Cod Almighty | Article

by Jesse Guittard

4 December 2003

I stepped out of my Baron's Court flat only to be greeted by a blast of rain and cold wind. It was real English football weather. Hailing from San Francisco, California, I could relate to the weather but couldn't begin to understand the experience of a true English football match.

But today all of that was about to change. From over the sea I had heard of Manchester United, Arsenal, Beckham, and all of those pop football starlets. It wasn't until I came to work in the UK that I had ever heard the name Grimsby Town. One of my colleagues from work, a former Town commentator, is a diehard Mariners fan and thoroughly inundated me with all sorts of websites about the team. So when he invited me to attend their nearby match against Brentford with some of his friends, I was halfway prepared. 

Does he know what he's letting himself in for?After two transfers on the tube, I met them at Waterloo station and we caught the train out to Brentford. On the train, between conversations about the upcoming match, I tried to picture the stadium, the players and the fans, as one always does before embarking on a new experience. But there was only one thing I could be sure of: it would be cold and wet.

Stepping off the train, I immediately felt the size of Brentford. Lacking the hustle and bustle of London, Brentford felt small and personal. Even though I was in 'enemy territory,' I felt like the town welcomed me as a visitor and could feel the townspeople's affinity to their home. Refusing to use the umbrella I brought, in order to gain respect from my soaked companions, we headed off through the rain to a local pub where other Grimsby fans had assembled to enjoy a pre-game pint. I had myself a Guinness, chatted with all of the guys at the bar, and tried to get an idea of the team's dynamics.

It was a wonderful mix of all ages, with everyone in great spirits and happy to educate 'the American' about the upcoming match. One of the regulars, it turned out, had not shown up that day and so there was a free ticket up for grabs. After some discussion I was chosen to be the benefactor of the homeless ticket since I was a guest and a first-time Grimsby fan. With a big smile on my face, I sat there absorbing the musty smell of the wet bar, the sweet bitterness of my Guinness and the laughs of my new Grimsby mates. With 15 minutes until kick-off, I gulped down the last of my Guinness and we headed off through the rain to the stadium.

Guided by the distant floodlights, we eventually found our way to the front gates. It was a rush of action as people crammed their way through the narrow turnstile and poured into the small stadium. Opting to be true to the mood, we purchased tickets for the Grimsby standing section. One attendant was astonished to sell a ticket to one of our friends who wore only a thin jacket and T-shirt, asking him: "You know that the standing area is uncovered?"

Once inside the stadium, I bought a programme and immediately began flipping through the pages in order to find the names and numbers of the Grimsby players. Caught up in my read, I was led over to the snack shop where I was treated to a hot chicken balti pie. A completely disorganised mess, I juggled my pack, my programme, and my pie in my hands and headed out into the Grimsby section. 

The first thing I noticed when emerging into the stadium was the swimming pools located in the corners of the field. This would surely add some excitement to any plays in the corners, as the ball stopped dead as soon as it entered into the swamp. Then, as if from nowhere, Grimsby emerged onto the pitch. Wearing their greys, they looked solid and ready for whatever lay ahead. The small contingent of Grimsby fans at the match began to cheer as they took the field, creating quite a ruckus for such a small group. Their cheers were quickly drowned out, though, as soon as Brentford took to the field and the stadium came alive with cries for the home team. 

As the teams warmed up, I fumbled through my programme to pick out the starting players and asked around about who was who and how they played. After getting a few names and faces in my head, the teams took their sides and the game began. Immediately, Brentford took control of the match, pushing deep into Grimsby's defence. 

Ten minutes later the tide had not changed and the groans from my section did little to restore my confidence. Brentford were controlling the game. By booting the ball far downfield and keeping it in the air, Brentford were able to constantly control play. And though they showed little evidence of their ability to work the ball around the box, they were able to constantly threaten the goal with crosses. It was only a matter of time before they scored, and destiny arrived in the form of a handball, which allowed Brentford to score on a penalty kick. After much jeering and heckling of the referee, the Town fans settled down and were able to focus back on the game. It was clear that Grimsby had to change their game to have any hope of winning the match.

A flash of hope sparked on two occasions when Boulding fired a heavy right-footed shot on goal and Crane narrowly missed on a header. These tries put the life back into the soaking Grimsby contingent who began to yell against the massive surge of Griffin Park stadium. With the half drawing to a close, it began to look like we were going to have to bear the half-time weight of being down 1-0. Onuora, though, spared the Town fans from this fate after heading a cross into the corner of the net to even the match just before the close of the half. 

After the whistle blew and the teams made their way back into the locker rooms, we were left only to think about the cold rain. Long gone was my warm chicken balti pie and there wasn't a dry spot left on my entire body. With no game to keep us occupied we just conversed idly with our heads down, trying to keep the rain off our faces. Those were some very long minutes.

At the start of the second half, Grimsby came out with a fury. Rather than playing the match according to Brentford's style, Grimsby opted to settle the ball, bring it out of the air, and possess it despite the stormy conditions. This allowed them the luxury of control and they were able to work the ball around the field with passes and well placed chips. However, though the tide of possession had changed, there were very few tries at goal by either team. As the second half drew on, it seemed as if the match would end in a draw. But I was not so quick to succumb to this perceived destiny and began reassuring the Town fans around me that there was still hope, by screaming my head off. 

And all of a sudden, with about ten minutes left, Cas stole the ball on a Brentford attack and began moving downfield. Advancing the ball past two defenders, the strikers sprinted up the field after him as he worked into the corner. With nobody around, Cas made a desperate pass behind him to Boulding at the top of the box, who one-touched the ball toward the corner of the net... goal. "Goal!!!" A cry erupted from the Grimsby section, eventually morphing into the words "We only sing when we're fishing." Unable to contain myself, I rushed through the stands to the corner where the players were celebrating. Packing myself against the fence with the other fans, I forgot about the rain as I cheered. 

The third goal after Crane's chip to Boulding only added fuel to the fire of the Grimsby fans who sang and shouted at the masses of Brentford fans flooding out of the stadium. A conga line broke out among the fervour, and everyone laughed and cheered. It may sound a bit corny but it was at that moment, after slapping fives with the other fans, that I felt as much at home as when I cheer for my own teams out of San Francisco. Leaving the stadium freezing in my soaked clothes, I couldn't keep the smile off of my face. 

I already have plans to make a trip out to Peterborough for the match this weekend. If you're there, listen for a wild American voice yelling and singing. GO TOWN!