Cod Almighty | Article
by Richard Lord
30 May 2007
When any big event happens in life, you always remember where you were when it happened, and what you were doing at the time. I remember studying this very subject for A-level psychology, and yet ironically, despite this not being a major event in my life, I can still recall where I was when I was taught it (Room U3, Cleethorpes Sixth Form), who taught me it (Mr Bloomfield) and what I was doing at the time (doodling on someone else's work without him knowing about it). Someone told me a couple of years ago that Mr Bloomfield was dead. I was stood outside Victoria Wine down St Pete's Avenue when I learned of this terrible news. It was Mr Bloomfield who told me all those years ago not to go to university but instead to train as a plumber, as that was where the money was.
So I went to university. I could've been a plumber, you know, but somehow three years of irresponsible behaviour - with no ties and no commitments - sounded slightly more fun than getting filthy under kitchen sinks, or coming home to my parents' house in a boiler suit stinking of gas.
I've had some good football-related times at uni. Well - actually, come to think of it, not that many. I've come to hate Rochdale. That match at Accrington was bloody awful. I haven't thought this through.
I wasn't given the best send-off when we imploded at Tranmere three years ago and slipped into the bottom division doldrums. A few of my mates took notice of Town's progress when we looked good for promotion in 2005-06, but that all ended miserably. My final year - this season just gone - threatened to be a bad one. But then Alan Buckley returned, and we picked up our form. And then it disappeared again.
I was on a flight to Paris when Town played at Torquay that fateful Friday night. I received a text message as we landed that told me of our 2-0 deficit at half time, and then I stopped caring. I didn't even know the final score was 4-1 until the next day.
I've always been accused (as if it's a bad thing) of remembering holidays and significant family occasions for what Grimsby Town achieved around that time. Paris was an amazing weekend, but it'll forever be remembered as the weekend when my enthusiasm for the Mariners almost drained away completely.
The next Saturday I was back in my student house, too afraid to listen to the match commentary online; scared of what might happen and what might be implicated if we lost at Boston. I don't usually miss the beginning of the match, but this time it was a quite deliberate effort. I even remember what I was eating when I looked at the time on my mobile phone and noticed it was almost five past three: a French set vanilla yogurt. I hate yogurt with bits in.
"Don't worry," said my mate Lisa, "I reckon Grimsby are already 2-0 up!" I think she won't mind admitting now that that was an outrageously blind prediction in an effort to cheer me up. But even in my 'don't care' state, I could only go five minutes without wanting to know how the Mariners were doing. I ran upstairs and connected to Mariners World.
The score first appeared, saying Town were 1-0 up and that Peter Bore was the scorer. Then the sound came through. I could hear cheering - the unmistakable sound of our fans enjoying the moment. But what moment was it? It was about eight minutes past, yet Bore had scored after four minutes. A late kick-off? Surely not a second goal? Really?! You've got to be joking!
It was confirmed - an early 2-0 lead to the Mariners, and off I went, running down the stairs three at a time, to inform everyone. My girlfriend Nic came back up with me, and there we sat, in my room, listening to the rest of the match, enthralled. We jumped around and celebrated Toner's goal, because 3-0 somehow felt like the win was ours already, despite the frailties our defence had been showing in the previous seven games. 4-0 just before half time was simply awesome, and my celebration of each goal got progressively more aggressive.
Paterson made it five, and then I got a call from my mate Mike, who had made the trip to York Street. "Make that six!" he said. I was slightly confused, because it was still 5-0 according to the commentary. Mike reminded me that he wasn't watching the game with about a 40-second internet delay, so then I enjoyed the surreal experience of listening to a Town goal that I knew was going to happen.
I can also recall - but not in as much detail - where I was and what I was doing when we beat Bristol Rovers 4-3 the next weekend. From then, however, my memory begins to fade as the importance of winning soon paled into insignificance. I don't think there is any doubt in anyone's mind that the 6-0 win at Boston was our season's major turning point. I can't remember the scientific reasons why our brains remember in this way, because I only got a D in my exams. But what I do know is that I can still recall that match in fine detail, and what's more - I know I'll never forget any of it.