Cod Almighty | Article
by Chris Mills
9 November 2006
A friend of mine was the mascot for one of Grimsby's finest hours in recent decades: the first of the two Wembley trips in 1998. It was a dream come true, the proudest day of his life, having supported the Mariners since a young age. Now, nearly ten years on, he doesn't even go to the games any more.
Another of my mates was also an avid Town fan - a season ticket holder, no less - throughout his early childhood and then school years. Now he would much rather go fishing than watch Town, home or away.
Walking away from Blundell Park, ten minutes before the final whistle and yet another home defeat, I also begin to question the point of it all. The roads are quiet, pavements bare, future bleak. Are we growing up or are Grimsby Town growing old?
Take yourselves back, close your eyes and remember. It's 1 September 2001 and a Phil Jevons goal has just beaten Barnsley and lifted Grimsby to the top of the world: first place in the Football League. We sang and danced in the streets; no-one could quite believe it.
Seventeen games in to the 2006-07 season and with only sixteen points recorded in the basement division, we already find ourselves gasping for air, far too close to the drop zone, the biggest drop of them all. And with a second change of management in the space of six months.
The last five years may have been football's equivalent of the proverbial kick in the balls, with far more lows than occasional highs - but let's be honest: we'd all seen it coming. Not since the best of times under Alan Buckley has a Grimsby Town team consistently performed and consistently captured the hearts and minds of a town, of a generation.
Those were our glory days. The sun always seemed to be shining, the skies always blue. Blundell Park was exciting, smiles were broad, the weekends had meaning. Everybody owned and wore a Town shirt, with pride. Kids playing footy in the local park pretended to be Mendonca and Bonetti. We grew up being told stories by our dads and grandads about McMenemy, Brace and Boylen. My uncle still claims Matt Tees was the greatest ever header of a ball. He may well be right.
Nowadays the clouds are grey, storms are forming. BP is tired and worn, little more than a refuge for the dysfunctional youth of today: chavs dressed in trackies, Henry Lloyd, Hackett or Chelsea shirts. They don't know what it means to support Grimsby but they pay their money, they take their chance.
Nobody really looks forward to Saturday afternoons any more, do they? Not in Grimsby anyway.
We could blame everyone if we liked - every manager, every player, every referee - but it wouldn't get us any further than we've already got. Which isn't very far at all. A last-day survival, two successive relegations, mid-table disappointment and a play-off defeat. The boring Lawrence years, plucky Groves era, awful Law days, frustrating Slade seasons and short but far from sweet stint of Graham Rodger. The highlights have shone dimly, in patchy fog. Liverpool away, staying up in 2002, Michael Boulding's goals, Georges Santos, Andy Todd, Phil Jevons, Tottenham at home, both legs in the play-off semi against Lincoln.
But when we soared to the top of the table in September 2001 we dreamed of the Premiership and had no worries. We were carefree. Today they seem distant memories as non-League football becomes a very real prospect for the first time. Today we merely dream of staying up in the country's worst division. Ninety minutes seems double the length it used to. The football is poor, the atmosphere worse. Matchday at BP feels like a chore. We turn up, we pay our money, we go through the motions, we leave.
Believe it or not, my favourite season of the last five years was the 2002-03 campaign under player-boss Paul Groves. OK, we were getting beat by Forest, Wolves and Sheff Utd - but we were getting beat in the second flight. We were getting beat but creating chances and playing good football; we were getting beat but never giving in. Because of this we also raised a few eyebrows and rolled over a few teams: Ipswich, Burnley, Stoke. I watched in awe of Coyne, Pouton, Santos, Jevons, Boulding - even Mansaram. Boyhood heroes.
I wanted to be there, I wanted to be them. Now I watch and wish I was elsewhere; I watch and, for the first time, I dislike.
Judging by Town's plunging attendance figures, I'm not the only one. The drop in support over the last five months under Rodger expresses the view that he was the wrong appointment at the wrong time. The club talks of new stadiums, new players and new eras, ignoring the present, very real financial difficulties and the supporters they are painfully driving away. Without the present, there will be no future. Conference football is exactly that.
The light may well be starting to fade at the end of the tunnel. Even as Buckley returns, things will have to get worse before they even think about getting better. How did that banner over the road read when he took us to Wembley in '98? Last one out, switch off the lights. This time round the lights could be out for good.