Town on the box: El Final

by Rufus Murphy

20 May 2015

While 13,000 of us were chanting "FISH!", Rufus Murphy was on holiday in Andalucia... but did he manage to escape the play-off final?

Benalmádena from above

The first thing to mention is the 'W' word. Not Wembley, not winning, but Wrexham. When I found out, to no surprise, that the play-off final was to be played on the last day of my Spanish holiday, I had my excuse already. Wrexham, bloody Wrexham. Shivering in the cold, watching us hopelessly lose on penalties, as the puddles outside the stadium froze and our shuffling feet slipped as we went away the losers.

Besides, there were the semis to get through too. Eastleigh had been jokers in the pack all season, scoring a lot of goals at one point, I recall noticing as we pored over the league table every week. The league game at home with them was unpleasant too. Eastleigh were the kind of side who could do to us this year what Gateshead did last time around.

Now this may sound cynical, but I've been to the Millennium, Wembley old and new, and been a season ticket holder for more than ten years. Somehow, for once, I thought it might be better not to cancel the holiday, but see if I could find some fellow Mariners among the beach bars of Benalmádena. In the worst-case scenario, I thought I might be able to convert a couple of Sky Premier fans of Man City or Swansea to my point of view, and let me watch the match on a little black and white TV in the toilet, as befits our status and financial clout.

I don't want calamares: I want Harry Haddock. But every bar is showing Man City v Swansea

Benalmádena has a bay strip of bars, shops and restaurants, many of them owned by ex-pat English, and having parked up at my mother-in-law's flat in Gamonal, we were running late as we tried to look relaxed and confident going down the hill past Paloma Park. Someone would have the match on. They must, and please God we don't meet any Rovers supporters.

It's quarter to three. It's lunchtime and the sardines are on the beachside barbeques. Handsome young waiters try to usher you into their eateries, offering menus, not matchday programmes: "Sir, my feesh is the best on the beach".

I don't want calamares: I want Harry Haddock. But every TV in every bar is showing Man City v Swansea. No-one is watching; they are facing away, towards the sea and the bright sunny day beyond. We are Grimsby Town, and we know the heart of darkness.

Bar after bar after bar, their owners know nothing of Grimsby. I climb up to one called the Mariners. Surely, our luck must be in? But no, the smiling helpful English guy has no telly. I want to say: "Shame on you!" but maybe he just bought a bar called the Mariners and I suppose he is just trying to make a living (here's a tip though: get a telly – everyone else has one).

Kindly he takes us next door, where the (Spanish) owner of the next-door bar flicks through the channels on his Movistar set-top box. We are wasting time. I don't even want to look at my watch.

Below on the prom, the guys selling handbags and sunglasses mingle with perspiring tourists, looking for shelter from the dazzling sun as we press on through the crowd. Michael Kors is a popular make of fake among the handbag crowd, it seems. Let me through – I'm a genuine Town fan, in a real Town shirt, searching for something I dare not believe in among the fishy folk of Spain. Holy grail, anyone? No, thanks – we've got one already.

There has to be somewhere, down here among the strong lager and strong sunshine and strong language, where I will find what I'm seeking

By now I know the match has started, and the number of bars left to search is dwindling. There has to be somewhere, down here among the strong lager and strong sunshine and strong language, where I will find what I'm seeking. My anxiety levels are peaking. Someone, somewhere could be 1-0 up by now.

There's a last little section, almost as you get towards the marina. The last time I was there a few years ago, the bars were owned by Spanish, Dutch and Swedish people. The last throw of the dice, and maybe these folks would be just mad as our Norwegian friends and direct me to a hidden secret shrine in an underground bunker.

And just as I was about to give up, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the flash of a TV towards the back of a rather posh-looking Spanish bar. I was becoming despondent, fearing a descent into self-harm, and I wearily glanced over, expecting more of the Prem.

Rufus glances nervously at the screen while enjoying cheaper beer than Wembley's And then something magical happened. The picture resolved itself into men wearing black and white shirts. A table directly in front of the big flat screen beckoned. We sat down and I ordered a beer. I had landed and communed with Wembley. We were one-nil up, Lenny was our saint, and outside in the sun, the waves were crashing and children were laughing.

You can't measure happiness when it comes to Grimsby Town. To some, me included, the notion of GTFC and the concept of happiness are woefully incompatible. But that day, at that time, I was as happy as I ever have been, watching a Town match. Everyone's smiling; "otra mas, por favor," we are saying; we want one more please, one more.

Then disaster, as so often happens. They equalise, and a gradual feeling descends. Tension, foreboding and worry, moments of forlorn hope and injustice, the Town fan's constant companions. And as it turns out, whatever happens after that, mi amigos, turns out to be irrelevant, except for one small detail. They played manfully on, the second half came and went in a blur of otra mas, Craig Clay and swordfish. The inevitable stalemate of extra time happened to be, er, a stalemate.

Then penalties, the hated scenario. By this time the restaurant was empty. It was the hiatus between lunch and dinner, and the five of us, me and the staff, stared intently at the screen, pumped our fists, and cried out in pain when the ball sailed over the bar. Four people who had never seen Grimsby Town play before, Spaniards from the Costa del Sol, were honorary Mariners that day. We cried, we hugged, we shook hands and my pop-up Mariner friends tried to console me, but it was no good.

Walking back up the hill, I hit rock bottom. My wife slapped me hard. "Darling," she said, "you're dreaming of League 2 again."