| This mortal Coyle |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|04:10 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (80), January 2010. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
They say a week is a long time in football. They’re not wrong.
On December 29, Stephen Hunt scored twice in eight minutes to earn Hull City a draw at the Reebok Stadium; the next morning, Sky Sports News’ yellow ticker went into overdrive with the news that Bolton Wanderers manager Gary Megson had been sacked. “Coyle’s off,” came the mischievous text messages as Burnley prepared for an FA Cup tie at MK Dons.
Cue pre-match denials, Coyle’s post-match disappearance to Scotland, his secretive meeting with Bolton chairman Phil Gartside, that 24-hour ‘thinking period’, the anointment of a Turf Moor billboard with the word “wanker”, his inevitable departure, lengthy compensation talks, the defection of half the club staff to Bolton, a flirtation with Doncaster Rovers manager Sean O’Driscoll, the appointment of ex-Sheffield Wednesday boss Brian Laws and, three days later, the small matter of a trip to Old Trafford.
After the 2-2 draw that cost him his job, Megson fronted up to BBC Radio 5 Live, noting that the substitution booed by supporters – removing striker Ivan Klasnic – hadn’t stopped Bolton beating West Ham United two weeks earlier. He also observed that the fans weren’t helping, thus signing his own P45.
Two days before taking his side to Buckinghamshire, Coyle said that “[Bolton] is a fantastic job… but, as always, I am concentrating on the job in hand”. His friend and press mouthpiece Alan Nixon, the Mirror and People journalist, had other ideas. As we had come to expect, Nixon played a significant part in what we might term Bolton-gate, breaking a series of ‘exclusives’ regarding Coyle’s intentions over the following week as creeping speculation bled into a legal stand-off.
It was clear that Coyle was on the other end of Nixon’s hotline to Turf Moor; less clear is why the club didn’t put a stop to it. Managers often come with a long-term number two, but they aren’t normally accompanied by their own tabloid hack. Professional clubs run media operations in order to present a unified front and to break official news first; Coyle’s association with Nixon undermined Burnley on both counts.
Four days after Megson’s sacking, Coyle ducked the post-match press conference at MK Dons. It looked unprofessional, the excuse given (that he didn’t have time to fulfil his media obligations) was unconvincing, and asking Sandy Stewart to deputise proved to be his first false move.
Coyle may well have booked a flight to spend the new year with his family, but it later emerged that he met Gartside in Scotland the following day. Given that the pair presumably spoke between Megson’s sacking and their rendezvous, that Coyle applied for the Bolton job in October 2007 and that his former St Johnstone assistant would almost certainly follow him to any new club, it seems inconceivable that Stewart wasn’t apprised of the situation when he insisted that “[Owen] is very happy at Burnley… so he will stay”.
All that despite Coyle denying he was the “evasive” type. He took the coward’s way out: his goodbye wasn’t that final, sheepish wave to the travelling fans, but a sharp exit and the deafening silence that ensued. He has shuffled off, this mortal Coyle, halfway through “this incredible adventure”, leaving the club that gambled on him for the one that wouldn’t take the risk.
During the negotiations, Coyle told Burnley chairman Barry Kilby that he would only leave for Celtic or Bolton. So having (eventually) ruled out a move to Celtic – his boyhood club, offering guaranteed Champions League football – last summer, why go down the road? In Kilby’s words: “Owen wanted to work with a bigger budget and he obviously felt [Bolton] had a better chance of staying up. Owen's mindset is that he doesn't want to risk being in the Championship."
The tail end of 2009 saw Coyle refer incessantly to his limited budget, which didn’t stretch to buying David Nugent in January (it’s unlikely to have been the final straw; he gave the loan striker just five league starts). It sounded like fighting talk, designed to create a siege mentality and bolster team spirit. But with hindsight, it was the petulant complaint of someone who was fully aware of our financial constraints – constraints which, ironically, would have allayed criticism of Coyle had he taken us down.
Other temptations included a pay rise; the profound emotional bond forged by scoring 12 league goals in two seasons for Bolton; and, of course, the fact that Wanderers are an established Premier League club with the appropriate infrastructure.
On that topic, I enjoyed Megson’s thoughts the week before his removal: "I think we’re the only club in the Premier League that has an all-weather surface that’s no good when the weather is bad. The surface is frozen. Lord knows who put that in. Typical." In the long term, the romantically-monikered Reebok may be better equipped for top-flight football. In the short term, we’ve been sold down the river for a bigger ice bath.
Resources may differ in Horwich, but so do expectations. To borrow a well-worn phrase, Bolton were punching above their weight in 2004/05 when they finished sixth to qualify for the UEFA Cup. Coyle has inherited a poor-quality squad (look at the league table) with the minimum requirement of keeping them up – and after a truncated transfer window, he has just three months to turn around a failing team unused to his style.
And failure to meet those expectations could see him pay a heavy price. While relegation would barely have diminished Coyle’s standing in the eyes of many Burnley fans, the Bolton supporters who took pride in ejecting Megson are less forgiving – and appear to have Gartside’s ear. (As long ago as WTBM (63), I argued against those clubs desperate to preserve their place at the trough by creating a Premier League Mk II. The Bolton chairman’s concern for the ‘smaller’ clubs in the top flight seems oddly absent when he’s busy poaching their staff.)
Forget the quibbling over whether Bolton are a bigger club: the brutal fact is that our manager abandoned us for a relegation rival in the January transfer window (with deals on the table, such as a confirmed interest in taking Arsenal’s Jack Wilshere on loan). Ironic that while fans, players, officials, many within the media and the Bolton board thought Coyle could keep a team in the Premier League, his decision to leave us on a nine-match winless run implies he doubted his own ability to succeed.
A popular argument is that Coyle had ‘taken Burnley as far as he could’, which is only true if you’re brave enough to offer a cast-iron guarantee that the Clarets will start next season in the Championship. Equally arrogant is journalist Jim White’s pronouncement that “going to Bolton gives him at least another 18 months in the top flight”. Football can be predictable, but you wouldn’t stake your house on it.
Owen Coyle has. Having presumably earned a modest living as a player in, predominantly, the Scottish leagues, he can’t be blamed for accepting hefty sums to secure his material future. But his managerial future is now staked to a club carrying a £44m debt and in danger of losing assets such as Gary Cahill. He may come to regret it.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t impressed by the bloke; on meeting him, I found him personable and solicitous, and was flattered when he remembered me at a later date. But I became increasingly uncomfortable with Burnley fans’ rapturous post-match ovation for Coyle, which normally overshadowed that reserved for the team; it seemed to symbolise a reversal of ex-England manager Graham Taylor’s frequent observation that “players win games, managers lose them”.
Of course, there must be an appreciation of what Coyle achieved – that exquisite joy at Stamford Bridge, an agonising night against Spurs, the bedlam at Wembley when Wade Elliott fired us into the Premier League – at a time in our recent history when apathy and debt threatened to have their pound of flesh. But as Graham Alexander notes: ”We have played under him but we haven’t played for him; we have played for Burnley… as much as Owen did a great job here, it wasn’t down to one man.”
Before Coyle’s departure, Crystal Palace boss Neil Warnock said: “If he does desert Burnley, it’s a massive thing to have on your shoulders for the rest of your life.” Yes, ‘desert’ is a strong word. But it’s pretty unequivocal to describe yourself as “privileged to be building something special” mere days before walking out. To jump ship just months after acknowledging that “the football club acts as a unifying force and… people are taking a lot of pride and hope in where we are”.
“I saw A Shot At Glory on telly the other day,” says my friend Gary when he can finally get a word in. “Owen Coyle’s one of the worst actors I’ve ever seen.” Sadly, most of us were taken in, hence the widespread use of the term ‘Judas’ (generally reserved for such dastardly acts as being photographed in a Manchester United shirt before you’ve even left West Ham). This was the worst of unholy betrayals: after allowing the fans to elevate him to godlike status, Coyle shit on us from a very great height.
As we approach an almighty showdown at the Reebok, my matchday companion Gareth starts planning banners – “Hitler had one ball, Owen has none” – while even my Blackburn-supporting friend (one is enough) informs me that, as Rovers get thumped 4-1 at Manchester City, “all anyone is talking about in the away end is how awful Owen Coyle is”.
Admittedly, our bitterness partly stems from the beneficiaries. We would have waved him off fondly to a ‘bigger’ club, at a better time, but Bolton? It’s like being left for someone with BO. And when his success could so easily spell our failure, it’s impossible to wish him well on his crablike journey across the north west. It might be immature to hope that Bolton drop like a stone, but aren’t tribal rivalries what make football so great?
I don’t often quote Steve Cotterill, but after beating Plymouth Argyle 4-0 to end our 19-match winless run in 2006/07, he said: “The lads played angry tonight.” We need to play angry from now on; for these players to prove they can survive in the top flight through a sustained display of solidarity, consistency, quality and, most pertinently, desire.
“I am not worth this coyle that’s made for me,” wrote Shakespeare in King John, and Burnley Football Club is worth far more than whatever sordid compensation our Lancashire neighbours have paid. It goes on, Mr Coyle: at what you called “our Turf”, a theatre of unsullied dreams, our players will decide our fate. With or without you, as another messianic frontman once said. |
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| Misery, part II |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|04:05 pm] |
An edited version of this article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (78), December 2009. With thanks to Martin Barnes
For some godforsaken reason, my brother is a Liverpool fan. This explains why, weeks after bombarding WTBM with splenetic rage about my Anfield experience, I’m in the away end at the Emirates watching the Scousers in the Carling Cup. In best journalistic tradition, however, I arrive determined to keep an open mind, in the interests of fairness, objectivity and not getting my head kicked in.
Once I laughed at this competition. No more. Post-Spurs, I view the trophy as rightfully ours (this logic may be flawed) and not even promotion has helped me get over it. And just when I’m enjoying Elvis Presley’s ‘The Wonder of You’, accompanied by Technicolor footage of marvellous Arsenal goals, the big screen provides an unnecessary reminder of Christian Kalvenes’ painful lack of pace.
Referee Alan Wiley gets us under way, and half an hour later, Liverpool fans are still trailing into the ground. It sounds perverse, but I can understand why Arsenal fans are late. I live round the corner. It’s always busy. The nearest Tube stations are small and one, ridiculously, closes before kick-off. But Liverpool fans? Late? Having known they had 200 miles to travel? Did they get stopped at Customs?
They’re also incapable of finding their own seats; a dozen ask what number my seat is, squint at their tickets, then give up and join the mêlée in the aisles. A minority spit on the floor at regular intervals, no doubt spreading the swine flu that Fat Sam’s lot seem to have dispersed throughout the land. Still, the sea of Pepsi swilling around our feet might kill the germs. Only Scousers could turn a pristine new stadium into something resembling a really ropey pub.
On the pitch, Arsenal dominate midfield with a display of crisp, inventive passing; Samir Nasri is heavily involved, and the excellent Fran Merida nets a belter from 18 yards, his left-footed shot clattering the woodwork en route to the back of the net.
It doesn’t kill the atmosphere in the away end, because there isn’t any. There’s a hurried ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ just before kick-off, and 10 minutes of lukewarm chanting when Emiliano Insua cracks one home from 25 yards, but most of their efforts go into abusing Andriy Voronin, who boasts a blond, Robbie Savage-esque ponytail where his footballing brain should be. “There’s no atmosphere in this stadium,” a Scouser declares. There’s a serious shortage of irony, too.
There are families scattered around, but practically everyone within 50 yards of me looks like a burglar. The notable exceptions are two posh blokes behind me, one of whom contends, in all seriousness, that he could do better than most of the players on the pitch. His mate then has to explain to him who Samir Nasri is. “Fucking hell, Plessis!” he roars at the Liverpool midfielder, which is a bit harsh on a bloke who went off five minutes ago.
It is exceedingly difficult to feign pleasure when Liverpool score, but at least the lovable Nicklas Bendtner keeps me in check (every touch prompts an exasperated “Bendtner, you’re shit”). Having said that, everyone’s favourite blue-booted Dane controls a ball from Kieran Gibbs on 50 minutes and pummels it into the roof of the net. And that’s it, bar some Sunday league antics from Voronin; the portly Rafael Benítez’s ball control on the touchline is better than anything Ryan Babel can muster all night.
Alberto Aquilani is greeted rapturously when he comes on to gain some match fitness – sorry, save Liverpool’s season – and despite his late shout for a penalty, Arsenal have done enough. (The home fans lose marks for not singing “time to Ngog”.) “Where’s your European Cup?” shouts a Scouser as the travelling fans slope out. Dunno, mate, but at least they’ve won the league in the past 20 years.
Liverpool: please give up. You have clueless owners, a manager who will never win the league, an overrated ground, a two-man team and a thoroughly unpleasant set of fans. Stop moaning that you’re “underfunded” after spending the best part of £20m on a full-back. Quit whinging about the Americans when Benítez has signed more than 60 players, one of whom is up to the standard required. Torres, Gerrard, Mascherano, even Benayoun – if you want to win anything, ever, for god’s sake leave before it’s too late. |
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| Road to nowhere |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|04:00 pm] |
A longer version of this article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (77), October 2009. With thanks to Martin Barnes
If you’re reading this issue of WTBM hot off the press, you’ll be somewhere near me on Sunday October 18. Doing something dull and British like sitting on a rickety bus trundling down the motorway to Blackburn, or standing on a freezing concourse debating how many overpriced pies you can realistically eat while waiting three hours until kick-off.
For the first ever east Lancashire derby in the Premier League, the Burnley fans must arrive at Turf Moor at 9.15am to travel in convoy by compulsory coach. Given the freedom to travel independently from north London, I’d take an early train to Blackburn via Preston and be home in time for tea.
But this match requires three days of my life; Saturday to travel north, Sunday for the game and Monday, taking a day off work, to travel back (with no idea what time we’ll be deposited back in Burnley, I can’t plan the four-hour journey home for Sunday evening). It would probably have been quicker to pop over to Uruguay for Argentina’s World Cup qualifier in midweek.
As we’re herded across the county like cattle, I can’t see past this fact: such strong-arm tactics weren’t deemed necessary last time we played at Ewood Park. Our allocation is just 2,880, with every ticket sold to low-risk fans: Foundation members, shareholders and season-ticket holders with 2,000 loyalty points. So West Ham and Millwall kicked off at a Carling Cup match in August. So what?
I admire those who’ve boycotted the derby, refusing to be treated like criminals or to sacrifice 12 hours of leisure time for a football match. I wish I had the balls to join them. But as I don’t, consider this a rallying cry to those of us here today: we have every intention of continuing to follow our team in a lawful and peaceful fashion. Whatever the arrangements imposed upon us, whatever the public misperception of football fans, we will not be dissuaded or denied.
If you're reading this at Ewood Park, you’ll be somewhere near me: I'm female, eight stone and five foot three. Do I look like a thug? Do many of the people around you today resemble hooligans, with their 2,000 loyalty points and their lovingly hand-washed replica shirts and their willingness to spend an entire Sunday under police escort just to watch their team?
At the heart of it all lies principle. We're decent, honest folk, most of us who tread the Turf every other Saturday, those of us who travel back to our hometown from afar. We are the vanguard of this fashionable enterprise, the groundswell of support that evolved before Sky and will endure when the money bubble bursts. We are the law-abiding citizens, the innocent until proven guilty. We – not the despicable violent few – are Burnley FC. |
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| Liverpool 4 – 0 Burnley |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|03:45 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (77), October 2009. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
I should have known. Already portrayed as the archetypal ‘win at home, lose away’ newly-promoted side™, there was every chance the scoreline would turn out like this – but what I didn’t predict was that our trip to Anfield would be my most thoroughly unpleasant away day so far.
As Liverpool fans pile into taxis at Lime Street – there are Scouse accents and red shirts, but ne’er the twain shall meet – I embark on the 45-minute walk to the ground, which takes me through the scummiest area I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Nelson). It looks like no one bothered to tidy up after the war. Accompanied by a constant stream of aggro, I pass a hilarious parade of stereotypes while wading through litter (dogs on strings, teenage girls with prams, obese women spilling out of leisurewear).
The fun continues at the refreshment kiosks, when I finally reach the front of a painfully slow-moving queue and the bloke stops serving for 10 minutes to chat to his mates. Fans start getting tetchy, and when I ask a supervisor what’s going on, he storms off, gesturing and yelling at us in that implausible accent. Another member of staff looks surprised when I walk off in disgust, the tenner in my hand still intact.
Starving and royally pissed off, I proceed to my seat – not sold as restricted view – which is right by the Liverpool fans in the middle of the lower tier, and right behind a bloody great pole which obscures a third of the goal and makes watching the match virtually impossible.
The home contingent drone their way through ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ and give us dirty looks across the divide for daring to drown it out, seemingly expecting us to sit in reverence while they help themselves to the psychological edge. They then resume their Buddhist silence for the rest of the afternoon, barring a slight ripple when they score. “The mighty roar of the Kop,” snorts the lad in front when at least three Scousers shout at the same time.
We start brightly, with Pato putting an early shot wide, and both full-backs look impressive. Jordan plays a blinder for 20 minutes as Liverpool struggle to settle into the game, brilliantly dispossessing Glen Johnson and Fernando Torres in quick succession. Mears is composed, although he doesn’t enjoy the same licence to roam as Johnson (who departs just past the hour without having moved out of second gear).
But there are gaping holes in the middle of the park; while Blake and Fletcher are kept busy defensively, Elliott and Alexander are particularly wasteful in possession, the latter’s lack of pace badly exposed. After sending a header wide, Yossi Benayoun beats Alexander to pass the ball into the far corner of the net, and Jensen is at fault for the second goal, patting Benayoun’s shot into the ground for the lurking Dirk Kuyt to sidefoot home.
However, the Beast redeems himself somewhat by turning away a powerful shot from Steven Gerrard (who’s cheerily greeted with “you’re supposed to be in jail”). Something is rotten in the state of Denmark if that man can’t win a cap.
It’s one-way traffic after the break, and Benayoun completes his hat-trick with two tap-ins, not to mention one that’s disallowed for offside after Jensen spills a Gerrard free-kick (the scoreboard correctly moves on to 4; our old friend Lee Mason wrongly rules it out). The Israeli’s second comes from a square pass from Gerrard, and he’s then fed by substitute Andriy Voronin after Jordan plays him onside. Like the second goal – and Chelsea’s first at Stamford Bridge – the offside decision is marginal, showing the terrifying precision with which these teams play.
The last 20 minutes are like a training match, which makes it slightly less annoying that no one at the back of the Anfield Road Lower can see what’s going on (thanks to the overhang of the upper tier). Instead, the travelling Clarets resort to arguing among themselves about the etiquette of standing up, while the stewards visibly twitch at every chorus of “you’re just a man in a jacket”.
The game’s up by the time Coyle brings on Eagles, Gudjonsson and Nugent, but each brings something to the side. Eagles (hair still ridiculous, boots less so) provides a sorely-needed burst of dynamism, if not 100% accuracy, while Joey stiffens up the midfield.
Eagles accelerates and cuts inside after receiving a fantastic crossfield pass from Gudjonsson, but Paterson doesn’t spot the run, and he’s soon replaced by Nugent. The ex-Nobber looks strong on the rare occasions he gets the ball, and at least manages to enter the 18-yard box, after an isolated Paterson could only force Pepe Reina into routine saves from distance.
Later, fans are split on whether we can, or should, take pointers from away matches against the top four. After Chelsea, at least one match report in a national newspaper argued that Coyle should dismiss the defeat as irrelevant, but both the gaffer and Jensen correctly referred to it as a “footballing lesson”. The very fact that we had more possession at Liverpool than at Chelsea, but wasted it through poor ball retention, shows that there’s improvement to be made against even the best sides.
It’s a strange life that Liverpool lead, meanwhile, scrabbling around in third and fourth without ever claiming the ultimate prize (Rafa Benítez’s beloved Champions League aside). Motivational genius Reina remarks before the game that winning the 2009/10 domestic title is “not a realistic option”; once again, their realistic aim is to reduce the number of points they finish behind Manchester United. They’re a two-man team, the nearly men of the Premier League – or, in the words of the grumpy Burnley fans, “you’re gonna win fuck all”.
Afterwards, I walk back to meet a mate in a ratty pub near the station; he warns me about various dodgy blokes wandering about in duffel coats, before one of them casually lifts some food off a complete stranger’s plate. With men puking on the pavements outside, it’s like some lawless parallel universe, bringing to mind one wag’s quip about the nicest place near Anfield to have a drink (Manchester). One local approaches me to congratulate Burnley on a solid start to the season. He’s an Everton fan.
Capital of Culture it may be, riding as Liverpool does on a collection of 40-year-old pop songs, but a little real culture – civility, hospitality, manners – wouldn’t go amiss. When Anfield begins to empty before full-time, the travelling Clarets belt out a lusty chorus of “fuck off back to Dublin”, and the last train back to London carries plenty of Liverpool fans clutching club-shop bags of plastic tat. Any chance of Everton moving out of town before we go back? |
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| Earning our Spurs |
[Feb. 8th, 2010|03:40 pm] |
I arrive early, in the howling wind and the driving rain. Spurs fans already throng the burger vans around The Lounge, and someone says “upset weather” as we watch Sky Sports ignore us in The 110 Club. After the first leg, we’re three goals down and supposedly out, but the noise is building and excitement surges through a near-20,000 crowd.
As Spurs kick off, looking limp and unconcerned, a wordless roar rises from the sodden soil, where two boys run down the touchline bearing giant flags on poles. My dad tells me that losing a semi-final hurts professionals more than losing a final, and that fight for pride extends to the stands tonight, the Longside an unbelievable heave of men’s bodies and blinding floodlights and deafening noise.
It starts with Robbie Blake’s free-kick – 25 yards out, to the right, with a two-man wall and reserve keeper Ben Alnwick hovering off his line. Four days ago, at Deepdale, Robbie seemed to look up into the crowd as he spotted the top corner of Andy Lonergan’s net. We know he’s going to shoot.
I go so mental when it hits the back of the net that I accidentally punch myself in the head. Not just because we’ve scored, but because I know we’re treading a predetermined path: that these 11 players just need to follow the script, like placing a stylus in a record’s groove. What I never doubted we could do – win this match 3-0.
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“We’re fourth favourites to go down?” I squawked in disbelief when Gareth, a.k.a. The Eternal Optimist, apprised me of that fact. To be fair, Ladbrokes didn’t need a crystal ball to predict our terrible start; having undergone a rigorous pre-season against such giants of global football as Carolina Railhawks and Glentoran (the Railhawks won), Owen Coyle’s ambitious 4-2-3-1 formation remained intact for a full 31 seconds at Hillsborough on August 9.
By the time £1.3m striker Martin Paterson netted a consolation, six minutes into his Burnley career, Sheffield Wednesday had already put two past our new keeper (the improbably named Diego Penny, supposedly Peru’s number one). I already preferred our new manager’s style of play – give me Coyle’s expansive flair over Steve Cotterill’s pinching negativity any day – but a reprise of Kevin Keegan’s ‘Entertainers’ was not exactly what I had in mind.
Tragedy gave way to farce the following weekend, when Ipswich Town spanked us 3-0 at home. After missing his landing, an errant parachutist became stranded on top of the rotting away stand’s wooden roof, thus delaying the agony by half an hour – much to the hilarity, or despair, of those of us who’ve witnessed Burnley’s attempts at pre-match ‘entertainment’ over the years (Chico, anyone?).
During nine long years in the second tier, we had cultivated a more than passing acquaintance with mid-table mediocrity. But following a summer of fighting talk, backed up by the signings of Paterson and £1m-plus midfielder Chris Eagles, a goal difference of minus six after two games left us shellshocked – and scared.
Perhaps the pivotal moment came at Crystal Palace on August 23, when right-back Graham Alexander took up the holding midfield role that would prove instrumental in both shielding a shaky defence and establishing a platform for Coyle’s fluid front five. Progress was minimal on the day, mind. Palace had two men sent off in the first seven minutes of the second half; we managed a 0-0 draw.
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Blake makes the second goal, those lightning feet belying his 32-year-old body as he twists and turns down the left, beating two defenders before putting in a low cross for the onrushing McCann to convert at the far post. We’re lifting the roof off its walls, my dad’s arms are outstretched, his mouth open, the joy.
At 9.19pm, I text a friend “one more”. Nine minutes later, we score. Jay wheels away before his shot slams home, while my mum, waiting in the car half a mile up Ormerod Road, hears the Turf explode.
Two minutes from time and we’ve done it.
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I’d like to apologise to Graham Alexander for a comment I made at The City Ground on September 13, though I was amply punished by making myself look like a dick. As he moved towards a dead ball 25 yards out, I groaned: “I have nightmares about Grezza’s free-kicks.”
That goal, and his typically clinical 70th-minute penalty, ensured a first league win; two weeks later, Joey Gudjonsson broke Lancashire rivals Preston North End with a 40-yard free-kick that almost went into orbit before dipping outrageously to nestle in Andy Lonergan’s net.
Buoyed by the addition of big Cardiff City striker Steven Thompson to complement the diminutive, hard-working Paterson, Burnley made steady progress, including a cavalier win at Coventry City that epitomised Coyle’s approach. Level at 1-1 with 70 minutes played, he added Eagles and Blake to a frontline already featuring Paterson, Thompson and Wade Elliott. Showcasing a growing propensity for the grandstand finish, both Blake (88) and Eagles (90) obliged; substitutes would contribute over a quarter of the season’s 72 league goals.
That trend continued at an increasingly confident Turf Moor, where Blake’s left-footed strike (and some exhibition goalkeeping from Brian ‘The Beast’ Jensen) delivered victory over promotion favourites Reading. And another late goal – Jay Rodriguez’s 88th-minute winner against Fulham in the Carling Cup – sent us to Stamford Bridge, where a gritty, stylish display on a cold November night gave Chelsea a run for their money.
If Ade Akinbiyi’s equaliser sent us doolally, the upper tier of the Shed End bouncing under our wildly drumming feet, then Jensen’s sudden-death penalty save from Jon Obi Mikel briefly stripped me of my sanity. As 6,000 delirious Clarets erupted, I could only emit crazed animal shrieks. Unburdened by expectation, ours was an exquisitely finite joy.
After returning home with the scalp, Burnley swiftly added that of Arsenal’s fêted kids, sealing a place in the semi-finals courtesy of two cool finishes from young midfielder Kevin McDonald. No less significant was another outstanding display from Jensen, who had apparently added ‘psychic’ to his CV. Having warned: “I don’t want to be… facing six one-on-ones”, he was presented with half a dozen by Nicklas Bendtner and co – and duly saved them all.
Despite defeat at Barnsley (thanks in no small part to Simon Whaley’s offside, handballed goal), Coyle masterminded a 3-2 win at Sheffield United with Elliott as emergency right-back, a feat up there with walking on water to anyone who saw the winger defend under Cotterill. After just three defeats in 20 league games, in which squad players netted a quarter of the 40 goals scored, a rich winning streak took Burnley into Christmas in fourth place.
With beautiful football on weekly display, it was fitting that one enthusiastic fan should coin a famous phrase. Hogging the TV cameras in the unlikely environs of Houston’s Wrestlemania 25, a US-based Claret brandished a homemade placard that read, simply, “Owen Coyle is God”.
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Extra-time and we have the advantage: Paterson’s goal a fortnight ago at White Hart Lane. Incorrigible, we continue to attack until Mark Lawrenson, summarising on Radio 5 Live, asks why no one has told us about the away goals rule. But the lads are leggy and the game becomes stretched, possession draining away with Akinbiyi’s awful control.
With 117 minutes played, I hold up three fingers and then it’s gone; Roman Pavlyuchenko beats the Beast and I slump back in my seat, aware of nothing but the cheap plastic, unforgiving against my spine. The players are in various attitudes of despair, though I don’t look too closely – I’m too stunned, too preoccupied with my own shock and pain. The second goal makes no difference. Neither makes any sense.
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In east Lancashire, there are three certainties in life: death, taxes and Burnley’s post-Christmas slump. Right on cue – in fact, on Boxing Day – our form disappeared with the turkey and we lost the next five league games.
It was already clear that the starting XI was good enough to go up – that being the problem. After sendings-off in successive matches (Steven Caldwell at Doncaster Rovers; Michael Duff, rather harshly, against Swansea City), a round of festive suspensions exposed the thinness of the squad. Post-promotion, Coyle reiterated that we used 23 players in 61 league and cup matches, but discounting those who made no more than five starts, he relied on a core of just 16.
With Alexander reverting to right-back three times in five games, his absence from midfield loaded pressure onto the centre-halves – who, despite their many admirable qualities, displayed all the pace of tectonic plates. Meanwhile, an unbalanced midfield wobbled on the slender pivot of Chris McCann, as Coyle took up the tactical equivalent of a crowbar to force the inclusion of Eagles (on the left), Elliott (on the right) and Blake (nowhere in particular).
But after an injury-ravaged side dug out a goalless draw at Queens Park Rangers in the FA Cup, the first leg of the Carling Cup semi-final provided two truly great moments: the glorious Eagles/Paterson combination that gave us a 1-0 lead at half-time, and someone throwing an orange at David Bentley. Sadly, Harry Redknapp avoided a repeat of both incidents by replacing Bentley with Jamie O’Hara, who inspired Spurs to four goals in 21 nightmarish minutes.
Despite winning the FA Cup replay, local lad Rodriguez cementing his reputation as Burnley’s comeback kid with a last-minute winner in extra-time, our annual defeat at Deepdale was still to come. An improved display included, tellingly, Thompson’s first start in seven league games, but referee Paul Taylor’s performance veered from the sublime to the ridiculous as two non-penalties gave Preston the spoils.
Next in this unedifying procession came the seemingly pointless second leg of the Carling Cup semi-final. Such was the gloom, The Eternal Optimist declared it a dead tie and handed his ticket to my dad. But as Gareth sat in a London pub going through every emotion under the sun, I joined the barrage of applause for Burnley that swelled around the ground after Pavlyuchenko scored, turned away from his own fans and offered up an apologetic shrug.
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When describing the Spurs match to the uninitiated, it’s hard to explain just how earth-shattering the night’s events were.
This is as dramatic as sport gets, when it distils the essence of men – exposes bravery and cowardice at their most extreme, creating heroes and villains with nothing in between. It seems simplistic – sport as a cipher, building its own natural order on one small square of turf – but by reducing character to its fundamental constituent parts, putting men in a baying, rain-stained, floodlit amphitheatre to wilt or perform, it demands a strength beyond the everyday.
They tell me the game is beautiful because it’s cruel, but that’s not why we love it. It can’t be; no one could bear it if these moments were the norm. What we love is the fact that a skilful, courageous side like ours – a club that fell out of fashion decades ago and has fallen behind the game’s financial pacesetters for good – can be galvanised by a dignified man to rise up against material circumstance, widespread expectation and all possible odds to defeat such moneyed complacency in a hostile, fraying ground.
Almost.
History will record a seemingly convincing 6-4 aggregate score, but not the agony as we walk away dazed, the relentless rain streaking men’s wet cheeks. Trying to console me, my mother says: “It’s only a game.” Entirely seriously, I counter: “I want to die.”
Blake is inconsolable, almost in tears on Sky Sports. The look on Alexander’s face will haunt us for years, a tracksuited Alan Mahon going to comfort him as he stands with one hand on his hip, lips pressed hard together, glittering eyes sunk deep into his skull.
This means less to Spurs; they reached Wembley last year and will defend their title there in March. There’s no gloating from the victors, just relief – and, in Jonathan Woodgate’s applause for the home fans, an implicit apology for snatching away the impossible dream.
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After Spurs – the second leg’s emotional turbulence forever enshrined in that one word – came perhaps the sternest psychological test of a marathon campaign. Three days later, a defiant Burnley flatly refused to lose at West Bromwich Albion in the fourth round of the FA Cup: Coyle’s substitutions formed a 3-4-3, sumptuous work from Blake and Elliott carved out Paterson’s 89th-minute equaliser, and Pato and Thompson celebrated on the touchline with a full-blown snog.
But the backlash came in a miserable midweek defeat at Vicarage Road. With only four fit defenders available, the backline picked itself – and gifted Watford the lead after 90 excruciating seconds. The appropriate response would have been to throw Christian Kalvenes to the lions; instead, a jittery Clarke Carlisle was promptly dropped.
Of the 60 league goals conceded during the campaign, 11 were shipped in those five consecutive defeats, as we slipped out of the play-offs for the first time in 10 weeks. With numbing predictability, another promising start had ebbed away.
Four days after that woeful showing at Watford, Turf Moor hosted the cup final that never was: ninth-placed Burnley against rock-bottom Charlton, who clung desperately to survival as the Clarets pelted headlong towards goal. And having brought in young Middlesbrough right-back Rhys Williams on loan, Coyle then brought on Thompson, another substitute with a point – or three – to prove.
To the dismay of the 260 Charlton fans manfully struggling through another grisly afternoon, referee Richard Beeby took note of the Addicks’ chronic time-wasting – and after drilling home a close-range equaliser on 76 minutes, Thompson applied the decisive poacher’s touch deep into six minutes of stoppage time. Sitting in the press box as a Charlton representative (having twigged early on that a press pass meant access to Wade Elliott), I shot skywards out of my seat, almost knocking former midfielder Paul Weller out of his.
After one last cup adventure, at the Emirates on March 8 – providing Arsenal with an afternoon’s shooting practice, and their revenge – came 10 goals in an exhilarating seven days. Against Palace, Thompson’s electrifying display of control, strength and technique helped Burnley overturn a 2-1 deficit with three goals in the last eight minutes. Three days later, Rodriguez curled a 20-yard shot inside the far post as Nottingham Forest were dispatched 5-0.
A typical Elliott goal – rare, but never less than spectacular – capped a pulsating 1-1 draw at Ipswich as we thundered into the home strait. (You could call it the final countdown, though whichever idiot decided to play the Europe song, Blackburn Rovers’ long-standing entrance music, over the tannoy at Turf Moor should have been shot.)
On Easter Monday, as we glumly dissected a faintly shambolic defeat at Cardiff, Elliott reassured us in the station car park that we would make the top six. Paterson’s header clinched a crucial victory over third-placed Sheffield United on April 20, and from that point on, the season gained an inexorable momentum of its own. A 4-0 final-day win against Bristol City secured fifth place, the Clarets making an emphatic demand to be taken seriously when the play-offs got under way.
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A confession: I missed Wembley in 1994. I served my apprenticeship on the Bee Hole End that season, paying a fiver to stand near pin-up keeper Marlon Beresford in the pouring rain, but my dad worked weekends and I was too young to travel to London alone. Burnley won the Second Division play-off final without me, Radio Lancashire relaying the news that we had beaten nine-man Stockport County 2-1.
This, I supposed, was my reward for years of perseverance: another shot at Wembley. Never mind that the new stadium lacked lustre for one with little interest in England, nor that I still wept at the sight of buses trundling towards Tottenham Hale. The frantic scramble for play-off tickets hinted at the irresistible glamour of the ultimate prize; 58 matches played, and the top flight was just three games away.
With Reading still seeking a first home win since January, Alexander’s late penalty effectively settled the semi-final in a nervous first leg at Turf Moor. Six minutes after yanking back Thompson for the spot-kick, André Bikey proceeded to stamp on Blake, receive a red card, and stagger around blindly with his shirt stuck on his head after trying unsuccessfully to rip it off.
Not to be outdone in the entertainment stakes, Paterson and Thompson contributed a wonder goal apiece in Berkshire, Pato firing home from 30 yards before Thommo smashed the ball over Reading’s substantial keeper Marcus Hahnemann and in off the underside of the bar. Standing on our seats singing Coyle’s name, we refused to leave until after 10pm.
Shaken and stirred by coming so close against Spurs, Burnley arrived at Wembley in resolute mood – and Coyle, having bravely converted two-time player of the year Elliott into a central midfielder, was rewarded after 13 minutes when Sheffield United were breached. Initially fed by 19-goal striker Paterson, who crafted an outstanding performance on the right wing, Elliott burst between two defenders, set up McCann to shoot and finally whipped home Matt Kilgallon’s clearance from 25 yards.
Despite Kalvenes flattening Kyle Walker inside the penalty area, and Gudjonsson contriving to miss from two yards, we held out until the final whistle brought blessed relief and a return to the top flight for the first time in 33 years. As Duff broke into a frankly dangerous dance, Caldwell thrust the trophy into an air thick with the shouts of 36,000 Burnley fans. For the second time in four months, grown men stood wiping away tears.
After the ecstasy came sadness. As a new global brand began to form, with its requisite multi-million-pound transfer kitty, hordes of newfound supporters and growing unfamiliarity with endearingly poky little grounds, I sensed my Burnley slipping away. But such was the price to pay for achieving the unimaginable in Coyle’s first full season in charge.
For nine years, promotion from the second tier had been our impossible dream. That pinnacle of ambition now took the form of an altogether more exacting challenge: the Premier League. |
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| Match tally 2009/10 |
[Feb. 7th, 2010|10:30 pm] |
Charlton Athletic 3 – 2 Wycombe Wanderers (8 August 2009)#
Burnley 1 – 0 Manchester United (19 August)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 0 Walsall (22 August)#
Burnley 1 – 0 Everton (23 August)
Chelsea 3 – 0 Burnley (29 August)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 0 Brentford (5 September)#
Liverpool 4 – 0 Burnley (12 September)
Burnley 3 – 1 Sunderland (19 September)
Burnley 2 – 1 Birmingham City (3 October)
Charlton Athletic 4 – 1 Barnet (6 October)≠
Charlton Athletic 0 – 0 Oldham Athletic (10 October)#
Charlton Athletic 2 – 1 Huddersfield Town (17 October)#
Blackburn Rovers 3 – 2 Burnley (18 October)
Burnley 1 – 3 Wigan Athletic (24 October)
Arsenal 2 – 1 Liverpool (28 October)%
Burnley 2 – 0 Hull City (31 October)
Manchester City 3 – 3 Burnley (7 November)
Charlton Athletic 5 – 1 Milton Keynes Dons (14 November)#
Burnley 1 – 1 Aston Villa (21 November)
Charlton Athletic 4 – 2 Bristol Rovers (24 November)#
West Ham United 5 – 3 Burnley (28 November)
Brighton & Hove Albion 0 – 2 Charlton Athletic (1 December)#
Portsmouth 2 – 0 Burnley (5 December)
Burnley 1 – 1 Fulham (12 December)
Burnley 1 – 1 Arsenal (16 December)
Charlton Athletic 4 – 4 Millwall (19 December)#
Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 – 0 Burnley (20 December)
Burnley 1 – 1 Bolton Wanderers (26 December)
Everton 2 – 0 Burnley (28 December)
Milton Keynes Dons 1 – 2 Burnley (2 January 2010)£
Manchester United 3 – 0 Burnley (16 January)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 1 Hartlepool United (19 January)#
Reading 1 – 0 Burnley (23 January)=
Bolton Wanderers 1 – 0 Burnley (26 January)
Burnley 1 – 2 Chelsea (30 January)
Burnley 2 – 1 West Ham United (6 February)
Fulham 3 – 0 Burnley (9 February)
All games Barclays Premier League fixtures, except where indicated
# Coca-Cola Football League One
≠ Johnstone’s Paint Trophy second round
% Carling Cup fourth round
£ FA Cup third round
= FA Cup fourth round |
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| The 92 Club |
[Feb. 7th, 2010|10:25 pm] |
Ground count: 51.
Stadiums visited:
Turf Moor Burnley
Anfield Liverpool
Ashton Gate Bristol City
Bramall Lane Sheffield United
Carrow Road Norwich City
City of Manchester Stadium Manchester City
Craven Cottage Fulham
Deepdale Preston North End
Elland Road Leeds United
Emirates Stadium Arsenal
Ewood Park Blackburn Rovers
Fitness First Stadium at Dean Court AFC Bournemouth
Fraser Eagle Stadium Accrington Stanley
Fratton Park Portsmouth
Glanford Park Scunthorpe United
Goodison Park Everton
Griffin Park Brentford
Hillsborough Sheffield Wednesday
Home Park Plymouth Argyle
KC Stadium Hull City
Keepmoat Stadium Doncaster Rovers
Kenilworth Road Luton Town
Layer Road Colchester United
Liberty Stadium Swansea City
Loftus Road Queens Park Rangers
Madejski Stadium Reading
Molineux Wolverhampton Wanderers
Ninian Park Cardiff City
Oakwell Barnsley
Old Trafford Manchester United
Portman Road Ipswich Town
Pride Park Derby County
Reebok Stadium Bolton Wanderers
Ricoh Arena Coventry City
Roots Hall Southend United
Selhurst Park Crystal Palace
St Andrews Birmingham City
St Mary’s Southampton
stadiummk Milton Keynes Dons
Stamford Bridge Chelsea
The City Ground Nottingham Forest
The Hawthorns West Bromwich Albion
The New Den Millwall
The Valley Charlton Athletic
Underhill Barnet
Upton Park West Ham United
Vicarage Road Watford
Victoria Road Dagenham & Redbridge
Walkers Stadium Leicester City
White Hart Lane Tottenham Hotspur
Withdean Stadium Brighton & Hove Albion
Non-league:
Champion Hill Dulwich Hamlet
International:
Wembley England
( Full statistics ) |
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| Save Accrington Stanley |
[Sep. 6th, 2009|12:50 pm] |
Accrington Stanley are on the verge of being wound up after the Inland Revenue demanded payment on an outstanding bill of £308,000. Instead of having 12 months to pay, as originally agreed, they now have eight weeks.
Owen Coyle has immediately organised a fundraising friendly at Turf Moor on September 8, with all gate money going to Stanley. There’s also an official fundraising site here. There are many ways to contribute – you can donate £1.50 by calling 0907 706 4648 or give £5 by texting ‘Accrington’ to 80777.
Certain English clubs are billions of pounds in debt, but Accy face extinction for the sake of many players’ monthly wage. Please help to save them – or in years to come, kids really will ask: “Accrington Stanley? Who are they?” “Exactly!” |
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| Match tally 2008/09 |
[May. 26th, 2009|09:40 pm] |
Brighton & Hove Albion 0 – 1 Charlton Athletic (26 July 2008)*
Charlton Athletic 0 – 1 Athletic Bilbao (2 August)*
Sheffield Wednesday 4 – 1 Burnley (9 August)
Watford 1 – 0 Charlton Athletic (16 August)
Crystal Palace 0 – 0 Burnley (23 August)
Nottingham Forest 1 – 2 Burnley (13 September)
Swansea City 1 – 1 Burnley (20 September)
Burnley 3 – 1 Preston North End (27 September)
Reading 3 – 1 Burnley (4 October)
Charlton Athletic 0 – 2 Bristol City (21 October)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 Burnley (25 October)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 3 Barnsley (1 November)
Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 – 0 Burnley (8 November)
Chelsea 1 – 1 Burnley* (12 November)%
Queens Park Rangers 1 – 2 Burnley (15 November)
Queens Park Rangers 2 – 1 Charlton Athletic (25 November)
Charlton Athletic 0 – 0 Southampton (29 November)
Burnley 2 – 0 Arsenal (2 December)@
Charlton Athletic 1 – 2 Coventry City (9 December)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 2 Derby County (15 December)
Bristol City 1 – 2 Burnley (20 December)
Burnley 1 – 2 Barnsley (26 December)
Doncaster Rovers 2 – 1 Burnley (28 December)
Queens Park Rangers 0 – 0 Burnley (3 January 2009)£
Tottenham Hotspur 4 – 1 Burnley (6 January)>
Burnley 0 – 2 Swansea City (10 January)
Preston North End 2 – 1 Burnley (17 January)
Burnley 3 – 2 Tottenham Hotspur (21 January)<
West Bromwich Albion 2 – 2 Burnley (24 January)=
Watford 3 – 0 Burnley (27 January)
Burnley 2 – 1 Charlton Athletic (31 January)</i>
Birmingham City 1 – 1 Burnley (7 February)
Burnley 1 – 0 Wolverhampton Wanderers (14 February)
Burnley 1 – 1 Coventry City (17 February)
Burnley 2 – 4 Sheffield Wednesday (28 February)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 2 Doncaster Rovers (3 March)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 3 Watford (7 March)
Arsenal 3 – 0 Burnley (8 March)^
Reading 2 – 2 Charlton Athletic (10 March)
Burnley 4 – 2 Crystal Palace (11 March)
Burnley 5 – 0 Nottingham Forest (14 March)
Ipswich Town 1 – 1 Burnley (17 March)
Plymouth Argyle 1 – 2 Burnley (21 March)
Derby County 1 – 1 Burnley (4 April)
Burnley 1 – 0 Queens Park Rangers (11 April)
Cardiff City 3 – 1 Burnley (13 April)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 2 Blackpool (18 April)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 2 Cardiff City (21 April)
Southampton 2 – 2 Burnley (25 April)
Burnley 4 – 0 Bristol City (3 May)
Burnley 1 – 0 Reading (9 May)©
Reading 0 – 2 Burnley (12 May)®
Burnley 1 – 0 Sheffield United** (25 May)€
* (aet) Burnley win 5 – 4 on penalties
** Burnley are promoted to the Premier League
All games Coca-Cola Championship league fixtures, except where indicated. Burnley finish 5th
* Pre-season friendly
% Carling Cup fourth round
@ Carling Cup quarter-final
£ FA Cup third round
> Carling Cup semi-final (first leg)
< Carling Cup semi-final (second leg)
= FA Cup fourth round
^ FA Cup fifth round
© Championship play-off semi-final (first leg)
® Championship play-off semi-final (second leg)
€ Championship play-off final |
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| Cardiff 3 – 1 Burnley |
[May. 5th, 2009|06:50 pm] |
An edited version of this article appeared in When The Ball Moves… (74), May 2009. With thanks to Martin Barnes
And so, like death and taxes, it comes around again: our annual trip to the travelling fan’s very own Dante-esque circle of hell, Ninian Park. Consolation can be drawn from the fact that we won’t be back, regardless of what happens in the play-offs – it’s the terrace’s last stand before Cardiff move to their shiny new ground, its cool blue and white sides already visible from the away end. Hooligan element aside, the shallow steps of the terrace intimidate me, knowing you have no control within the swell and roll of the crowd. And by the end, my legs ache (proving that the youth of today cannot stand on their own two feet, even for 90 minutes).
There isn’t a minute’s silence for the 20th anniversary of Hillsborough, but given the shambles that ensued last time they tried it at this fixture – on Armistice Day 2006, with fans of both sides to blame – it’s probably just as well. As usual, the chants veer from the moronic (“no surrender to the IRA”) to the brainless (renditions of ‘God Save The Queen’) via outright slander (Dave Jones), but Cardiff’s bizarre crowd-control methods do produce some wit.
As soon as the first fan gets chucked out, there’s a tug on a rope, a wad of material appears above us and a heavy green curtain falls between the home and away fans. We sing “we can’t see you any more”, progress through the inevitable “what the fucking hell is that?” and conclude “you always hide behind a curtain”.
Drapery-related entertainment aside, we start brightly and outplay Cardiff for much of the first half, though neither side looks like scoring. Eagles, Elliott and Blake provide plenty of creativity, and although Eagles is double-marked, his footwork makes Cardiff look stupid (particularly when he nutmegs a stolid-looking Joe Ledley). He links up well with Williams, while Elliott spreads the ball effectively and runs at the Cardiff defence. Jay sends an early shot over the bar and produces some nice flick-ons, but there’s no one there to capitalise; ultimately, he looks about as likely to score as Pato has lately (i.e. not very).
Cracks begin to appear in the defence when Kalvenes slips in the centre circle, forcing Caldwell to concede a free-kick in a dangerous area, and the left-back gets caught out of position more than once. Carlisle is typically excellent in the air, but there’s some poor distribution from Caldwell, and our wingers’ influence wanes in the second half. McCann fades and Elliott stupidly talks himself into a booking, although he keeps possession and tries to move us forward even when no one shows for the ball.
Alexander, so vital as a defensive shield, comes off on 73 minutes and we immediately implode. A minute later, Ross McCormack knocks the ball across Caldwell inside the area and Jay Bothroyd, who’s been having a wrestling match with Carlisle for the past 20 minutes, beats the Beast from 10 yards. This follows a 10-minute period where I seriously wonder if we’ve changed referees at half-time. Out of nowhere, Probert starts giving everything to Cardiff, and we’re penned in our own half as they pile the pressure on. Muffled jeers come from the otherwise subdued Cardiff fans behind the curtain. Response: “Where the fucking hell are you?”
We still don’t look like scoring when Blake grabs a lucky equaliser, pouncing when Darren Purse knocks a suicidal attempt at a backpass into his path. We then manage to shoot ourselves in the foot as only we can, somehow contriving to concede nine seconds after the restart – apparently, McCormack chests down a flick-on from a long ball and thumps it home. I say ‘apparently’ because Matt has to tell me what the hell is going on. Still celebrating Blake’s equaliser, I feel the goal rather than see it – hearing an intake of breath from the crowd, I look up to see the ball thud sickeningly into the back of the Beast’s net.
“Naïve at best,” says Coyle. Stupid and unforgivable, if you’re searching for words in the heat of the moment (plus profanities; sorry, Dad). Cardiff add gloss to the scoreline with a third on 93 minutes, but the goal – a neat dribble and finish from McCormack after he receives the ball near the halfway line – is essentially irrelevant. Carlisle is the only man back as we throw everything forward, including substitute ‘striker’ Duff, but nothing comes of two late corners. We’re still standing in slack-jawed silence when the final whistle goes.
Duff’s introduction demonstrates the lack of forward options on the bench, with Pato and Thommo sorely missed. But Rodriguez isn’t to blame for our lack of cutting edge (although the difference between a promising young player and a proven Championship striker should be borne in mind).
After taking the scenic route back to the station, we bump into Wade in the car park; he’s getting the train to his family home in Southampton, accompanied by a huge bag full of Easter eggs. He gives us an injury update on the strikers – and when we ask why Kevin McDonald isn’t playing, he laughs and jokes, diplomatically, “because of me!” That tallies with Coyle’s reluctance to change it unless his hand is forced; he won’t drop wonderkid McCann or supergrandad Alexander, while Elliott fits in anywhere but the bench.
Wade agrees that Cardiff aren’t all that, though he does concede that “the second was a bad goal to give away… the first goal was bad. And the third!” But he’s confident we’ll make the play-offs, insisting that the lads want to finish the job and will take whoever they get. Jon, having spent most of the second half pacing the terrace like a caged tiger, confesses: “I’m stressed.” Wade: “You’re stressed?!”
We’re stressed. Our esteemed WTBM… editor keeps us up to date with Swansea and Preston’s scores (both win, coming back to within four points of us), and the whole affair is incredibly tense. Not to mention frustrating; we clearly haven’t learned from Derby nine days ago, when we failed to concentrate in the final few minutes and paid the price.
“Two wins will do it,” Wade assures us. Three games left. |
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| Derby 1 – 1 Burnley |
[Apr. 12th, 2009|09:20 pm] |
An edited version of this article appeared in When The Ball Moves… (74), May 2009. With thanks to Martin Barnes
After three years of waiting, my first visit to Pride Park comes at the perfect time; I’ve just seen The Damned United, an affectionate portrait of Brian Clough loosely based on David Peace’s eviscerating novel The Damned Utd (out of interest, if the 2006 first-edition paperback is going for £100 on Amazon, what price my pre-publication uncorrected proof?).
The shiny new stadium is far from the rich history inside my head (and the inbuilt Starbucks is as far from traditionalism as you can get), but there’s still something in the air – WE ARE DERBY, the stand announces in huge white capitals on black glass, underlined by a monochrome chequered flag.
The first half is thrilling, end-to-end stuff – we create plenty of half-chances but are just missing the final touch. Blake’s vision kickstarts us, and it’s wonderful to hear 2,259 Clarets spontaneously burst into song when he spins off his man, strides away with the ball and delivers an inch-perfect crossfield pass. Eagles shows real quality on the rare occasions he gets on the ball, but he’s woeful again defensively; the Beast is forced to save his blushes with a fine one-handed save when he stands and admires Gary Teale’s shooting technique instead of closing him down.
After a strong start, things even out, with Derby – like Ipswich before them – getting behind the defence too easily. This isn’t so much incompetence as the fact that none of our back four have any pace (Kalvenes’ solution is to yank players back by the shirt). But Caldwell marshals them effectively, and there’s direction as well as distance on his defensive headers today.
Elliott seems reluctant to shoot and Pato is back to his old tricks (being repeatedly caught offside), while Carlisle hits the bar and Williams is thwarted by a superb reaction save from Stephen Bywater, who tips his shot over the bar after Blake’s corner. But anything they can do, we can do better, and the Beast makes a phenomenal stop with his left foot from Rob Hulse five minutes before the break.
Alexander the Great is at his vintage best; he wins the ball when he has no right to do so, breaks up play, and probes forward intelligently. And when Derby break, I’ve never seen a 37-year-old move so fast (and one with a hamstring strain at that).
The crowd is a massive 33,010 (with a league position of 17th, we can safely assume they’re only here ‘cause of Burnley), and there’s an atmosphere to match, although it’s in danger of boiling over towards the end of the first half. An alleged push in the face from Jay McEveley puts Wade in a mood, and it isn’t helped when the ever-popular Robbie Savage takes a break from re-enacting a Timotei advert to niggle at him. Pato’s booked for a late challenge on Paul Connolly next to the technical area, and Nigel Clough and his backroom staff don’t help matters by over-reacting to every challenge.
In the second half, we’re shocking until we take the lead. After 14 minutes of dinking the ball up in the air in an attempt to bypass a congested midfield, Carlisle releases Eagles down the right – he puts in a low cross to the near post after playing a neat one-two with Wade, whereupon Bywater and Martin Albrechtsen collide, allowing a grateful McCann to tap in from two yards.
We’re dominant without creating many clear-cut chances; as so often, Blake conjures something from nothing, firing a vicious volley on the turn against the side netting from 20 yards. McCann is a driving force in central midfield, and Elliott impresses both at inside-right and, later, out wide.
Williams also has an excellent second half; his positioning is impeccable, he clears one effort off the goalline, and he’s clearly learnt from Plymouth – when Eagles blatantly isn’t going to help him out, it’s row Z all the way. The international break seems to have done him good, as he continues to adapt to the Championship’s hectic schedule; hopefully, normal service has been resumed.
There’s a momentous occasion on 81 minutes when Grezza goes off, having played every minute of our season’s previous 81 hours. And there are two crucial moments at 1-0 up – first, Gudjonsson is denied a stonewall penalty when he’s steamrollered to the floor by Connolly as he charges into the box; next, Blake finds himself 12 yards out with only Bywater to beat, but takes one touch too many and the chance is gone.
However, taking the piss out of Derby for the last five minutes is ill-advised, as their response is a stoppage-time equaliser (half the home fans have already gone). Joey and Blake exchange the ball six or seven times on the left, there are plenty of flicks and tricks, and Derby get so frustrated that Barry Bannan gets booked when he practically explodes on the spot.
The travelling Clarets shout ‘olé’ with every completed pass, singing “the Clarets are going up”, and the players seem to enjoy it that bit too much – we’re punished when Teale breaks down the left and crosses for Connolly to score only his second career goal, a diving header from the right of the six-yard box with Kalvenes nowhere to be seen.
There’s still time for drama, and McCann almost wins it at the death, collapsing flat on his back in despair when Bywater saves his close-range header. Despite the disappointment, we remain nicely poised in fifth, with Reading and, more importantly, Preston held to draws. While a point would have been gratefully received before kick-off, we arguably deserve all three – but we all know by now that things aren’t always black and white. |
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| Ipswich 1 – 1 Burnley |
[Mar. 31st, 2009|09:40 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (73), April 2009. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
You know it’s a game of two halves when you spend 90 minutes sitting at the same 45° angle in your seat. Three days after putting five past Forest, the goal at the far end of Portman Road is constantly under siege in a high-tempo match between two strong attacking sides.
The entertainment begins with the most alarming troupe of cheerleaders I’ve ever seen. Sporting white hotpants in sub-zero temperatures, with an average age of 14, they conclude their circumnavigation of the pitch by bending over and waving their arses in the front row’s face. A giant My Little Pony with a blue mohican is wandering around, while a horse in wraparound shades takes it upon himself to help out Penny during shooting practice.
The travelling Burnley massive finally get up some noise just before kick-off, which is a relief, purely because it drowns out the conversation going on behind me (“Ivan Campo’s playing.” “Is he the lad on loan from Spurs?”).
Ipswich start brightly, and I’m immediately concerned by The Corner Situation. Not the ongoing argument over whether we should leave one man up while defending set-pieces, but a slight variation on it – everyone but the Beast pelts forward to attack a corner, the ball falls to a blue shirt, and Ipswich break. They get a dangerous cross in from the left, forcing us to concede a corner, whereupon Alexander embarks on his weekly bollocking of the hapless Elliott (who hasn’t done anything wrong).
Corners quickly become a theme, with the name of the ‘corner sponsor’ flashing furiously on the screen behind Richard Wright’s goal as the Clarets rack them up. However, said sponsor is denied further exposure when referee Shoebridge awards yet another Burnley corner, the home fans howl in protest and he obligingly changes his mind.
There’s a half-hearted – or possibly two-thirds-hearted – shout for a penalty when McCann is felled at the far end of the pitch, but he seems to go down rather easily. While I’m analysing my own reaction (do I doubt him because I don’t think he’s the Premier League player Coyle believes him to be? Am I just a bitter old pessimist who, after an entire calendar year without a penalty under Cotterill, never expects refs to give anything our way?), Wade cuts to the chase with a superb solo goal.
Playing inside right with Blake and Eagles out wide, he goes on a mazy run, jinks past two defenders and shoots low across the face of goal into the far corner. We’ve scored 10 goals in seven days, and it’s up there with the best.
Some scintillating attacking play results in a flurry of chances – not least an Eagles half-volley from just inside the D when a long kick from the Beast falls fortuitously for him, and a close-range shot from McCann that’s blocked by Campo (the lad on loan from Spurs). We also go up in premature celebration when Eagles beats two men on the right (à la White Hart Lane) and gets a cross in, only for Wright to save Elliott’s header on the goalline.
Elliott is everywhere in the first half, including the edge of his own area for a handful of timely clearances. Pato works hard, allowing the rest of midfield – especially a confident McCann, who pulls off a couple of stylish backheels – to drive forward with intent. Alexander does the dirty work, and there’s real quality on the ball from Blake, as the Clarets’ dominance inspires a chorus (okay, a lone shout) of “it’s just like the Alamo”.
We should be out of sight by half-time – but that’s not to underestimate the part Ipswich play in an exhilarating contest. Committing men forward at every opportunity, they get behind the defence too easily and too often, although the back four – left somewhat exposed by a selection incorporating Blake, Eagles, Elliott and Pato – recover well. Giovani Dos Santos races away but chips a tame effort straight into the advancing Beast’s hands, while Luciano Civelli is also thwarted by Jensen in a one-on-one.
The tide turns at the break, and it’s all Ipswich after Pato tests the keeper early in the second half. Fortunately, Kevin Lisbie does his best to relieve the pressure, first shooting wide after yet another one-on-one with the Beast, and then falling on top of the ball and sliding out of play after Campo takes a free-kick.
He’s replaced by Pablo Counago on 62 minutes, and we’re under the cosh until the equaliser finally comes – an expert finish from Dos Santos, cutting in from the right after Kalvenes fails to get a tackle in. A couple of minutes later, he does him again for good measure, at the cost of a free-kick one yard outside the box.
After producing some appetising crosses in the first half, Kalvenes doesn’t recover from the goal, and Dos Santos really should kill the game off when the left-back gives Alan Quinn far too much time and space to cross in. Williams’ distribution isn’t at its best – particularly early in the second half, when we struggle to retain possession – and while Carlisle is typically commanding in the air, both he and Caldwell are occasionally done for pace.
Blake keeps us alive, with one cross finding two-in-two goalscorer Carlisle lurking at the far post – and he repeats his feats against Spurs, leaving Tommy Miller dizzy after beating him four or five times on the left. He also goes close to replicating his superb/flukey* (delete as appropriate) free-kick against Forest, and twice shoots wide from 20 yards.
Caldwell’s point-blank header from a free-kick is “saved” by Wright, insofar as the ball cannoning off him can be said to be a save – but he’s forced to make a real one after McCann chests the ball down inside the area and shoots.
Jay replaces Pato, who doesn’t have a massive strop like he did against Palace, but meekly takes his seat in the dugout. I hope he isn’t depressed. Rodriguez comes close to setting up fellow sub Gudjonsson for the winner after cutting in from the right, but he underhits the ball and it’s intercepted by young Campo. Jay, incidentally, should be lauded for playing with his shirt untucked; it not only brings a bit of schoolboy joie de vivre to proceedings, it also covers up the stupid advert on his bum.
There’s an anticlimactic finish when the injured Civelli is loaded onto a motorised golf cart (we carol, uncharitably, “you’re going home on a tractor”) and Joey starts skipping around like a kid playing hopscotch in an attempt to keep warm. I don’t blame him – by the time the final whistle goes, my nails have gone a fetching shade of Ipswich blue.
It’s disappointing to draw, but this isn’t a point in the Birmingham vein; ultimately, the scoreline is a fair reflection of a fantastic match. Naturally, the clowns behind me are moaning: “We need to win.” Really, we don’t. There have been many matches we’ve “needed” to win this season to keep pace with the play-offs, but tonight – sitting pretty in fifth with Swansea losing to boot – a point will do just fine. |
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| Commitment issues |
[Feb. 24th, 2009|11:15 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (72), February 2009. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
Barnsley. Doncaster. Watford. Charlton. Coventry. Norwich. The pattern? A growing frustration among Burnley fans that such a talented side can make hard work of it against the poorer teams, especially after beating the Championship’s finest – not to mention Arsenal and Spurs.
But I refuse to join the chorus of voices saying that the Clarets can’t get motivated for the ‘lesser’ games. It’s a hefty accusation; in making it, you’re essentially questioning their commitment. And it seems presumptuous at best to question the commitment of a side that has come from behind 12 times to win or draw this season, scoring a hatful of crucial late goals along the way (Paterson at West Brom, Eagles in both Coventry games, every goal Rodriguez has ever scored – I could go on).
Perhaps – if you’ll forgive the amateur psychology – you could argue that we subconsciously need to preserve our status as underdogs; that we need to maintain a gap to give us something to claw back. But that’s an equally hefty assumption to make.
We’ve blown a series of chances to keep pace with the promotion chase, digging out big results at the last possible minute; Thompson’s late, late show against Charlton felt like a cup final, with the whole of Turf Moor knowing we needed three points. But as Caldwell said in the Coventry programme: “It’s very important that we treat everyone with the utmost respect, whether that’s Wolves at the top or Charlton at the bottom.” The players know damn well that every point counts, regardless of the opposition.
I’ve only seen one team look thoroughly unmotivated this season, in a game against a ‘lesser’ side they clearly thought was already won – Spurs in the second leg. No one should do Coyle’s boys the disservice of comparing their motivation levels to that.
We’ve stuttered in the wake of the cup run(s), but there are many contributing factors. The players are knackered. Against Coventry, our passing game wasn’t helped by a crap pitch. Our strikers have missed sitters in recent weeks (shit happens). And the team can quite easily have a collective off day, just as we’ve witnessed erratic individual performances within it.
It’s lazy to isolate the question of motivation, too; just listen to the moaning fans on radio phone-ins who ignore fundamental problems at their club and instead focus on a ‘lack of passion’ from the team. How exactly does a player prove he has passion? Run around a lot?
The bloke behind me at the Coventry match concluded that “this should be three points, signed and sealed”, which is completely the wrong attitude (and getting on the players’ backs after 23 minutes doesn’t help). It’s great that our success is breeding high standards and higher expectations, but this is not Football Manager 2009, and we are not the Championship’s answer to Manchester United. Yet. |
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| Birmingham 1 – 1 Burnley |
[Feb. 24th, 2009|11:10 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (72), February 2009. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
Let me start with a recommendation. Should we have the misfortune to remain in the Championship next year, don’t visit the Yard of Ale. Admittedly, walking into a Birmingham pub in what looks like a Villa shirt doesn’t help, but it’s not often I’m forced to leave a hostelry in fear of being served up as part of the £1.95 English breakfast that tempted me to go in there in the first place.
Unfortunately, needless hostility is the theme of the day, with my view blocked by a row of morons who’ve turned up purely to bait the Birmingham fans. I don’t pay good money to sit behind an imbecile who thinks up one chant completely lacking in wit and stands up for 20 minutes to bellow it at the home fans as tunelessly and furiously as possible, as if trying to use the sheer force of testosterone to force his solitary brain cell out of his mouth.
Anyway, woe betide any latecomers, because Pato isn’t in any mood to delay the scoring today. Three minutes in, Blake puts a ball across the face of goal from the left, and Pato thumps it home from a tight angle beyond the far post for his 17th goal of the season.
It’s a fantastic start, but the first half is a tale of what could have been. First, Pato beats his man, tricks him again on the byline for good measure and pulls the ball back to Blake, who fires over the bar from a central position, unmarked, 10 yards out.
Thommo makes the same mistake when Maik Taylor presents him with an opportunity – and after taking a lofted pass from the halfway line in his stride, he evades the attentions of Lee Carsley, goes through one-on-one and shoots straight at the keeper’s legs.
There are also a couple of moments when McCann should do better, though an offside flag saves his blushes when Blake pings in a diagonal ball from the left and he fails to control it on the bobbly pitch for what should be a fairly simple tap-in.
Never afraid to shoot ourselves in the foot, though, we concede a truly ludicrous goal eight minutes before half-time. Birmingham pump the ball in the vague direction of Kevin Phillips and Duff heads it out towards Caldwell, who shanks an overhit backpass at the Beast. Panicking, Jensen attempts to nod the looping ball away, but it plops pathetically at the feet of Phillips, who must think all his Christmases have come at once.
There are a number of loose headers from Caldwell, but Duff covers for him manfully, while Kalvenes’ performance is a combination of promising forward runs, vital last-ditch tackles and horrendous decision-making. While he’s fine going forward, he scares me at the back. This tends not to matter – we are, after all, the most attacking team in the world – but just after Caldwell’s cock-up, I do not want to see our Norwegian left-back dribbling the ball around two strikers inside his own 18-yard box rather than belting it upfield.
On the right, Williams proves he isn’t just a pretty face: virtually impassable all afternoon, he displays excellent positioning, puts in some superbly-timed tackles, and drives us forward with a series of precise volleyed passes. The only possible criticism is that he hesitates a couple of times within shooting range when there are no options on.
Blake is guilty of the same, finding himself alone in the centre 20 yards out and stopping dead before looking to his left and right for onrushing teammates. Having pulled the strings before the break, this sums up our second half; plenty of attractive build-up, but far too few shots on goal.
McCann has a rather poor game, especially for long periods in the second half, when he’s a yard off the pace and gives the ball away too often. Fortunately, Alexander mops up efficiently in an orthodox 4-4-2.
Elliott is excellent in patches, but no one gets on the end of his crosses, and he sometimes shows too much enthusiasm for beating his man twice (à la Blake). He links up well with Williams, and the pair combine for Wade to cross into the box three times in quick succession when the ball keeps coming back out.
Thommo wins a number of headers and holds the ball up well, allowing Pato – whose movement and awareness are typically impressive – to run the channels. But Thompson spurns another excellent chance in the second half, aiming a weak header straight at Taylor from 12 yards out.
Eagles comes on for Blake, and despite the lateness of McDonald’s entrance – he replaces Thompson on 90 minutes – the two subs combine dangerously when Kev waits, waits, waits, then plays the perfect ball out to Eagles on the left. Eagles also takes a potshot from the edge of the 18-yard box, and while the tight angle renders it almost a cross, he isn’t too far off – plus, he hits it that hard I swear I can feel it travel through the air from halfway back in the lower tier.
Despite a much more even second half, when the game becomes stretched and the Beast has to be sharp in the face of several set-pieces, Birmingham don’t create a chance as tantalising as any of those we squander in the first 20 minutes.
It’s hard to say whether the missed chances or the sloppy defending have hurt us most. Going into each game, we know there’ll be goals at both ends – after 31 league matches, we’ve kept seven clean sheets and have failed to score seven times – but we also know there’ll be individual defensive errors more often than not, which puts the onus on our forwards to convert.
Theoretically, it’s a good away point, but given the performance, it’s two points dropped – and congratulating ourselves on how well we played is fairly futile, as it doesn’t help us improve. Just as Coyle focused on those shambolic 20 minutes at White Hart Lane rather than the excellent first 45, we need to concentrate on righting our wrongs – particularly during the run-in, where the margin for error in an impossibly tight league will be negligible, if it exists at all. |
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| Sealed with a kiss |
[Feb. 21st, 2009|10:30 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (71), February 2009. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
It’s FA Cup fourth-round day, we’re visiting another Premier League side, and all we can think about is the Carling Cup. Specifically, the sickening moment in the 118th minute of the semi-final second leg, when Roman Pavlyuchenko’s shot hit the back of the net to leave Turf Moor wracked with agony, the Clarets knocked out two minutes before reaching Wembley on away goals in extra-time.
The Spurs hangover lingers, and the atmosphere is decidedly low-key when the players walk out – Alexander looks at the floor, and Robbie looks weary when he acknowledges our applause. They seem tetchy with each other, too. Duff spends a good two minutes following Carlisle around the pitch to have a go at him for a moment of thoughtlessness, and when Alexander marshals the troops at a West Brom corner, Wade starts flapping his arms as if objecting to the position he’s being asked to take up. Grezza points, shouts, and Wade does what he’s told.
Still, we settle into the game, with Caldwell and Kalvenes in for Jordan and Joey, and Alexander in the holding role. (At one point, a blown-up condom floats above the crowd; there’s got to be a line in there somewhere about Alexander offering protection to the defence.)
Eagles creates most of our early chances, and Blake wins a rather soft penalty when Jonathan Greening pushes him over in the box. Grezza does the honours, smashing a shot high into the right-hand corner of Scott Carson’s net, and it’s the least he deserves after his superb performance and heartbreaking tears on Wednesday night.
For the rest of the half, we compete ferociously, tackle expertly and retain possession with ease. The fans do their bit, too, heralding the goal with “we’re going to Wembley”, which raises a smile. There’s also plenty of appreciation for Robbie after his heroics in midweek.
Blake thumps the bar from the left, and Alexander finishes a glorious 15-pass move with a shot that Carson saves high to his right. This comes after Kalvenes almost scores an own goal twice in 10 seconds, with some calamitous defending in front of poor Jensen (who’s greeted with “Beeeeeast!” from all four sides of the ground).
Kalvenes’ distribution is slightly dodgy all afternoon; on a couple of occasions it’s pantomime stuff as he makes suicidal passes into feet, failing to notice beforehand that his teammate is being double-marked. But it’s all part of the fun in a fantastically entertaining cup tie, and his overlaps provide a useful attacking outlet later in the game.
Despite their obvious quality on the ball, West Brom don’t create many clear-cut chances before stunning us with two set-pieces before half-time. The first, on 31 minutes, is a classy Robert Koren half-volley from inside the D after a corner skims Caldwell’s head on its way out; the second, three minutes into two minutes of stoppage time, a Do-heon Kim free-kick that takes a bloody great deflection off Blake’s head, looping straight up and wrong-footing the Beast.
Physical fatigue is understandable, but it’s mental resilience that’s an absolute must today – and after weathering a Baggies storm after the break, when Roman Bednar beats Duff, rounds Jensen and hits the post, Burnley deliver once again.
A tiring Eagles is replaced by Joey, and we up the tempo, dominating the rest of the match with some wonderful flowing football. Coyle, who is some sort of kamikaze attacking legend, throws on Thompson and Rodriguez for the full-backs, going 3-4-3 and throwing the kitchen sink at West Brom.
Thompson has a huge impact, and he’s unlucky not to score when Carson somehow claws away his header from point-blank range, forcing us to stop our premature celebrations as Thommo stands shrugging with a look of total disbelief on his face. He gives the tireless Pato room to manoeuvre, which proves vital for the equaliser we so thoroughly deserve.
Blake and Elliott are exhilarating to watch, and both are instrumental in the closing stages. Blake’s every touch is magical – each crossfield pass is inch-perfect, each cross causes panic in the Baggies defence – and his teammates respond, trying to find him every time. Elliott gives an elegant performance in central midfield and moves onto the right wing when Eagles departs, missing a gilt-edged chance when he screws a diagonal shot past the post.
The equaliser, however, is textbook stuff – a sumptuous ball from Blake on the halfway line falls right at Elliott’s feet on the corner of the box, and he crosses superbly for the onrushing Pato to tap home at the back post with a minute to go.
What happens next deserves a paragraph of its own. Pato, who gives the impression of being fired by a 1,000-volt battery at the best of times, goes mental on the touchline in front of us – and then kisses Thommo on the lips. Call me girly, but this is possibly the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen inside a football ground. It certainly brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “he shoots, he scores”.
Alexander makes a brilliant interception as the Baggies break one final time, one of their number bursting down the right and actually going over Kalvenes like the Road Runner, but they simply don’t share our determination to score. There’s no question that the draw is deserved; a defeat would have been the biggest injustice since… well, since Wednesday night.
Admittedly, the prospect of yet another cup tie – and a sixth consecutive week of playing Tuesday/Saturday – isn’t ideal, especially with the excellent Jordan and now Duff carrying knocks. But it’s difficult to quibble when the football is this good, when the devastation of our semi-final exit can be superseded by the rush of adrenaline you get from watching this team.
Coyle told his players to “have a good cry” on Thursday and return to training on Friday with a smile on their face; and their invigorating performance at The Hawthorns – psychologically, our most important match of the season – makes me even more proud than I felt after Spurs. Once again, Coyle talks a near-perfect game – and there’s no better feeling than when his players are doing the same on the pitch. |
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| Wolves 2 – 0 Burnley |
[Dec. 23rd, 2008|02:30 am] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (69), November 2008. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
Have you ever seen so many police lining the walk from Wolverhampton station to Molineux before? Along with the stewards, their Day-Glo jackets match Wolves’ colour scheme – the place is a sea of yellow, orange and gold – and the official presence seems way over the top. After the match, though, it starts to make sense; the referee we get today is clearly used to being escorted from the ground for his own safety.
But first, credit where credit’s due. Wolves outclass us in the first half, with Michael Kightly a constant threat down the right, although Jordan deals with him admirably for much of the game. We’re guilty of giving them far too much space, but the back four are solid, and Caldwell and Carlisle are immense.
Despite winning a few corners down the right, we don’t offer much in the final third. Elliott delivers a poor ball into the box after a lovely exchange with Blake, and also fires a free-kick on the left straight into the keeper’s hands. Blake and McCann are largely ineffective, while Joey is frustratingly wasteful.
The Clarets and the home contingent are equally noisy in the shared stand behind the goal, but it’s slightly depressing that some of the best, most hostile atmospheres – like Preston and Watford at home last season – are generated in response to crap referees. After Jordan is bizarrely booked on 27 minutes for a well-timed tackle on Carlos Edwards, things start to get bad-tempered, fuelled by both sets of fans. Kightly’s goal four minutes later doesn’t help, given that the officials all fail to spot his blatant handball.
Half-time can’t come quickly enough – but we’re soon wishing it hadn’t. It’s family day at Molineux, which explains the programme cover, a garish crayon drawing of the club badges by a 14-year-old who really should be able to colour inside the lines (sorry, I’m bitter). They play ‘We Will Rock You’ to wake up the home fans, give them clappers to “make some noise”, and play the same Take That song on loop. Eventually, the lad in front – not Wolves’ target audience – sighs “friggin’ ‘ell”.
A juggler in a top hat starts tossing gold batons around, and a bloke in a fat-suit strolls past. Unfortunately, they haven’t bothered to give him a padded upper body, so he looks like he’s impersonating bottom-heavy striker Sylvan Ebanks-Blake (if ever a footballer needed a thighs, bum and tum DVD…). Finally, the crowd are encouraged to chuck giant beach balls at each other, despite the fact it’s about -2°C. Reminder to Wolves: it’s a football ground, not a crèche.
In fact, it’s a circus, and referee Darren Deadman decides to join in. That’s the only plausible explanation for his eye-popping performance in the second half.
We look far more threatening for the first 15 minutes, but the game quickly descends into chaos. The Burnley end, already irritated, explodes when he turns down two penalty appeals; the first looks stonewall, when Elliott rampages into the box and Stephen Ward bundles him over on the right. The second is less obvious, when Richard Stearman seems to handball but Blake is booked for the offence.
It’s Stearman who commits one of the few nasty tackles of the match, going in studs-up on Thompson near the halfway line – but while Thommo writhes in pain, Deadman books McCann for having a retaliatory dig at the defender. He hands out seven yellow cards to Burnley – including two for Carlisle, who misses the Chelsea match – and none to Wolves, which is a ridiculously inaccurate reflection of what’s actually happening on the pitch.
The Beast is booked for belting the ball skywards after Kightly’s first goal, but his opposite number Carl Ikeme escapes punishment for blatant time-wasting. While he’s messing about preparing to take a goal-kick, Deadman waves at him to get on with it. Ikeme looks at him, takes a couple of lungfuls of bracing Black Country air, thinks about what he’s having for tea, wanders over to the other side of his six-yard box, ponders the historical significance of Barack Obama’s election to the US presidency, carefully places the ball and finally kicks.
This does, however, provoke the best shout of the match. Observing his highlighter-yellow strip (think Chelsea’s away kit), one wag yells “you illuminous bastard!”
Perhaps it’s inevitable that Wolves will kill us off, and they do so after we fail to capitalise on a couple of corners. Eagles, playing on the left of a 4-4-2, uses his skill but not his options, choosing to shoot from a tight angle with Blake unmarked in a more promising position. Rodriguez comes on for Thompson and is greeted by a chant of “Martin Paterson” (I know Coyle’s subs can be predictable, but please, use your eyes). Pato then replaces Blake, but when the ball cannons off him and Jordan lets it bounce, Wolves break to double their lead.
The feeling is one of overwhelming frustration. There’s no disgrace in losing to Wolves, who are quick, fluent and easily the better side. But paying £24 to watch the referee make a series of increasingly outlandish decisions angers many fans. Winning a penalty during a period of dominance could have put an entirely different complexion on the game, but it isn’t just one decision that fails to go our way; the Molineux pitch isn’t a level playing field today.
The media coverage is almost as annoying. We’re told that Wolves “should” have been ahead by more at half-time, but the reports fail to mention that our resolute defending was as important as their wayward finishing. Still, it’s easy to characterise Wolves as fallen heroes and Burnley as dirty Northern bastards, so why break the habits of a lifetime?
Common sense comes from the skipper a few days later, in the run-up to the Chelsea match. Caldwell says that we can compete at the highest level if we’re at 100% every single game – and that we got hammered at Wolves because we weren’t. Maintaining that level of performance is a tough ask, with injuries and suspensions bound to take their toll, but with our current momentum, you get the feeling that the post-Christmas slump might just be a thing of the past. |
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| Crystal Palace 0 – 0 Burnley |
[Sep. 8th, 2008|10:40 pm] |
Amid the doom and gloom surrounding our 3-0 defeat by Ipswich, there’s one cheering thought: this can’t be as bad as our trip to Palace in May. (It’s certainly a lot quieter now their play-off euphoria has evaporated, taking 10,000 fans with it.) Carlisle survives the first seven minutes without mishap and we don’t hear that blasted goal music once, let alone five times – though it seems imminent after half an hour, when Palace take control.
We might as well begin with the Beast, as he’s responsible for most of the dross (I won’t dignify it with the word ‘service’) sent in Paterson’s direction. Fellow When The Ball Moves… contributor Rich Timbrell is making notes on Pato today, and informs me that 17 long balls are aimed at him in the first half alone. He only wins three, which is unsurprising, given he’s five foot nine and playing on his own up front. When he does win the ball, he can’t lay it off because there’s no movement into space around him; when he’s running the channels, there’s no movement from anyone else into the box.
Towards the end of the first half, Paterson receives the ball on the edge of the area, and although he’s sandwiched between Matt Lawrence and Danny Butterfield, a lack of options means he’s forced to swivel to get a shot away (one of only four on target during the 90 minutes). And that’s more worrying than our wobbly defence: we have a host of skilful attackers, but there’s no cohesive play, and certainly no real threat, in the final third.
At least the defence is more organised than in recent weeks. Duff isn’t yet sharp, but he inspires more confidence than Alexander at right-back. Kalvenes is defensively sound, winning more than his fair share of headers, and sees a cross-cum-shot whistle over the bar early in the second half. Carlisle is solid enough, but captain Caldwell occasionally runs into trouble; in the first half, he lets the ball bounce in front of James Scowcroft and only just gets away with it.
We’re playing 4-1-4-1 with Alexander in the holding role, which disguises his lack of pace (and says a lot about Coyle’s opinion of Gudjonsson). He makes some well-timed tackles and breaks up play, but can’t contribute much fluidity to a disjointed performance. McDonald is a sturdy presence but doesn’t stamp his authority on the match, and aside from the odd long-range shot, the game passes McCann by. If his ‘goal threat’ (such as it is) makes him an automatic selection, it goes to show how little goal threat we have across the rest of midfield.
God knows what Elliott’s meant to be doing, and his body language screams “disillusioned”. His head’s down even before kick-off, and he keeps wandering around on the left, the lack of crosses contrasting sharply with Coyle’s stated desire to play with wingers. Once again, it begs the question: should you mould your system around your players, rather than the other way round?
Eagles is more effective, trying to instigate some movement and helpfully tracking back, but there’s little end product all round. We’re sitting in front of his mum, who says he chose Burnley over four other Championship clubs and wants to prove he’s good enough to play in the Premier League; she’s very nice. The same cannot be said of the obnoxious bloke behind me who shouts abuse at her son and then tries to go in my handbag at half-time.
The second half is insane. On 47 minutes, Scowcroft gets his marching orders for an elbow on Carlisle; five minutes later, Shaun ‘Dirty’ Derry joins him for an early bath after flattening Elliott. There are more cards than a game of poker – both are second bookable offences, and referee Williamson hands out a total of seven yellows and two reds (this after his dubious decision to send off Charlton’s Kelly Youga at Vicarage Road the previous week).
We celebrate Derry’s departure as if we’ve won, but the tide soon turns. Duff makes way for Blake, who’s the only player to utilise the extra space; there’s precious little short passing, and Palace finish the game with 53% possession. McDonald is replaced by Gudjonsson, who proceeds to pass backwards. (I’d be grateful if someone could explain the logic that ranks our midfield options as Alexander > Gudjonsson > Mahon, because it’s beyond me.) Later, Akinbiyi comes on and Paterson, bizarrely, goes off.
With 10 minutes to go, it dawns on us that actually, no, we’re not going to score against nine men – but it’s not for want of trying. Efforts from Elliott, Eagles, Gudjonsson and Alexander are all off target, McDonald and Blake seem reluctant to pull the trigger, and Paterson shoots monstrously wide. We’re foiled by Speroni, too: McCann has a goal disallowed for a foul on the keeper, Elliott lifts the ball into his hands from the byline, and he saves Alexander’s stinging volley at the death.
We win 10 corners but never look like scoring from one, and we squander set-pieces with alarming regularity. I remain irritated, baffled and angry that Alexander takes (and wastes) them when Eagles, Elliott and/or Blake are on the pitch; during the first half, Eagles stands over a 40-yard free-kick which Alexander then lofts over the wall into Speroni’s hands.
But what really takes the cake is a ridiculously over-elaborate free-kick routine in the dying minutes. Rather than hand over duties to Blake, three Clarets mess around with the ball on the edge of the box before sliding it sideways for Gudjonsson to shoot. His marker gets there first.
Palace have a couple of chances on the break, not least a Paddy McCarthy bicycle kick that flies a couple of feet over the bar, and we eventually run out of time. (I’m tempted to blame Nick Carle, who’s substituted by Neil Warnock and takes about eight minutes to get off the pitch.) Coyle can take heart from a clean sheet and a point, if not the booing at the final whistle, but his side is very much a work in progress – and as such, judgement is reserved. |
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| Wednesday's child – full of woe |
[Sep. 8th, 2008|10:30 pm] |
There can be few more deflating experiences in football than getting thrashed on the first day of the season. Players have come in and out, formations have been tested, the league table is just an alphabetical list, and anticipation surrounds it all. We’re bouncing with excitement – and what turns out to be misplaced confidence – all the way to Hillsborough, and it’s shattered after 31 seconds as our defence parts like the Red Sea.
With Alexander already AWOL, Akpo Sodje rampages down the right; he puts in a cross, McCann misses it and Marcus Tudgay’s shot deflects over Penny’s head into the net. Three minutes later, Deon Burton chips the ball between Caldwell and Duff, and Sodje finishes to double our deficit. Paterson gets his head on an Elliott cross to make it 2-1 after six minutes, but Sodje, Burton and Jermaine Johnson are all over us and the entire away end is speechless with shock.
The fans never recover, the team never recovers, and luckily for our back four, Sodje doesn’t recover after going down injured on 20 minutes. Jordan is our best defender, and puts in more crosses than anyone else – but like Alexander, he still backs off his man from 40 yards out right up to the edge of the box.
Alexander also covers ground with the agility of an OAP. “He’s too old,” I moan to Gareth, simplistically. “It’s the fact that he can’t run, tackle, head the ball or pass that gets me,” comes the reply. Once again, he chips a free-kick straight into the crowd, while Blake’s set-pieces are no more accurate, and even JOC seems to take more corners than Wade.
Caldwell is giving it Sturm und Drang, but there’s more than a little hypocrisy in him yelling at Duff for being turned time and time again. They constantly give away free headers, one flying narrowly over the bar just after Wednesday’s second goal, and a double save from Penny in the second half – the first, with his feet, particularly sharp – prevents the scoreline looking even worse.
We look like a League One side, and at this rate, we will be. Midway through the first half, someone mutters that this wouldn’t have happened under Cotterill. I much prefer our current manager’s style of play – give me Coyle’s expansive flair over Cotterill’s pinching negativity any day – but emulating Kevin Keegan’s ‘Entertainers’ is not exactly what I had in mind.
In what ClaretsMad’s jedi_master later terms our “Chelsea-style Hillsborough massacre formation”, we appear to be playing 4-2-3-1, with McCann and Van der Schaaf shielding the back four and Elliott, Eagles and Blake interchanging behind Paterson. Theoretically, it sounds pant-wettingly exciting. In practice, it takes me 10 minutes to work out the formation (we’re fielding so many new players I have to consult the squad numbers on the back of the programme to figure out who they all are), and 80 minutes later, the players look none the wiser.
Elliott is wasted when he isn’t used as an orthodox winger, and aside from his assist, he’s not in the game. Ditto the new slimline Robbie Blake, though his evident frustration is no excuse for battering the ball into the crowd and picking up a stupid yellow card.
Paterson works fantastically hard – his body language, determination and sheer graft are as impressive at 4-1 down as they are at 3pm – but while he’s running the channels, we carry precisely zero threat in the box.
Eagles also puts in a tireless shift, but knackers himself out after an hour. There’s no doubting his class; he already looks like a senior player, and even runs with Ronaldo’s loping stride. He has an impressive range of passing, he’s extremely quick, and in the first half he goes on a wildfire run through the middle that almost culminates in a superb solo goal. Given what’s going on around him, he’ll probably have a transfer request in by the time the team coach gets back.
Van der Schaaf, who’s steady if unspectacular, isn’t match fit and only lasts an hour. McCann’s passing is decent in spells, and he forces Lee Grant into a smart save in the second half with a powerful shot from 20 yards, but he gives the ball away far too often. He is also developing a habit of throwing his hands up and looking around with an expression of disgust (he must get it from his little friend Kyle). Meanwhile, a lively JOC puts in some equally lively tackles on McCann without a word of apology. Miaow.
Mahon warms up at half-time, and when the break concludes with no substitutions, he’s clearly reluctant to leave the pitch. I feel his pain.
I want to see fluid, attacking football, and I know it’s ridiculous to judge what Coyle is trying to do after one game, but I can’t help remembering Jan Poortvliet saying he wants Southampton to play total football. Good luck with that on a wet Tuesday night in Doncaster – and Burnley will need significantly more than luck to mould a sophisticated new system around a shambolic defence and a toothless attack.
While we’re at it, you could also question the wisdom of playing a truckload of lower-league sides in pre-season. Last year, we held Middlesbrough to a 1-1 draw; this year, we’ve played Carolina Railhawks, Minnesota Thunder, Queen of the South, Partick Thistle, St Johnstone, Accrington Stanley, Glentoran, Bradford City and Inverness Caledonian Thistle. We all know pre-season friendlies mean nothing – Joey Gudjonsson excels in them every year – but we seem to have raised expectations without testing our weaknesses.
When the substitutions finally come, Gudjonsson makes little difference and Ade makes none. By the final whistle, the majority of the 3,000 travelling Clarets have left, while plenty of those remaining boo the team. Afterwards, the focus is on central defence, with Coyle threatening to bring in new blood. Three of this back four played at Crystal Palace in May, conceding five goals (albeit with 10 men) – and we’ve had 12 weeks to sort it out. Back to the drawing board, perchance. |
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