| Out of darkness, into light |
[Apr. 25th, 2007|10:00 pm] |
This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (57), April 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes
Playing lowly Luton at home, you’d think we could proceed to the Turf with something resembling optimism – but we’re into our fifth month without a win, the atmosphere is funereal, and despite the sun, few fans linger on Harry Potts Way. It’s a depressingly familiar story, even if wholesale changes are the order of the day: Coyne makes way for Jensen, there’s no place for Elliott or O’Connor, and Duff and Lafferty, after their midweek exploits with Northern Ireland, drop to the bench.
We’re the better side in the first half, with that dubious honour passing to Luton in the second, but neither team poses any threat whatsoever. Luton have come for a point and pack the midfield, with Keith Keane venturing forward every half-hour or so. Jones’ finishing is awful, McVeigh needs games, and McCann might as well be at home. Gray misses a header, and a poor first touch prevents him capitalising on a (difficult) chance to turn and shoot on the edge of a crowded six-yard box. Ade doesn’t even get near a chance.
Two tangible shifts occur during the game. The first takes place on 10 minutes, when Luton realise that we’re as crap as them: their confidence flutters weakly into life, and they start to play (albeit badly). The second occurs just before half-time, when Jones misplaces yet another pass and the crowd’s patience runs out.
The second half is mind-bogglingly dire, forcing us to seek entertainment elsewhere. Pigeon-watching proves popular. I note that various players visited the salon during the international break: Harley and substitute O’Connor have had trims, McVeigh is sporting an artfully casual ponytail, and there’s some sort of modification to Steve Jones’ hairdon’t. Iceland is represented not by Joey Gudjonsson, but by a red-and-white supermarket carrier bag that drifts in from the wing more effectively than any of our wingers (sorry, midfielders told to play on the wing) have done for months.
It’s like the death of sport.
There’s just time for some loony substitutions before the players depart to a round of boos (there are no chants of “Cotterill out”, the Burnley faithful giving various saints a run for their money in the patience stakes). Kyle replaces Ade, a decision I’d like to see made before the game, not 68 minutes into it. O’Connor comes on for Jones, implying that Cotterill is afraid of losing the game – though with Luton camped in their own half, there’s not much chance of that. Finally, Garreth O’Connor replaces McVeigh. Having disposed of both wingers, this looks like our usual game plan – declining to use more than a third of the width of the pitch – but the substitution, made with only two minutes to go, is pointless anyway.
Cotterill’s post-match comments leave me speechless. Elliott – who, for some time, has been our only creative player, our only attack-minded player, and one of the few players who seem to give a toss – was dropped from the squad because he “hasn’t scored a lot of goals”. This from the manager of a side that has scored six goals in the last 16 league games; from the manager who paid £750,000 to re-sign, and persist with, Akinbiyi (one league goal in three months).
He then admits that the kit man handed out traditional white shorts and socks in an attempt to kickstart our form. There’s no urgency to our play, no apparent motivation, and this debacle conclusively proves that there’s no plan B.
Come Tuesday night, plenty of fans have had enough; kids with grim faces are slumped in stony silence, and there are gaping holes in the stands. But we finally start like a side with something to prove, and we finally play as a team – with balance, fluency, rhythm and fight (Cotterill: “The lads played angry tonight”). By half-time, we’re in complete control.
The opening goal comes on 13 minutes, when Duff converts Elliott’s beautifully flighted free-kick. Seven minutes later, McVeigh doubles our lead, latching onto Gray’s flick-on and taking the ball around goalkeeper Luke McCormick. Jones adds to Plymouth’s problems on 38 minutes, when he lashes a shot home. It all feels slightly unreal, prompting a reprise of Saturday’s chant: “What the fuck is going on?” When Elliott caps an excellent performance with a fourth – collecting the ball 10 yards outside the box, rampaging in from the right and burying his shot in the far corner – we’ve scored as many goals in 61 minutes as in our last nine games.
Caldwell is excellent again, and Thomas plays well alongside him, winning a lot in the air. Djemba-Djemba is outstanding, and the strike partnership of Gray and McVeigh is promising: McVeigh is far more mobile than Ade, allowing Gray to play his game. If there’s a weak link, it’s the full-backs: Harley copes reasonably well with Chelski wonderkid Scott Sinclair, but offers little going forward, and Duff loses possession too often, repeatedly telegraphing his passes.
The Beast’s handling is superb, and his kicking is good. He twice finds time for his heart-stopping routine of dribbling nimbly around oncoming strikers deep inside his area – and he goes wild when Sylvan Ebanks-Blake, having won a dodgy penalty, puts it wide.
By this point, Plymouth have given up. Shortly afterwards, Akos Buzsaky beats Jones to the ball and proceeds to completely miss his kick. Giddy with delight, we launch into “can we play you every week?”, while Bertie Bee prances onto the touchline to take the piss.
At the end, Cotterill applauds three sides of the ground, coming to NU3 last: he clutches the crest on his BFC jacket, stirring the JH Upper to sustained applause. He grabs the badge again, and the reception continues. He tries it a third time, and the contrivance is too much; the applause dies, and he retreats down the tunnel, alone.
For the next 10 minutes, Turf Moor celebrates as if we’ve won the FA Cup, not our first match in 19 league attempts. It’s not an achievement. It’s a reprieve. |
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