Cod Almighty | Diary

While waiting for the real thing

27 November 2020

Thunderdiary writes:

Walking down the Grimsby Road. Floodlights are on, chippies and shops busy. Programme seller's breath visible to all as they weave their way in, a palpable spring in their step. Turnstile creaks whilst people queue for tickets, chatting 4-3-3 or 5-3-2? Gloved hands clap, not just for warmth but in anticipation.

The smell of earth. Grass and mud, divided by symmetrical white lines. Pies, Bovril and pints consumed as inaudible murmurings emit from the tannoy. Familiar faces, some framed with names, other anonymous, but you know them. The guy who calls the referee a "pillock’" three times a match, the bloke who lilts "Up and Under!" each time Town kick it out of play from a restart and the favourite: Manboy, the cheeky grown-up urchin who picks up the ball if it goes out of play, offers it to the opposition player and then drops it with impeccable timing.

The idiosyncrasies are in abundance - flasks, blankets, hats and scarves. Reading programmes, counting away fans or just contemplating what might be. The ritual of applauding on the team and it’s close, the first toot of the pillock’s whistle.

"Up and Under!"

Eyes dart, oohs and aahs, shouts of encouragement. "Come on Town!" The invisible string that pulls you up when you think there's a chance, the 3,000 hands on heads when there could - should - have been a goal.

Laughter and cheers as the ball goes over the Ponny or the jeopardy as it rolls down the Main Stand corrugated slope - will it get stuck? Then that noise. The worst noise. One end of the ground cheering in unison at an away goal. It's like the bursting of a balloon at a kids party.

And then we're back, roaring and screaming, berating the linesman, knowing that eventually your taunting will lead to a decision our way. Checking right for the scoreboard as the half time rush builds up, a snake waiting for its sausage rolls and weak tea.

The hiatus is a chance for calm, for analysis and predictions. A better half to come no doubt and then we are applauding the massive nine year old who smashes his way past the other kids to score in the half-time match.

The second 45 is riveting, tackles flying in, chances coming and going, the Pontoon gearing up for a disco. Still the purple penis with the whistle gives us nothing with the team and its fans frustrated as one like a scalded cat. We sense the effect we can have, drive on our team who eventually gives us that unique rush and spasm that only a goal can give you.

Pure unadulterated joy.

The fans and the team sense a victory and off they go, marauding and moving their way through a racked defence. The crowd are on their feet as a player loses their feet and lands on the grass and mud for a penalty kick...

The elation of its awarding is muted as we all prepare to put the ball in the top left corner. Some can't look, others film for posterity.

Yeeaahhaarrgghhhhh!!! The explosion of noise, relief and community is felt around the streets of DN35 and the game is won. The heroes are clapped off as the slow meander out of the ground - beaten by those who gather early at the gate - muses on a hard-fought and utterly deserved victory.

There's a bounce back along Grimsby Road, a fervent mix of Cheshire cats and merry Mariners, drunk on the fumes of football, already looking forward to the next dram.

When that will be is anyone's guess but be certain that these tiers of woe will eventually turn to tears of joy.

Keep the faith.