Cod Almighty | Article

by Simon Wilson

3 December 2002

At the moment I woke up on Saturday, I could feel that the day ahead was going to resemble some other-worldly dream. The night before I forgot to set the alarm clock for an hour later than my weekday rise from slumber. At 6:30 I'm startled into my weekend by the cacophonous Radio One; I hit the off button and wander in and out of consciousness - afraid I'll miss out on my intended 7:30 get-up, and yet loath to skimp on some sleep. I eventually slump heavy-footed down the stairs - my head, contrastingly, feeling like it is full of helium.

Pull the newspaper from the snapping letterbox, open the door to let the cats (and a breeze of cold) in, put the kettle on, feed the cats. Without thinking. Domesticity has programmed me well. I shower and shave, shake off the stupor induced by a week of mind-numbing work; I dress, eat my breakfast; I wish Sonya a good day; I'm on the way down the street. Five minutes later I'm at the bus stop wishing I'd gone for the assured warmth of the brown cord duffel coat rather than the flimsy leather jacket. The relative calm of this nibbling inland breeze is going to be no preparation for the biting harshness of the east coast conditions. Too late to run back now. I just grin and bear it.

During the two-and-a-half-hour journey from my house to Grimsby Town train station, I flick through the paper, peer out over the fields drifting past and my mind drifts away to the game.

During the past decade Town and Leicester have been perceived as opposites. Memories are evoked of a crisp winter evening in late 1993, standing by the halfway line in the Lower Findus and seeing the two teams scrap out a 0-0 draw. Brian Little? Mark McGhee? Whichever bright young manager was in charge of the Foxes, they had decent support from their financiers and from their fans (at home games anyway - I think there were only 150 stood on the Osmond that evening). Town were managed by Alan Buckley, with miserly financial support and clinging on (with Peterborough and Southend) against a number of teams with big-time pretentions. That season Leicester managed to scrape their way into the Premiership through the play-offs.

This elevation has led them through the roller-coaster of relegation and the rewards of unearthing and sticking with a shrewd and stubborn manager, a man raised on solid, tradtionalist footballing principles - Martin O'Neill. An allegiance not too unlike Town's with Buckley. After O'Neill took them up, Leicester became a mainstay of the top flight until the turmoil ignited by his departure to Celtic.

Concurrently, Town went through the tumultuous lows of the Laws era - ending in the ineluctable relegation - then the rise again under Alan Buckley, to the precipice with Lennie Lawrence, and last season's anomalous escape under rookie manager Paul Groves. Town's survival and Leicester's decline brought them to Saturday's encounter with diligence required from both sides. Leicester were in the hunt for the points that would keep them near the peak of the table, fearful that another season in this division would be the end of them. Town were in the hunt for the points that would keep them above the relegation places, fearful that another season not in this division would be the end of them. The £30 million overdraft versus the £500,000 overdraft; the two clubs stripped of money from two separate TV deals.

Before the game the selling of the Fans' Day tickets gets under way. Lining up next to Sing When We're Fishing's Jim Connor, we banter; I offer flyers to passers-by - half-dead expressions etched onto their faces - explaining why we're doing the day; I holler, "Fans' Day tickets here!" And the TV cameras are here, the TV cameras are in my face - the TV cameras that have driven Town to the position they are in. And because of them I have been reduced to what is effectively begging the fans to dig further into their pockets. As they pass, some take the leaflets gratefully; others are apathetic, either fingering the paper with bewilderment or blanking my existence. The rest show unbridled enthusiasm and generosity. But it is me who is pleading for their support; it is me and my friends who are trying to help the club garner sponsorship money for a game against a club - Bradford - that has gone beyond the situation Leicester and Grimsby find themselves in. Part of me wants to hijack the camera and put this across. Another part of me feels it should be those behind the cameras doing the scrounging.

I have to keep taking darting glances at my watch. There's a game to get into. And at 2:55 I scurry for the turnstile.

The teams stream out of the tunnel. A hop and spring for Coyne as he bounds on for his pre-kick off bounce in the goalmouth. The Taggarts and Elliots carry the look of ruthless assassins here to pick off another minor kill. And within seconds of the kick off Town are on the back foot, the blue-shirted players looking for the opening to have a crack at goal. After a shot from Muzzy Izzet rebounds, Callum Davidson feels he has sight. His blast crashes into John McDermott and careers off into the air. Coyne - seemingly having used all his bounce moments earlier - barely manages to tip the ball from dropping under the bar. Unfortunately it's a weak tip, down to the feet of two despairing lunges from Town defenders who are grounded as Jamie Scowcroft ambles in and taps the ball in from close range. They barely had to engineer it. Town contrived to create it for them.

Embittered by this early wounding, Town were stirred, like a weak child rallying against a bully. The running became more feverish, the tackling more stern, a brutish aspect of Town surfacing to battle against the thuggish - and canny - pulls and pushes of an experienced Leicester side. But like the big bully, Leicester just took a few little slaps and then dished out a few punches of their own. Paul Dickov nipped about up front stamping along the backline, abetted by the quicksilver Trevor Benjamin. Izzet marshalled a fascinating midfield duel against a tigerish Alan Pouton.

In possession, Leicester teased. Just when it looked like Town would get the ball, Leicester passed it onto the next player, drawing the Town player in, sapping them of energy and confidence. Invariably, Leicester found themselves in the last third, the offside flag saving a weary central defence from several darting runs when wayward finishing couldn't. If they couldn't get through, the men in blue fell to the ground and - legit or otherwise - the referee blew in the visitors' favour. The ref worked his way around every stand, riling the supporters nearby, a tour de farce. Apt given the colour of the officials' shirts...

In the Pontoon it didn't just take the referee to rile some fans. Several racist remarks rang down - ironically on the day the Mariners were unable to field any of their black players. The quiescent reaction from the nearby steward was as forebodingly predictable as the sympathising laughter that accompanied the asinine shouts.

Town had a couple of moments - only fleeting glimpses, but glimpses nonetheless. And for all their possession, Leicester had not extended their lead. Town had dug in and for all their taunting possession Leicester failed to stamp their superiority onto the scoreline. The dread that swelled before the game of an organised, efficient team pulling Town apart rose sharply as the goal went in. But where the team normally displays chinks in the armour, it held steadfast. Tony Gallimore was putting in another sturdy performance reinforced by Darren Barnard in front of him. Stuart Campbell showed some presence down the right and shielded McDermott, who brought authority from right-back.

As the whistle blew for half time - unusual for it not to coincide with a Leicester player falling over - a few half-hearted boos emanated from unidentifiable pockets of the stands, addressed, one hopes, at the whistle-blower. The mood of ominous dread was lifting as the rains started to pour heavier - there was a hope that maybe Town could nick something from this.

The second half started as if the players hadn't been away, Leicester continuing to chip away at Town. After three minutes Town managed to engineer the ball to Barnard down the left, who faced a one-on-one with Frank Sinclair, running towards the Pontoon. The crowd bayed for a cross. Barnard toyed with Sinclair, a jerk suggesting he was going to cut inside, but Barnard suddenly clipped the ball outside the defender. Sinclair was flat-footed and stranded, his only resort to grab Barnard. The whistle blew. In Town's favour. The crowd cheered. Sinclair looked incredulous and offered the referee some vociferous advice. The referee was cheerless at this gesture and booked Sinclair. Sinclair exploded; his arms flailed about, his mouth barking at the referee like a rabid dog, eventually retreating with shakes of his head.

Town wasted the free kick and Leicester instantly broke out, storming upfield, where the ball was shuttled to Dickov who wasted a glorious chance. While Coyne received the ball from a ballboy, the Lower Stones suddenly erupted and Sinclair was turning away from the linesman, the referee sprinting over. A quick chat with the linesman and the referee didn't hesitate in offering Sinclair some advice of his own: "Leave the pitch behind you and take a walk to the dressing room." Sinclair's reaction to his earlier booking was tame compared to the one that ensued this time. Several Town players had to help hold back Sinclair, who made sure the referee knew what he thought before he trooped off.

Coyne took the delayed goal kick and eventually Campbell made inroads down the right as Alan Rogers came scything through the ex-Leicester man. The temperature was rising - clearly my choice of jacket was down to some subliminal clairvoyance. From this free kick Town piled on the pressure, winning a flurry of corners. Now it was Town's turn to bully the big boys. From the fifth corner, the ball was cleared back to from where it was delivered and Pouton lofted in a teasing cross. John Oster - until now a frustrating myriad of ineffectual hip swivels and twisting - nipped in and gently glanced the ball past Ian Walker. And we went wild. Wild for the goal.

Oster was buoyed up and Town took control, the team playing off each other. A couple of (overly optimistic) penalty shouts; Campbell driving just too far in front of the despairing slide of Barnard; and a swerver of a shot from Stacy Coldicott. The crowd was loud, the crowd was proud. A break from Leicester saw Coldicott slide through Stewart by the touchline and Elliot met the free kick with a perfect low volley from just inside the area. Just wide. Suddenly the only noise was from the Osmond. And this seemed to lift the players in blue. The referee-fuelled hostility proved to be alarmingly brittle.

Leicester worked the ball through midfield and out to the right. Impey scrabbled with Barnard for the ball, pounced as it broke loose, took a step forward, headed down, and the ball was whipped in from the right. A second later and amongst the din of the Osmond Stand a blur of white rose above the ground. And kept rising. The ball arched in, met by the gleaming blur. A despairing dive from Coyne was a token gesture. The Leicester fans broke into unexpected roars of pure delight. And Town - the fans and the players - looked shell-shocked. A goal good enough to win any game. And in breaking the deadlock it probably would. People stared, huffed, and shook their heads disbelievingly. And the drips from the Pontoon roof momentarily increased in tempo. I just grinned and bore it. Town's scrapping wiped out by a moment of magic.

As Town pressed for a second equaliser, Leicester probed forward with ample space for their front line to maraud into, and they could have scored twice. Losing, let alone conceding more goals, would have been rough justice on a battling performance but nobody ever said football was a fair game.

The two clubs' debts were reflected on the pitch. Leicester's has been accumulated buying well coached players with experience and, in places, no shortage of skill. For Town the lack of depth to the squad and the limited experience on the bench possibly points at a way forward. Many clubs will have to concentrate on nurturing and developing players like David Soames while feeding off the scraps from 'bigger' clubs - players like Stuart Campbell, who Town picked up from Leicester. But those players who can turn a game, those players that can win a game with a moment of magic will always be bought by those clubs who are willing to spend the cash, regardless of the division they play in. Players like Izzet. A team of unexceptional footballers, no matter how organised they are, will always be undone by that moment of magic.

But no slight upon Leicester - they work hard for each other; they build a base for players to flash that magic. Micky Adams is doing a fine job of restoring his reputation as a highly promising manager. He is doing what many managers in this day and age can't - he can work within very limited means and puts the likes of Trevor Francis in their place. In that way he is very similar to Town's Paul Groves - hands firmly tied by financial binds.

The sight of Ian Walker in goal reminded me of a 'players' wives' documentary shown on television about four years ago. Walker's wife Suzy was the epitome of the trophy blonde footballer's wife, lavishing a fortune on such necessities as her dog, her car, her wardrobe, and on becoming a pop star. At the time, Walker was a regular in the England squads and the number one at Spurs. Now he is reduced to playing in the first division for a club whose future isn't certain. One of the other spouses profiled was Jason Lee's, enduring a life that was a far cry from the pampered excess enjoyed by Mr and Mrs Walker. One of Lee's temporary ports of call during the filming of that documentary was Blundell Park. Will the current squeezing of finance in football create more families like the Lees?

And so the final whistle blows and I pick up my bag and walk across the Pontoon. I eventually slump heavy-footed down the steps - my head, contrastingly, feeling like it is full of helium. Ending the match how I started the day. Startled into reality.