Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Miles Moss

1 March 2005

Rochdale 2 Grimsby Town 0

The omens were good: it took less than half an hour to drive to Rochdale from Manchester, and we found a parking space right outside the ground. No, I mean right outside the ground. It was such a good position that I had to check for road markings and restrictions signs twice before locking up. The queue for tickets was short, and there was a pub at one corner of the ground for a quick pre-match pint.

Town must have been full of confidence after beating Yeovil, and a quick phone call from my Spotland contact confirmed that Rochdale had been terrible on Saturday - the sort of terrible that made him say the word twice in a row for emphasis. Even the weather looked promising. It was cold, but there was no chance of another deluge to force a second abandonment. A Town win then, surely...

Ah, but I was forgetting the lack of strikers - Reddy, Gritton, and even Danny North injured. We were just wondering what a front line of Jones and Hockless would look like when a mobile phone sitting next to us announced the starting eleven. Ha, ha! Reddy and Gritton up front! Slade has pulled a Buckley, telling everyone that his key players are dead, only to have them miraculously resurrected on match day! Ha, ha!

We made our way through the tunnel out into the cold air just as the teams emerged from the other side, the announcer seemingly asking the crowd to welcome our arrival. Good evening, Spotland! It was a bit nippy, so they got the game started pretty sharpish. Oh yeah, the line-up. Town's cast list for the evening was: Williams, McDermott, Whittle, Forbes, Ramsden, Crowe, Fleming, Coldicott, Parkinson, Gritton, Reddy. The subs were Pinault, Soames, Crane, Jones, and Hockless.

Formations are not my strong point, but I'm reliably informed that they were 4-4-2-ing it, with 'Ron' Ramsden at left-back, Parky left wing, and the two previously dead strikers up front together. Forbes had his tights on again. Playing for Grimsby, he could at least wear fishnets.

First half
One of the teams kicked off, and the ball remained in play for about two seconds. This may be a record. The ball was thrown back into play, and immediately, Rochdale decided to try and put it into Town's goal. A strong and fast move culminated in a dangerous-looking snappy shot which thankfully Williams clutched to his chest.

Crowe went on a good run, but a Dale block led to yet another scary attack, the shot being totally rugbified over the bar. Looks as if the Rochdale players have had a right old telling-off after Saturday.

Hang on, it's not all one-sided. Reddy executed an excellent cheeky turn and run, the ball being snaffled by the keeper just before he got to it. Close, but no large tobacco-based reward.

Eeek! It's back in Town's box - from a Dale free kick, the ball disappears into a heaving mass of bodies, pings about a bit, and is then pumped out by Crowe's spudgun foot. Phew. Town seem a tad rattled. Their passing has become a bit speculative. It's not long-ball hoofing; it just seems a bit panicky, like when you're protecting a 1-0 lead in the 89th minute. Come on, Town, deep breaths, calm down.

And in between the jittery clearance stuff, there are some great moves. A shocking blue goal kick goes straight to Reddy, who tries to make something of it, but is as surprised as everyone else, and can't make anything of it. On another day, he would have had that one, thanks very much.

Another good move and run by Parky peters out, then shortly afterwards, Fleming starts something by pickaxing the ball from out of a big ruck, and a smart move involving Reddy and Macca ends with the cross being headed out for a corner.

Hooray! Pinault comes off the bench! Boo! It's because Reddy is knackered already, a mere 15 minutes in. Hurray! Another substitution prompts the biggest noise of the night so far from the Mariners section of the crowd, as Gallimore comes on for Rochdale. There are cheers and jeers, and a torrent of alcohol-related jibes which old Tone takes in good, ahem, spirit, giving his old pals a wave and genuine smile.

Ooh, hello - Parky at pace… he beats one defender… beats another defender… excellent - I never did get to see his wonderwinner against Yeovil… ah, damn, he gets tackled and loses it.

It's all Rochdale for the next five minutes: a disallowed goal which Williams didn't even move for, and then two well-taken saves for which he did.

At this point on New Year's Day, the heavens opened. Dark clouds appeared now, as well, but only metaphorically. You could see it coming, and moments later you could see it arrive: a Dale throw-in, a half-arsed clearance, a flicked-on header falling perfectly onto Rickie Lambert's boot for him to spank a 20-yard volley past Williams' outstretched left hand and into the far side of the goal. A cracking shot, but give him the chance again tenfold, and I'm not convinced he could repeat the feat once.

A minute later and the ball's in Town's net again, this time disallowed for a push. Doesn't stop the soundman pumping out another quick blast of Tom Hark though. Was he trying to make a point to the ref?

Town aren't beaten yet. A header from a Macca-won free kick slo-mos to their keeper; a brilliant Pinault/Crowe combo forces Gilks to tip over the bar at full stretch; and a quite brilliant Pinault pass and Parky run sees the latter just forced wide and into a weak shot. Got us all on our feet though.

Tricky Mr Bertos runs right through the Town defence, but fortunately his shot turns into a skier. It goes over the bar, I mean; it doesn't metamorphosise into Franz Klammer. Oh dear, Stace's passing makes it look like he's wearing clown shoes. Never mind, Pinault's got it again and... ooh, another easy one for Gilks. Come on Town, stop being so nice to him.

Now Fleming's in a tussle with a Dale player. Big lad, who's that...? Holt? I hadn't noticed he was playing. He was supposed to be injured too. Hey, and Cooksey, and he's on the bench! Damn, Parkin knows the old Buckley Jedi mind trick as well.

Another slo-mo "nooooo!" moment, as a deflected shot loops high over the stationary Williams, our (in numerical terms only) number one watching serenely as the ball arcs over his bar. AGH! Hang on, make that 'as it hits his bar' and bounces back into play. Oh boyo. And then a minute later he shows us the meaning of irony as he supermans a cross out with one fist.

And then the cards started. Crowe booked for something I didn't see; Ramsden for hauling back a Dale right wing break. Let's get ready to grumble, let's get ready to grumble: a few poor passes in the Town midfield, and the moans increase in volume, and yes - at 20:32 hours, we have the first barking: "Sort it Slade!" Ten points for volume, zero for originality.

The half ended to a chorus of boos. Gallimore misheard and sidled over for a quick snifter. Everyone seemed to be dischuffed, forgetting the several good moves which punctuated the nervous chancey stuff.

Half-time toilet talk
"He couldn't make it - he had to wait in for an organic veg delivery."
"Perhaps he should wear them over his head."
"The football's not great, but the tunes are brilliant."

Second half
Well spotted, that man: my neighbour Mike instantly notices that there is a 12-foot tall player on the pitch, Jones having come on for Crowe. But before I can congratulate his attention to detail, our attention is drawn to Parkinson, once again making a good darting run... ach, and once again finishing with a weak shot.

Uh-oh, out come more cards. Une carte jaune for Pinault this time, reward for a committed - but fair, of course - sliding tackle on the left touchline. We've had a few cards; I might even have forgotten one or two, but I don't think Rochdale have had any at this stage, not even when Evans tackles Gritton by ruffling his hair, or when a Town defender is brought down on the far side of the pitch WWE style. Smackdowwwwn! And then there's a bit of a fracas in the far corner, surely a blue will get a yellow now... but no.

We're up on our feet again: finally Stace gets a pass on target after a run down the left wing; in the box, Gritton backheels marvellously to set up Parky, whose good shot is saved well. We applaud. I've got one thick glove on and a pen in the other hand so my clapping sounds rubbish.

Another poor Dale goal kick, another Town chance, another Town corner. The corner is met by Gritton, I think, with a strange balletic overhead backheel. You want to borrow Terrell's tights?

The snow starts to fall - too little and too late for another abandonment - as again a Rochdale player gets all Giant Haystacks on Whittle's ass, landing him back first on the Spotland turf. Good Lord! The Rochdale player gets booked for it too! I can't tell you who, but do you really care? I can give you details of the next card though - straight red for Wayne Evans, naughtily handling a Town through ball just outside of the Dale area to thwart a decent chance.

Now they've only got ten men, the win will come, surely. Then again, you know what they say about playing against ten men. And you know what? 'They' are right. All nine, now, blue shirts were in the box as Pinault took the resulting free kick, and the pattern had been set. From now on Rochdale defended as a team, and did it quite well, damn their eyes, with the occasional break from Holt and Tait.

Reports of David Soames' death had also been greatly exaggerated, it seems, as he replaced Macca with, er... an unspecified period of time to go (my notebook doesn't say). Soames looked fit enough - he ran around quickly, at least. I imagine Town changed to three at the back, and stuff as well, y'know, like they do.

Anyway, shortly afterwards, possibly the easiest chance Town had in the half fell to Monsieur Pinault: another cracking move saw him shoot from the left hand side of the box, past the keeper... and agonisingly past the keeper's left post.

More agony: Town, now with so much space, kept giving the ball away gift-wrapped to Rochdale; it really wasn't their night. Finally, Ramsden - who had been waving his arms about like he was trying to attract a passing merchant ship from his desert island - gets the ball, free on the left. He passes to Parky, Parky makes a great run, but is stopped by a big fat brick wall of a thudding tackle - a fair one, and a good one.

Dale attack twice more: the second time referee Prosser decides to stop play with their player ready to pull the trigger, enraging the home support. You know you've got a dodgy ref when neither set of supporters likes him.

Did I say Pinault had the best chance of the second half? What about this then: Gritton, four yards out, a pinpoint pass to his feet, no, behind his feet, hair-tearingly nicked away from his heels as he tried to get into position. Prosser's at it again - Soames this time the recipient of his now dog-eared yellow for "looking at me in a funny way".

Parky darting again, good position, a cross which drifts with the snowflakes over the bar. Unlucky, Parky. No? No, say the hoarse beasts around me. Oh, apparently Town are "rubbish" and "a disgrace". Yes, thanks chaps, very helpful. Perhaps this will shut you up - down the right, Soames to Parkinson, a great cross, a header... wide. Sit down, Grimsby.

So many chances they forbore to fleece, and then the sucker punch. With Town on the attack again, Dale break, Holt passes to Gary Jones in the middle, kerboom. Two-nil. And out go the Town 'fans' to the rousing tune of "Slade out! Slade out!" I would call these 'supporters' morons, but it would be unfair to morons.

In truth, Town weren't bad. I left feeling none of that terrible angst I've felt when leaving lots of matches. Yes, they looked a bit scrappy; yes, some of the passing was a bit hopeful, a bit random; but they had plenty of chances. Teams are often said to be 'lacking something in the final third'. Tonight, Town lacked something only in the final sixth. If we had a Lincolnshire poacher - or if... hey, there's no point beating ourselves with the 'if' stick. We were unlucky. Play the same 90 minutes again, and we might draw, we might win. But tonight, Matthew, Rochdale won, and they deserved it. On another day...

One thing's for sure though: there's no point slagging off the players and the manager, and leaving the ground early.

Man of the match
Tricky one, this, as everyone in their way did great stuff and then followed it up with something appalling. It should be everyone and no-one. The default setting, therefore, is John McDermott, for being John McDermott.

Official warning
Prosser. You've read it all here before, and it's still true. He's a strange man. He's got issues. He's got a yellow card and he's going to use it. He's got a score of 1.0 off me.