolves.
I don't want to write about it.
I've written about it before. Read any blog this season. We're overrun, they seem able to, at will, run at us and cut us open. 2 men in midfield isn't enough. The wingers we have are attacking players but they're just spinning hopelessly and air kicking pathetically, lunging fearfully as they're turned into shit defenders. The full backs are exposed. Neither of them have a lot of football this season either.
Dobbie tries to pump out the water. He takes off Tom 'big dose of night nurse before a match' Bloxham and puts Hansson on wide so Banks can come inside and add an extra body to midfield. This might work - Banks is good, he's got two feet, he can take a pass and we need desperately to get back to parity of numbers. Hansson might be able to break.
I'd love to pretend it worked - but it doesn't - Banks doesn't look fit at all. He's out of rhythm, the acceleration isn't there. His touch is heavy. Wycombe continue to stream forward, the ref continues to indulge their physical play and to penalise anything we do and our players start to tire. Ashworth has been really good today, his performance making a mockery of Bruce's refusal to consider him an option - but he's a victim of not having played 90 mins (aside from one tinpot cup game a month ago) all year and of having Emil 'blood and thunder' Hansson looking like some fella from a city who has no idea what he's doing in the countryside trying to nervously and ineffectually herd geese ahead of him. The geese stream past him honking and nipping at him. Hansson looks worried and flaps an arm or a leg hopefully.
Wycombe force BPF into some very good saves (I wonder if the man in bogs is muttering 'routine' as he he springs from nowhere, arches his back and claws the ball away from the top corner, or chucks an arm out point blank with almost eerie levels of anticipation and deflects it away) Lee Evans (another who I think is good (in terms of effort at least) today, tempting as it is to damn him on past performances) makes an incredible block on the line.
It's not just that it's all Wycombe - we just don't exist. We're so unfit it's like having about 7 players against 11.
Dobbie turns to Fraser Horsfall. This is the correct call. There is nothing on the bench that would give us more control. There's two kids and Josh 'just out of bed' Bowler so we might as well try and park the bus at this point. To be fair, I'm not sure whether we have a bus to park, but I'd settle for a largish people carrier and Horsfall is a unit. Ashworth bursts forward and literally runs out of pace... He's shot. Horsfall comes on, CJ goes to left back (the right move as their right winger is fast) and we continue.
For a few minutes, we look better for it. It's not that we gain a huge amount higher up the pitch, but we're asking Wycombe to work harder to get through us and there's less space for them to exploit as we're able to pick up players more effectively in this set up. Maybe we'll get away with this?
We don't. There's a horrifying injury to Michael Ihiekwe because, well, of course there is. It's trite and insensitive to try and make light of it for the sake of a shit motif in a shitfanblog, but the fucking PNE fan in charge of our luck is a cunt and is cackling to himself as types in the command. Ihiekwe started the season as our worst player but for the last 5 or 6 games has been our least worst and he's played really well today. He strides across and makes another commanding intervention, but their number 7 does that sneaky, downright dangerous, proper shithouse (as in nasty bastard) leaning forward instead of jumping move and he cartwheels over the top of him and lands awfully, grimly, heavily, worryingly on his head and neck and there's 6 or 7 minutes of medics and physios and neck braces and serious looking stretcher action. It's not nice.
Theo Upton is on. We change shape for what I think is the 4th time. It's a 4231 I think this time.
I actually feel sick. I realise I've been clenching my teeth and shoulder and calves since half time. Upton coming on just heightens it all because I want it to work. I want us to bring on a kid, a Blackpool fan at that and see this game out and us to cheer them off at full time and him to feel the moment and there be something to smile about. I wanted us to win before, obviously, but now, I want it all the more...
There's a magnificent moment where the lad makes a double tackle. There's real aggression in what he does. Lee Evans celebrates the moment with him and Upton doesn't really respond much, he's focussed, he's chasing, he's sprinting - imagine being this lad. Just imagine it...
Imagine your dream coming true...
Imagine making that tackle, the roar of the crowd around you, being in the centre of the noise you'd been making all your life, the sound that gives you something to belong to, the sound that is your town, your home, your family, imagine knowing you'd prompted it... the seconds ticking down, not able to glance at the clock as you would do as a fan, but focussing on the ball... sheer magic...
Imagine then, turning as play goes back towards our goal, imagine running helplessly in the direction of the ball, watching as Wycombe waltz past teammates, despairing as the ball is poked into the box, wincing in horror as the player receiving it seems to have all the time in the world, hoping briefly for a BPF miracle but then stopping as the ball hits the back of the net. Imagine the sinking feeling, the impulsive fan reaction to lash out or scream to the heavens. Imagine being on that pitch though, exposed and defenceless as the cold, dissatisfied crowd turn their backs and begin to file out, the angry cries, the grumbling, the disappointment.... Imagine the muted boos at the whistle as you blow out your cheeks and think 'People say football is cruel but nothing prepares you for this...'
I can't speak. Fuck knows how Theo Upton feels.
---
I can't sum this up as some kind of scoring metric. 'He was good' and 'he was not' and all of that.
The game has broken me. We're threadbare, we're unfit and we're actually under a hex. Every time we seemed to find a bit of stability, something undermines it. This isn't about 'who should be manager' - but I want Dobbie to do well, regardless of who we appoint, him, Evatt, Bloomfield, Uncle fucking Tom Cobley, Gary Madine ringing up and picking the team from a North East social club after 10 pints of Stella before the strippers come on or the ghosts of Jock Stein and Bill Shankly controlling us through a fucking ouija board - I like the man, he shows some football intelligence and coaching ability - and he's dealt with 4 injuries that have forced him to change shape in 180 minutes of league football. He's dealing with fatigue in positions we have no back up for. I don't blame him for much, if anything yesterday - every unforced change he made to our shape (starting 433, going to 5 at the back) was undermined by injury - blaming him for enforced changes not working is like blaming a poker player for being dealt a shit hand. Take out Honeyman, Morgan, Imray, Ennis, Coulson, Ihiekwe, Taylor and whoever else I've forgotten and add the fact that what's left has multiple players who are nowhere near 100% 90 minutes fit and the guy is fighting a lost cause. At least I felt as if he fought it, tried things, responded and kept responding - but he's like a man at a knife fight with a broken set of plastic kids party cutlery.
In the first half, we weren't outstanding, but we did look a fair degree more coached, we did play a bit of football, we did look at least like a mediocre league 1 side managing to successfully get the better of another one in a typical low quality league 1 game, which, in comparison to the abject mess that went before was an improvement. Right now 'average' isn't to be sniffed at and having achieved something vaguely acceptable (polite applause at half time!) it's soul destroying to watch us unable to replicate it because we physically don't have the players to carry on playing the same way. They didn't not try. Anything but - instead, they broke down or ended up running in treacle.
I'd honestly give my hind teeth for Ryan Finnigan right now... Not in any world did I imagine saying this 2 months ago.
I get in the car. I've actually got cramp in my leg from the tension of the second half. I've got to go and be social now with normal people who haven't lived through this. I just want to drink myself into oblivion. I can't. I'm driving. I have to stop in the car park for 5 minutes and give myself a talking to. It's only football MCLF. You enjoy it. It's a distraction.. It's proper lunatic stuff to let yourself actually ruin your evening because of football. I go in... My mate says 'what's up? you look haunted!' - That sums it up. I AM fucking haunted by this fucking club and this affliction of caring about it. It's a ghost, a malevolent poltergeist and I can't shake it off.
Fucks sake Pool. Fucks sake me. I spent the summer writing jaunty blogs telling Sadler to spend money on Bruce because what could go wrong? Fuck stupid blogger dickheads masquerading as reasoned voices but just spouting abject shit that proves to be way off the mark, fuck football in general, fuck fucking calf injuries, hamstrings, referees, fuck Steve Agnew, Fuck Stephen Clemence, fuck luck, fuck judgement, fuck not planning, fuck not preparing, fuck pre-season, fuck the season, fuck the lot of it. Burn it all down. I can't keep caring so much about this.
Get an exorcist or something. Find the plug to the computer that runs this hellish simulation and pull it.
There's always next week...
Onward
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