The hangover of last night is becoming a little buzz fuelled by the hair of the dog. I'm early. I'm a bit spaced out. Joel Randall's legs look like the spindles from a particularly ornate Victorian staircase. Obafemi looks languid in the warm up game but then pulls a little bit of next level skill out of his locker and I get a jolt of excitement. I love players who look good in warm ups. Mind you, I was convinced that Emil Hansson was cheat code genius because he once hit a nice swerving shot in a tracksuit top and that Joe Nuttall was certain to be a 25 goal a season striker as his physique on first sight seemed to scream 'goals! lots of them!' so it's not a fool proof talent spotting methodology.
This pitch, this place. A blaze of colour, grass looking rich and the tangerine resplendent. I could gaze on it forever. I've got a good feeling about today. I'm not stupid, I know it could all evaporate in the first 20 minutes but right now I'm in the place of foolish optimism and tangerine dreams. There's pace and skill on the pitch and players on the bench. There's CJ flippin' Hamilton... Ole! It seems impossible from this moment that we won't beat this weird purple opposition by 10 or 15 goals... I really like that Evo has chucked all the new lads in. No pissing about, no 'getting them up to speed' - we need them, they need us, go and play football.
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The whistle goes, we're off. Almost instantly Ihiekwe is making a foul that speaks of shaky performances past and points to an afternoon the opposite of the one I've been foolishly dreaming of. A simple ball, the centre back all out of position and wrong side, lacking the pace to get back to where he needs to be makes a clumsy and obvious intervention. They load the box... here we fucking go. Same old shit, same old failings, same old disappointment and frustrations.
What was I thinking?
It comes to absolutely nothing though. I'm watching Randall intently. He's exactly my type. I rarely covet opposition players, I rarely even notice their names, they have to be remarkably good or remarkably bad to register - but Randall stuck in my mind for a couple of highly intelligent, unusually classy performances for Peterborough. I love that Evatt covets him too, gushing in interviews about what he offers. Being a pathetic individual lack any real meaning or purpose in my life, I'd gone back and listened to the pre makeover Evatt talk about him when still trapped in the purgatory of being Bolton boss and his love for the flimsy but elegant midfielder was evident - I want skinny players with a glorious touch, I want players who haven't bulked up because they trust that a touch, a jink, a moment of vision is enough to put lumbering beasts on their arses, we're fucking Blackpool FC, not some run of the mill identikit nothing club in some run of the mill identikit nothing town - we sell dreams, escape, joy, not fucking cotton or coal or, I don't know... shoes...
I'm caught in this reverie as the ball is launched, swerving at the last to drop for CJ. He's not going to trap this. It's going to bounce off him because that's what happens when it's CJ, he's all athlete and no technique.. but that isn't what happens because CJ (international Footballer) Hamilton not only takes the ball out the sky perfectly, he also drifts inside making a great angle for the kind of pass I've been dreaming of Joel Randall making, a perfectly weighted, beautifully disguised threaded through the eye of a needle (not just any needle either, one of those little ones where it seems impossible and the cotton always splits) ball to Randall himself. Am I still daydreaming and my mind has mixed up the image I have of Randall and superimposed it on CJ? Ole!
Randall backheels first time, Fletcher tries to make space but his shot cannons away, Honeyman on the rebound, a shot, another block, Honeyman again, drags it wide then, picture perfect pose, like the action shot cover of some programme from days of yore, crashes a shout from 14 yards, on the angle, the keeper tumbles and is firmly behind it, but it won't stick and it bounces out again, Ashworth is waiting, a player who of late has shown a great deal of utility and who deserves a bit of glory, it drops just right, he doesn't think twice, laces through it and its struck a knee of a dizzied covering defender and ricoched into the roof of the net...YESSSSS! That's exactly the start we needed. C'mon Pool! We want 10!
For a few minutes it does look like we might put them to the sword. Randall is finding space to run into and we're knocking it about with confidence. Obafemi is a little bit peripheral but there's busts of ridiculous pace and hustling charges, his squat, muscular body, a mix of sprinter and boxer resembling what might happen if you combined the assets of CJ and Kylian. The man of the moment though, a player who today, there literally ain't nobody better than on the pitch (and possibly the league) is Super Ashley Fletcher.
A run down the line, some lovely control taking it in, a spin to keep the ball away, a lull as he teases, and then ball one side, Fletcher the other, swaying and vaulting an attempted tackle, surging and meeting the ball, it's beautiful. He's dropping deep, he's playing as a 10, he's playing where an 8 would sit at points and he's good enough to do this. He gets, he spreads it wide, he charges forward to be a striker once again, pulling their defence out of shape as he goes. In all the time I've watched this club, I struggle to think of a player who has had a turnaround like this lad has had. Players have had poor debuts or taken a few games to find the pace and gone on to good or great things(Adam, Keogh spring to mind) but Fletcher struggled for months, looked like a hopeless case, was literally laughed of the pitch at one point) and now, he looks better every week, an intelligent and increasingly complete footballer and one who makes it look easy, who strolls about, a jazz player finding pockets of space, playing clever rhythms and using the silence in a league of up and down 4/4 pub rockers
The enthusiasm for football and general joie de vivre doesn't last though. We do have some pressure, CJ again does well, getting on the end of a long ball and turning it first time, towards goal, a chipped effot, looping in, but for a defender on the line. In turn, we (Ashworth) clear one from under the bar as BPF, sometimes so athletic, strong and lithe, has one of those moments where he looks like a schoolkid shoved in goals, wandering aimlessly out under a cross, waving hopelessly at it as it goes over him and then, thanking his lucky stars that their header on a keeper-less goal frame finds a defender and not the net.
As the half progresses, we fade and it frustrates me. Northampton are like a comedy sketch of a side in the sense that they're exactly what you'd imagine a side managed by a pound shop fat Sam would be like. Nolan has even gone all craggy and jowly like the man himself They're obsessed with long throws and long diagonals to the heart of the box. At one point, one of their players has a chance to cross whilst two of our defenders are on the ground and he lets the ball run, slowly, out of play, to take the throw instead.
The quality of the game declines, the warm flames of the first 10 minutes dwindling, till all there is is some faintly glowing embers, the biting wind now swirling and it all very grey, league 1 stuff. We can't get the ball down, we're struggling to put passes together, we're watching them get closer to our goal. If we have artistry in our ranks, they're a heavy industrial thing, a set of trundling tanks moving inexorably towards our borders...
The atmosphere is getting tetchier. We're actually defending pretty well, even if we're now getting worryingly penned in. Grant, I like. He's kind of the opposite of Randall. The latter glides with the elegance of an 18th century gentleman wielding a beautifully carved wooden handled duelling pistol with skill - Whereas Grant lurches around the pitch and carries an altogether more agricultural shotgun. He knows how to defend though, he seems comfortable in where he is on the pitch and we're stronger for it. Big Mike and his gammy toe are doing alright, he's frequently on the end of their crosses, neutralising their direct play.
Half time approaches, they have a version of what led to our goal, a ball in, it's bounced around, it comes out, their lad lashes it and it hits something (I though BPF saved it, but it's probably a post) and then goes for a goal kick. That was too close.
It's half time.
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A strange half in that I saw things I liked and then it just got steadily worse. I can't really put my finger on what they stopped us doing after about 15 minutes, but it feels like something has stopped working at some point and I hope Evatt can work out what I can't.
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After the game, Evo says we started the second half 'fast' but to me, it seemed we initially had more of the same. The ref is a twat. He's one of those identikit referees who looks like he parades himself in front of the mirror practising his bookings and his general demeanour. I can imagine him saying "you are in charge" to himself and closing his eyes, visualising well executed whistle and particularly authoritatively sprayed line of shaving foam. His shorts are too high in the way only referees can wear their shorts. He seems to give them everything and he gives them yet another foul now- they make a chance, I barely need to say, it's a diagonal lofted ball into the box, because it always is - it bounces around and we scramble and finally Peacock-Farrell falls on an effort that is mercifully weak.
They're building again, I actually quite like their 11, he's their one player who seems to have a little bit of a brain and decent feet - he tricks his way past one, knocks it inside, they've got a chance to lift it into the box from here - their man dawdles, Randall shadows, and then, Fletcher pounces, dropping deep as he does, he's in the right place to nick it, a toe into space and he's away, charging and then hitting a divine pass, it's a really hard one too, like turning a car into a skid, all the momentum seems to be going the other way as he kind of hits down on the ball, spitting it out, to the right, a skidding, spinning ball into the run of Obafemi
The lad in full flight is exciting, he reminds me of what Lavery brought before his hamstrings hamstrung his impact, bustling, intimidating pace and no little power - there's real ability there too as he hits a pass to match Fletcher's in return, a searching ball, arcing, coming back like a golfers putt breaking, perfectly guided towards its man, who has exploded forward seeking this exact ball and, who takes it in his stride, passes his man and then, in the most stonewall example of a penalty you'll ever see, has his legs clipped and can do nothing else but fall to his knees.
Lets stop for a moment.
This ref is crap, they almost all are. I see absolutely no attempt to play the ball and one of the countries most deadly strikers on current form through on goal, with the ball under control and only the keeper to beat having his legs clipped by a defender who had no other option. It appears to be denial of a clear and obvious goal scoring chance. It is, of course, a yellow card, because it's us. Whilst the decision in and of itself is questionable, it's true that all every decision like this does is highlight, the ridiculous charade of the James Husband red card (went for the ball, won the ball, not actually a foul, not in any sense denial of a goal scoring opportunity) and the even more ridiculous self protecting, self serving and frankly corrupt charade of an appeals process which not only upheld the original decision, but slapped another ban on top of it, because Husband used 'industrial language' in a 'threatening way' despite his body language speaking of justified incredulity and disbelief.
I have time to think about this because the class milk monitor is going round telling players who are mostly stood outside of the box to stand outside of the box. He preemptively tells off 8 players who aren't in the box, before he gets to one who isn't. Nice one mate, you just drink in the moment, it's definitely you we've all come to see. Why not blow that whistle a few times, we all think you are super powerful, that shrill piecing sound is the very definition of 'man with control' and I for one bow to you and your authority.
For fucks sake...
Finally.
We're ready.
The tension has built. No matter how good Fletch is now, there's an underlying image of him falling over and ballooning the ball high above the Kop that keeps coming to mind... A blast from the whistle, Fletch jogs in, so calm, as if he's been somewhere else entirely, humming a jaunty tune in his mental zen den for the minute of unnecessary building anxiety, and he sends the keeper the wrong way and we're breathing a big sigh and then yelling our relief... YESSSSSS!
2-0 is so much more comfortable. That was a goal we needed. There was a danger of the game becoming really fractious, a crowd getting more and more restless, but now, we can relax a little.
It takes a while. I'm certain that we'll be able to pick them off. They need more now than just the ball to drop once, they need to make some chances and that will surely open spaces for us to exploit. It doesn't happen straight away. They fizz one over the top (of course, a looped ball into the heart of the box) and don't crumble as I'd hoped.
It takes the introduction of a few subs (most notably, a hungry looking Tom Bloxham) to give us that edge. We finally put together a run of chances, breaking convincingly, CJ pushing and running, playing a lovely ball across the box, Grant picking up the pieces after everyone dances round it and hitting the inside of the post, seemingly bending the laws of physics to make the ball bounce out as it does. CJ sets up Bloxham, Bloxham sets up CJ. Tom has his effort squeezed wide, CJ, who I think has done pretty well today, of course, falls over as it looks nailed on that he's going to score a glorious cake icing 90th minute delight. Ole!
They chuck on Tom Eaves who I still fear because of how good he was about 6 years ago for Gillingham but whilst he gets on the end of a few things and Finnigan has a moment of clumsiness in midfield that presents them a chance, nothing makes BPF do anything beyond routine.
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When the whistle goes, the feeling is still curiously one of relief, rather than outright celebration. It was, in a many ways, a fustrating game in that, the opposition seemed so limited and so far out of anything resembling form, that any self respecting believer in the tangerine cause, the way of beauty, skill and wizardry, might be forgiven for being irritated that we didn't cut them up more conclusively.
The reality is though, it was a hard fought and well earned win. They came to stop us playing and we played enough for a comfortable win, if nowhere near enough to be 'entertaining.' There were flashes of football and we had, even though it didn't always prevail, a lot more variety and technique on display (or being allowed to be utilised) than they did - and eventually, overall, that told. They played a very restricted way and we much less so.
I thought our back three did pretty well. I've already mentioned two of them, but Casey deserves a shout, immaculate on the left hand side, not his natural role and one he looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable in last time he played it. Having Ashworth as a wing back worked, not only did he get forward and score, but he's able to play an actual left back role very well, which meant at times we played as a 4 and CJ was clearly instructed to get high and at times stay high, even sometimes dropping in next to Obafemi. CJ isn't perfect (we all know this), he never will be (he knows this, I know this, you know this), but I think that's a much better way to use him and his strengths than asking him just to be a conventional wing back and shadow his man up and down - he's a player who takes abuse sometimes for managers asking him to plug gaps he's not built to. Asking him to get high puts the emphasis on a) him attacking space and b) their man to defend him and I'd always rather CJ running at their goal than nervously running back towards ours.
Brown was more effective today, less wasteful with the ball and a bit more of the busy and energetic disrupter that is his best self. Randall was promising and was a couple of final balls away from really impacting and Honeyman looked to enjoy playing with him and I felt had more impact as reward for his effort than in some games. All the new players seemed to fit their roles and give us a bit more of a convincing look.
It wasn't a promotion winning performance, it wasn't a 'wow, this lot will win the Champions League if we can keep them together' performance. It wasn't even a particularly good game at all - but for fucks sake, It's League One, it's January and we're in a scrap at the bottom of the table because we so spectacularly fucked up so much stuff earlier in the year. It was a routine, but very important win when we're in crap form against another side in horrible form and seemingly reaching their own nadir under a manager who doesn't seem to inspire any kind of imagination at all in their play.
What do we expect such a game to be like?
To have lost that game would have been a proper disaster - but we didn't and whilst hurried loan signings for key positions aren't really where we expected or wanted to be, there's an optimism over and above today's performance as you can see enough in what we've brought in to suggest that a) Evatt knows what he wants and is clear about getting it and b) there's more to come as the attacking players in particular bed in and find the collective rhythm of the team.
There was effort and commitment and when you've got that, the skill will show in time.
Onward
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