“Whatever pun you see fit.”
Clearly there can be only one topic of discussion as I write; indeed, were it not for the rather-too-soon and impending arrival of league leaders Watford, I could have talked about the ‘Best Derby Game For Years’ (as it’s becoming known) all week.
Just before that though, your humble author would like to say what a delight it is to finally be able to simply talk about a football match again, instead of engaging in pointless speculation about the manager/board/ex-manager/attitude of certain players/survival/this list is too long now so I’ll stop.
My first derby in seven years (I’ve been in Scotland, dontcha know?) was not what I could call eagerly-awaited.
The usual pre-match butterflies seemed to have been bullied out of my stomach by a raging hornet who, once his territory was secure, had invited all his most angry relatives round for tea and cake.
The highly-sensible quotes coming from Glenn Roeder had eased my deepest fears slightly, and I genuinely believed before the morning in question that new manager syndrome gave us a good chance of a result.
‘Twas only at eleven o’clock that I suddenly remebered that we’d lost our last fifty-eight games and considered any shot which didn’t go out for a throw-in as a gilt-edged opportunity.
Things were no better in the ground. Their lot were taking predictable enjoyment from reminding us of our current predicament (a note to any passing Town fans – we did eventually get the message. Maybe you could think of more than one way to say it next time?).
The team came out, looking much like before save for Martin ‘ooh, he’s quite big isn’t he?’ Taylor. Still no Lee Croft, still playing a seventy-year-old front pair.
Roeder was introduced, and proceeded to wave his fist at each section of the crowd in what was surely meant to be a gesture of passion and encouragement, but which looked slightly like your dad getting embarrasingly enthusiastic when you get the last two minutes for your school team after three months on the bench (me, bitter? Not at all).
And then, something incredible happened. The match started… and we looked lively. We won an early corner, we had a good chance, we passed the ball, we moved when not passing the ball. The first five minutes were entirely in the Ipswich half.
Hucks confirmed what we all thought by miraculously remembering how to run at people after three months of standing, looking bored and giving the ball away.
Luke Chadwick was busy on the right, Darel Russell was making interception after interception… then Ipswich scored.
A devastatingly simple goal from Alan ‘twelve-bellies’ Lee after a long punt and simple lay-off.
But just as my brain was kicking in, reminding me that this was what to expect, something else amazing happened. Our fans started clapping, and roaring, and singing the team on, almost like they wanted them to win.
I was nearly in tears, it was that beautiful a moment. Somehow, from somewhere, belief had appeared.
Dave Marshall made a great save a shortly afterwards, before Ipswich were denied what looked from where I was (right in front of it) a stonewall penalty.
And then, following another great stop, they scored again. Took the wind out of us a bit more, did that one, but stone me if we didn’t still keep trying.
Half-time felt surreal – it didn’t seem possible we were losing 2-0 after playing so well – but for five minutes at the start of the second half, the crowd were quiet, the players subdued, and it felt like normal service was resumed.
Our goal happened because everyone was watching John Hartson. It was one of those where I ‘just had a feeling’ before the corner. I love those.
The guy in front didn’t have the same feeling it seemed, seeing as he was still holding his tea when I flung my arms around him in joyous rapture.
We all knew then that we had it in us to take this match, and when Hucks went down in the box in a fairly similar fashion to their guy in the first half, I thought we were back in it.
Rob Styles, it seems, is not a fan of penalties.
We hammered their goal for fifteen minutes, and to see Cureton wheeling round after scoring the second felt like Christmas, ice-cream and sex all rolled together in a monumental explosion of wonder.
Sadly, we bottled it a little after that, but still ran the game for the most part. Marshall made another cracking stop late on, and Lappin cleared off the line, but equally Neil Alexander made a few great stops for them, and in the end the draw was acceptable by all.
I’ll not mention Hucks’ red card, except to say that 1) it was stupid, and 2) it was brilliant to see him caring enough to kick some-one again.
So, is this the turning point?
Well, you would hope the players would be keyed up for a derby game already, and a new manager always tends to bring out the best in those recently under-performing, so it’s maybe not a fair reflection.
Realistically, we’re bottom and it is a home draw, when we need three points more than Darel Russell needs a new haircut.
But I’ll tell you this for free – if we play like that for the rest of the season, then wherever we end up, at least we’ll have had a bloody good time getting there.
Except, of course, that all the optimism and positive thinking is gonna be out the window when Watford do us over on Tuesday. Natch.
[How prophetic – Ed]
Bysies,
Game, Set & Natch OTBC