When
the weather or circumstance intervene, and my beloved Benfield are left without
a game, I do my level best to take in another fixture. I see it as my
responsibility to do so. In the run up to Christmas, I took advantage of the incessant
rain that waterlogged the pitch at Jarrow Roofing and went to see a thoroughly
entertaining clash between two of our divisions best footballing sides that
ended Team Northumbria 0 Whitley Bay 3. The frost that put paid to our home
game with West Auckland had no discernible effect on the 4G surface at Walker
Activity Dome, enabling me to don my other hat as the Chair of the Tyneside
Amateur League to oversee Jesmond and Forest Hall contest a lively encounter
that the visitors shaded 4-2.
Now,
in both these instances I’d been at a loose end as Benfield didn’t have a game;
the idea of ducking out of a Lions fixture to watch anyone else is anathema to
me, considering I’ve only missed Penrith away so far this season. Then again,
fatigue and financial concerns sometimes rear their ugly heads when the
Walkergate Barca aren’t playing; on Boxing Day after our Team Northumbria game
had finished, I had more than enough time to head for Blyth Spartans v
Spennymoor or Gateshead v Hartlepool, but I opted to keep my money in my pocket
and spend an afternoon on the sofa with Jeff Stelling and a few other
middle-aged blokes. Very enjoyable it was too, especially the regular updates
from Sheffield United 3 Mackems 0.
Of
course, there is always the complex matter of Newcastle United to factor into
any equation, especially during the Festive Season. With the bairn home from
Uni for Christmas, the chance for a few dad and lad craft and real ales to try
and erase the memory of the previous 90 minutes is always an enticing prospect.
However, you can only take loyalty so far; the idea of sitting through a
presumed demolition at the hands of Man City and paying handsomely for the
privilege just doesn’t wash these days. Instead, Santa Claus popped up with a
pair of briefs for the Brighton game on December 30th and a whole
new level of guilt kicked in, as Benfield were allegedly at Shildon that day.
Luckily frost intervened and Dean Street was rendered unplayable; sadly, the
same situation didn’t occur at St James’ Park.
Having
watched the Man City game round at a mate’s house, in the midst of a
slow-burning domestic with his other half that properly caught fire in the
second period, I’d fully agreed with Benitez’s tactics before the break. To
attack City from the off would have been suicide; the admittedly negative plan
to stifle and contain Guardiola’s incredible array of talent almost worked, and
I don’t think we were out of it until the final whistle went, though I’d need
to see the last part of the game again as it was beginning to get too hard to
concentrate on events on the pitch, especially when compared to the invective
unfolding around me. Christmas eh? Don’t you just love it…
Anyway,
come Saturday I had an inexplicable modicum of hope in my heart that Benitez
would turn things round for the Brighton game and try to win the thing. While
Gayle’s header could, and perhaps should, have given us the lead, my positive
frame of mind was shown to be hopelessly naïve. The sight of Darlow holding on
to the ball for the maximum 6 seconds every single time to slow the game down
and nullify the threat of Brighton, for whom Glen Murray made Joselu look like
Marco van Basten, was one of the most infuriating images of the whole, dull
Benitez anti-climactic reign. I remember seeing the same two teams play out a
goalless draw in February 1991, in front of about 13,000 stupefied on-lookers;
that game was of higher quality than the dross on show during this fiasco. How
on earth can Benitez still boast such unquestioning popularity when his teams
are so sterile? It baffles me. Nice pints in The Bodega and Box Social
afterwards at least.
Typically
enough, less than 48 hours after repeated pub conversations about Benitez
approaching or being past his sell-by date in the modern game, Newcastle went
to Stoke and played the troubled Potters off the park; the final 1-0 score,
courtesy of a lovely finish by Perez, did not do the Magpies justice. I’m giving that opinion on the basis of a few
highlights and several match reports, as I didn’t see the game. Instead, I
availed myself of the offer of a lift to South Shields against Scarborough
Athletic with my old mate and, 30 years back, former student John Melville. The
Wallsend Mariner had also arranged to fetch local non-league writer and
all-round good bloke Mark Carruthers through, as all public transport was off.
A really great gesture that was deeply appreciated, though I doubt it’ll be
repeated as Scarborough won 3-1 at a canter.
I’d
not been to Mariners Park since September 2016, when a late Meechack Kanda goal
gave Benfield a fully-merited point in a 1-1 draw. That day there were 1,200
present and the vibe around the place told of a club on the launching pad,
ready to go places. A year and a quarter later, there’s 1,819 in attendance and
the Northern League is a distant memory. Shields are now in orbit. Everything
about the place is bigger, louder, flashier than at our level. Hundreds of
Shields fans are there early, eating and drinking, putting their money into the
club for things they put in their mouth. We mustn’t fail to mention the 400
who’ve travelled up from Scarborough either. There’s still a hardcore of
volunteers working their fingers to the bone, including my old pal Phil Reay
the secretary, but there’s hired help and hourly-paid staff performing their
roles in return for cash money. This is the grassroots game on the cusp of
moving from a labour of love to a professional business, with the level of
excitement among the supporters, still as high as before. It’s not often I’m
deafened when the teams emerge, but that’s what happens today.
One
of my major problems is finding a place to see the game from; I do a 75%
circuit of the ground, where most of the vantage spots are inaccessible; 3 deep
on flat terracing and full of zealous singers in the covered parts, before
finding a spare bit of barrier down by the corner flag at the Jarrow end of the
ground. I watch the visitors push the home side back from the off, eventually
forcing an error. A short back pass, a nippy striker, a rash keeper’s
challenge, a penalty and Scarborough lead. Soon after it’s 0-2, with a great
attacking and lousy defending goal; a corner is hammered in to the near post
and an unmarked attacker stoops to head home past a stationary keeper.
South
Shields come again with renewed vigour in the second period, but it’s 3-0 and
game over on 55 minutes when a ball into the box is flicked on, eluding
everyone and nestling in the corner. This is the cue for Carl Finnigan to
belatedly appear for the home side. His presence raises both the tempo and
expectations, showing he probably should have been on from the start. Scarborough
defend resolutely and a frustrated Finnigan is eventually booked for an off the
ball clash by referee Lindsey Robinson, who is excellent throughout. Finally,
Shields get a last-minute consolation, via a tap in from Holmes and the game
ends; there’s disappointment, but neither whinging nor anger. The Shields crowd
know their team has been second best and shrug it off; they’ve come a long way
since Peterlee, where 50 of them shivered and feared for the future of their
club, only 4 years back; they’ve the necessary perspective to understand the
occasional setback like this one is inevitable.
January
2nd is often regarded as the most depressing day of the year,
bringing the torment of the return to work after the excesses and bonhomie of
the Holiday Season. Not in Scotland
however; January 3rd is their serotonin free zone, as the New Year
break north of the border includes 2 Bank Holidays. As a result, it often means
a full programme of Scottish football fixtures to feast upon. Four years ago,
with my pals Andy and Michael Hudson (brothers NOT a couple), we headed to East
End Park to enjoy Dunfermline defeat Raith Rovers in a local derby. Today the
Vichy Fife team (as a Cowdenbeath supporter once described them to me) will
defeat Falkirk 2-0 in a horribly ill-tempered game where Bairns fans bombard
Dunfermline’s Dean Shiels with fake, plastic, joke shop eye balls. Shiels had
an eye removed after a childhood accident. Later that night, those legendary
West Ham fans taunt Jake Livermore over the death of his infant son. Why does
such scum attach itself to our game?
Having
surveyed the fixture list, my first choice was Edinburgh City against Berwick
Rangers, but I consulted my mate David Stoker, Bathgate resident, sometime
Livingston board member and obsessive, itinerant football watcher. He opined
that game would be terrible and suggested the Renfrewshire Derby between
Greenock Morton and St Mirren instead. Not only did this give me the chance of
seeing Benfield v Newcastle in terms of the kits, but it was another ground
ticked off my list and when he offered a lift from Linlithgow to Greenock and
back again, the deal was sealed. I got straight on the lap top to book train
tickets for £35 return.
With
it being a normal day in England, the train to Waverley was smooth, quick and
half full. Unfortunately, Scottish Bank Holiday engineering works delayed the
Edinburgh to Glasgow train, as well as limiting it to half the normal size. It
was a hot crush, but Linlithgow was reached just after the scheduled arrival of
1.00pm. David was there, together with
his Dutch football journalist pal Joris, who lives in Leith and follows Hearts,
as well as Sheffield Wednesday and his hometown side Willem II. The reason
Edinburgh City had seemed a possible choice was the presence of a 4G pitch;
prosaic but reliable. Considering it absolutely threw it down all the way to
Greenock, nerves over a postponement were never far away.
Despite
overflowing gutters and pools on the pavement, the pitch at Cappielow was in
superb condition. The ground was similarly wonderful, but in a real traditional
way. Almost untouched by the gentrification of the game and stadia in general
around the world, Cappielow would go on a list of Scottish grounds I’ve fallen
in love with, alongside Cliftonhill and East End Park; we’re taking it as read
that Easter Road is the best ground in the world here, by the way. We paid a
steep £20 entry and took our place on the covered paddock, almost full of home
fans. However this was deceptive; the game was being broadcast live on BBC
Alba, so an intrusive camera platform on scaffolding had been installed, much
to the chagrin of home fans who repeatedly sang BBC Alba; why don’t you go home?
Greenock
and Paisley are 15 miles distant, but the hatred between the two towns is raw
and real; like the Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy abuse of 4 years ago, there is
something deeply appealing and hugely inventive about the bile-spattered,
oath-edged chants thrown in both directions in search of regional dominance. Dirty Paisley Bastards is the go to
phrase for the afternoon, but I preferred the more cerebral City of Culture? You’re having a laugh! The
visiting player getting the worst abuse was Celtic bound Lewis Morgan, a
Greenock resident who was repeatedly informed We know where you stay. It didn’t seem to bother him when he opened
the scoring and performed an impressive knee slide in front of those who he may
call his neighbours. They reacted negatively in the main.
Being
honest, top of the table Buddies were good value for the lead and I suspected
they’d go on to win with ease. Thankfully though, Morton roared back in the
second period, inspired by the mercurial talents of Jai Quitongo, and were good
value for their headed equaliser on 78 minutes by Thomas O’Ware. The goal was
greeted with the kind of terrace bedlam and barrier vaulting I’ve not seen in
the thick end of 30 years down south. Brilliant stuff, only eclipsed by St
Mirren defender Stelios Demetriou talking the sting out of any potential crowd
trouble when, after being struck on the shoulder by a Bounty bar thrown from the Morton end, he took the last snack from
the selection box and calmly ate it before taking a throw in. Amazingly enough,
prissy Premier League referee Kevin Clancy, on a lower division busman’s
holiday, didn’t produce a yellow card. He did for everything else.
So,
honours even, a straight road back to Linlithgow with David’s terrible taste in
90s house music poisoning my ears, two empty trains and a Metro, all come
together to put me on the sofa in time for Match of the Day. Roll on March 24th
and June 9th, which are my next two scheduled Scottish trips.
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