Cod Almighty | Diary

We take Pete's car, we drive over to Mum's, we go in, take care of Phillip, then we grab Mum, we go over to Liz's place, hole up, have a nice cup of tea and wait for all this to blow over

27 July 2018

Your A46 Diary has been thinking about all the thin ends of all the wedges we've seen over the last few decades: the founding of Premier and Champions Leagues, the devaluing of FA and League Cups, the expansion of the European Championship to 32 teams… all of which have been designed to further the bigger European teams across Europe and globally. All of which affect our club adversely. But the wedge that forces its way deepest into our hearts is perhaps the Football League Trophy, currently better known as the Checkatrade Trophy.

That it's a competition now invalid is hard to argue against. That it's the competition that's still an integral part of us as supporters of GTFC, our hopes, our dreams and our DVD collections, is equally hard to argue against. And now our friends at the other end of the A46 have that same relationship. Sort of. Their win was in a competition which, it's fair to say, is now more than simply tarnished: it is invalid.

But try saying that to the twenty-odd thousand who made their red-and-white-way to Wembley. Certainly it's been difficult working in Lincoln these last few months trying to argue the boycott corner when the people of the city were living through what we lived through back in '98 (although not quite as impressive as our double win, I couldn't help pointing out). When you're winning at Wembley the wedge is pretty much all thick end. At least in the moment.

After the moment it's different. A pragmatic Lincoln fan said to me that now that his team have won it he can boycott it.

That is a tragedy. And it's something through which your A46 Diary and the majority of GTFC supporters now live. Misery loves company and we will accept the Imps into the fold, sobbing our nostalgia into our drink of choice together.

I'm not over-romanticising. I know that as a competition the Football League Trophy has never been anything to anyone until the semi-final stage, but I also know that it's still a national trophy, still something to hold aloft at the national stadium in the spring sunshine. The thin end of this particular wedge is to dismiss it further: no-one cares, so it doesn't matter; no-one would notice if it wasn't held, so it doesn't matter; rather than bring down the independence of clubs like Town and Lincoln, it may simply cease to exist and reduce the fronts on which we fight, so it doesn't matter. It may even help. Less football is de rigueur.

Or it may bring us, our clubs, down. The wedge was illustrated clearly for me when a Guiseley fan once said that if that if the third and fourth tier were to survive then they would have to accept B sides from the Premier League. Have to. No doubt about it. The only future for football is the jellyfish model: big and bulbous at the top, and lots of connected but insubstantial strands that hang into darkness at the bottom.

Of course, the Guiseley fan is really a Liverpool fan who remembered his roots once 'his' team made it to the Conference and played against giants like Grimsby. His reasoning for B teams revolved around the need for bloated academies to get their players some real experience. It was obvious to him that the loan system wasn't working for Liverpool and that the Reds' youngsters' futures needed to be given a higher priority than the likes of Grimsby. Or Lincoln. Not Guiseley though; they'll go back down eventually anyway, so they're not part of the argument.

The only future for football this Guiseley fan could see is the jellyfish model: big and bulbous at the top, and lots of connected but insubstantial strands that hang into darkness at the bottom

Blinkered at the very top and blinkered again not far from the very bottom. I imagined a pair of blinkered drivers on a dual carriageway as the man spoke, his two supporting hats each driving a car (one of which was obviously rather better than the other) down one carriageway. They might occasionally pass but for the most part they drive alone, and the carriageways are separated by a central reservation much wider than he might usually expect. But he was happy to ignore it, meaning, as it did to him, that he never had to think of the two cars together.

The Football League sits between those barriers, overgrown, ignored, polluted, the debris swept along by the traffic, occasionally whipped high enough to be seen (a flash of Barnsley or Swindon red, a glimpse of Wimbledon or Ipswich blue) but for the most part simply scattered among the weeds to twitch and roll and flop, invisible to all but the surrounding fellow flotsam.

It's a bleak vision which few seem to see: a creeping football apocalypse and we're the zombies. If Guiseley fans won't man the barricades then what hope for the rest? There aren't many Officer Ricks in this fight and the wedge is easing its way into our competitions and tournaments. What does the Football League Trophy matter when no-one cares? If it falls will anyone hear? If its insidious influence grows and is accepted, will anyone notice anything awry?

Just like a creeping zombie, we don't realise anything till it's got hold of our fingers, its teeth sinking deep, our skin splitting, our bones cracking and we're watching our very lifeblood drip away. Diluted by its drool, it falls quickly, pooling and spreading, and even as we yank our hands away we know that the wound is too deep, will never heal. And then we have the one choice left to all apocalyptic survivors: join us, or die.

(Or replace your hand with a chainsaw and get 'groovy', but we all know which is more likely.)

It is the thin end of one of many wedges. And as we wait out the final week before the season finally restarts, your A46 Diary can't help but wonder if we're on a countdown. These are the end of days and we're so busy being distracted we don't even know it. Twenty years ago we were as happy as we've ever been as Town fans. Just a few months ago Lincoln might claim the same. But for the pragmatists it will eventually sink in: you haven't won if the opponent didn't try their best. Is it inevitable that it will spread? Is it what we will 'have' to do if we are to survive? Is it what we want in our league games? The answers feel impossible, but the hope has to remain. Keep the boycott.

In the short term, however, the team is looking very much sans-zombie. I attended the Doncaster friendly on Tuesday night and was delighted with what I saw: energy all over the pitch, passing play, a keeper still in fine fettle, a giant at the back, a stalwart in the middle, a clever young man up top and a slab of a Spaniard who's going to scare the willies out of fourth-division defenders. Max and Harry have told us how pleased they are to be part of the first team.

We've got a full weekend of GTFC action: we're at Gainsborough Trinity tomorrow, where you can pay on the gate and the fabulous pies alone are worth the trip; and it's the open day at Blundell Park (turnstiles open at 11am) on Sunday where you'll be able to partake in all things inflatable, meet the squad and watch a first-team training session. Sounds rather geek-tastic – anoraks on for that one!

So forget the wedges, thin and thick, forget the future, don't be too sad about the past, and think of now; go along to Blundell Park on Sunday – your A46 Diary will there, come say hello – and enjoy the moment, the season and the football. Ignore that sound of wheezing, hollow non-breaths; ignore that twitch in your finger as if you expect something to bite. We've got now and we've got a good team with quality, energy and local lads all pulling together to give us the hope for the chance to rise above those central reservation weeds and give the world a glimpse of black and white.