All Bluebirds Column #13 – Winning Ugly
It had begun midweek, as it often does, with a radio interview that was open to interpretation. Billy Waters had gone, for some money to join the Wrexham ‘project’ and the manager didn’t appear to be fully in agreement.
Now, logic would dictate that what should follow was a common sense discussion of any issues, even perhaps with a little comment from the club.
This would be heard in an atmosphere of calm and an understanding that a) Wrexham and bigger wages at 30 is a fair shout b) We have three stands to put up this summer c) Billy, though contributing was replaceable d) We aren’t going anywhere this season unless a miracle on a par with an Anthony Wilson refund occurs.
Equally, you’d expect a manager to be cross when the reality is pointed out- fair enough.
However, Barra Soccer and logic are lousy bedfellows. Clearly, ‘summat had gone on’. We then had three days of catastrophizing and speculation, aided and abetted with online hysteria and fertile ground for those who enjoy winding up the credulous.
This was at fever pitch by Saturday. He wasn’t here was he? He’d gone. ‘I’ve had it on good authority…’. All to a soundtrack of pointless generic dance music for the oblivious in the fanzone, exhorting us to ‘pump it.’
After 30 seconds of the match starting, the gravelly tones of Chris Rea’s ‘On the Beach’ was drifting through my mind as we didn’t appear in the least bit focused. They scored, through some Gaelic football style skullduggery and very weak defending.
Rudderless and clueless, we buzzed around to the strains of the whiste happy referee to groans of irritation. A bitter shroud of boredom descended. Certainly, Stacey next to me wasn’t happy. No-one was. “The only thing I’m thinking about here is Two pints of cider at half-time.” A sage observation, as it had been, frankly awful.
I fell to thinking about why I found Wimbledon so irritating. There’s a sense of self-satisfaction about it all, as we clocked up the 17th singing of ‘Barrow’s a shithole’ from the rapier like South London wits who looked like they’d dressed in the dark, or let their mother take care of it. ‘We are the Resurrection!’ A large flag proclaimed. A friend later recalled being lectured: the first time we went there, in the Conference on the merits of fan ownership, around the 10th anniversary of our support buying our club to save it from Vaughan. Cheers for that.
They nearly scored again, Paul Farman yet again proving his worth, whether he divides opinion or not.
We headed on to the second-half; and we began to summon some vague direction. A cross from Josh Whitfield beat the first man and our captain Niall Canavan was there to head it powerfully home. A chance to cheer and jeer at the opposition and we were back in it.
And we were better. Pressing better, and higher, with more belief. They looked hesitant and nervous. Another decent cross, we kept the ball alive and a clever Foley flick gave Josh Gordon daylight. He dispatched the ball with aplomb.
We roared with relief and various schoolkid variations in black raced away to play kiss-chase with stewards at the fence. Songs began to ring out as we worked venomously out of possession and managed the game calmly when we had it.
Thankfully, with a slightly sheepish Wild fist pump to reignite the conspiracy theorists-that was it. With an unexpected bonus that whoever is booking the Cross Bar had laid off the Absinthe this week and booked someone who actually fitted the clientele. Nobody had to ‘pump it’ thank the lord.
Looking back, I had a feeling akin to a proud dad when your child does something wrong which is actually quite smart. You can’t condone the crime (and this game was a crime against football in the main) but at last, after three seasons, we’d had one of those ‘League Two set piece wins’ which is a first.
Four days outside the top half? It hasn’t always looked brilliant, but in the context of the season it definitely, definitely is.
Just don’t get the deck chairs out just yet!