Spennymoor Town 2 Brigg Town 1

15sep07
FA Cup First Qualifying Round
Brewery Field, Spennymoor
att. 217

In Half Man Half Biscuit’s ‘The Referee’s Alphabet’ the suggestion for ‘Y’ was “Yate: the kind of place referee’s come from.” Ordinarily, the town itself wouldn’t notice, unless that ref became eminent in their field. Then, of course, it can be a blessing or a curse, the people of Tring apparently recently complaining for their continual association with Graham “comedy rule of three” Poll. Surprisingly, the people of Waterlooville have escaped punishment despite having offered up Rob Styles as their officious gift to the world. Both Tring and Waterlooville, though, are those “kind of places” and so, I add rather conveniently, is Spennymoor.

Whenever I hear ‘Spennymoor’, I think of 80’s king of the refs George Courtney, it being the first place I was ever aware of a ref having been from, and when I think of George Courtney, I think of an older generation of no-nonsense refs that look as though they’ve been about 48 since birth – also known as the Elleray Principle. While strolling through Spennymoor’s eerily quiet town centre itself, that notion of the prematurely mature Spennyite seems rather appropriate as the light weekend bustle winds down to a shuffle. The twin attractions of Durham and Darlington and maybe even the slightly off-campus ASDA appear to beat that of the Co-Op Superstore and R. Defty’s charming old-money ironmongers on the high street. Even Greggs the bakers here retains its pre-Paddy McGuiness beige livery, rather than the brash, cyberpunk (well, by comparison) blue and orange seen elsewhere.

Perhaps what strikes the match beneath the ‘old folk’s town’ smoke alarm most vividly though is the juxtaposition of posters in the travel agents window, between Durham’s current Sumo and Betamax rock and indie club nights, and Spenny Town Hall’s upcoming cabaret attractions – Jess Conrad and Cannon & Ball. Perhaps Spennymoor’s clocks stopped in the early 80’s. Certainly the two ornaments advertising the presence of the local leisure centre would appear to suggest so. Firstly there’s the abstract iron sculpture that depicts either a sprinter tilting toward tape, a ski-jumper or a scene from a lifers prison. Then there’s the large bolt-upright tennis racket that appears to be hitting a splintering Fabergé clown nose, and looks to be the kind of thing that may well have been picked up in a Noel Edmonds post-divorce garage sale.

So, with no one on the streets of a Saturday afternoon, perhaps the people of the town have responded to Lord Kitchener’s rallying cry screaming (and pointing like an accusatory scarecrow) from the photocopied sheets of A4 in the windows of the shops and pubs: “Spennymoor Town needs YOU!!” ‘Need’ is a powerful sentiment, but not entirely misplaced. Indeed, the Brewery Field has played host to so much tragic drama in the last few years; it isn’t exactly clear whether the Land Registry now class it as a football ground or a Greek theatre.

Firstly during Christmas Eve 2003, an apparent discarded cigarette behind a fruity in the social club set the place ablaze to the point that five fire service units were required to bring it under control {Bourne, 2005, p.22}. The bar facility was well placed to serve the local community as well as the Saturday football crowds, thus the fire robbed the club of its main source of day-to-day income. The domino effect, abetted by protracted wranglings with the local town council over the lease on the ground and growing anger from supporters, led to owner Benny Mottram walking away the following Easter, and soon after Spennymoor collapsed leaving a number of fixtures unfulfilled.

With Spennymoor’s playing record thus expunged, the Northern Premier League was met with unprecedented pandemonium, as clubs who had lost perhaps six points gained, dropped out of promotion positions. The end-of-season play-offs had to be delayed until the FA stepped into to decree that all outstanding fixtures would be treated as goalless but with three points going to Spenny’s opposition. Needless to say, this still wasn’t satisfactory to all.

Spennymoor United, as you might imagine, went out of existence, however Northern League second tier side Evenwood Town quickly moved into the Brewery Field, changing their name as a requirement for securing the lease. Spennymoor supporters of old appear to have welcomed and got behind the new club (although read into the “we’ll always be United” chant what you will) as crowds this season in the Northern League Division One are not that far shy of what United were getting in the Northern Premier League, two divisions higher, the season prior to the collapse.

The leasing problems concerning football at Brewery Field came with the territory for Town and have only been settled in the past month, with a new 25-year term being given over to the new tenants, hopefully allowing for a settled environment that might propagate a climb back up the pyramid for a Spennymoor side. With Evenwood having left their Welfare Ground to escape persistent vandalism (seemingly a problem throughout the Northern League, West Auckland Town’s windows having recently been victim to a number of thrown stones {Amos, 2007, p.18}), they will be glad of the stability now that they have morphed like a cuttlefish to blend in with their surroundings.

That said, the razed husk of the clubhouse remains by the turnstiles, its concrete-blocked doorways seemingly in denial of the fact that it has no roof, and also means ballboys retrieving misplaced shots from it may well have to be despatched by medieval catapult. It might give them something to do other than irritate the linesman by repeatedly throwing each other’s caps onto the pitch in front of him, as they begin to do just prior to half time. It’s not all bad behaviour though as, at one point, one orange-tabarded nipper sledges the players with a prim “will yous stop swearin’?” As a group, though, they espouse a restlessness, but considering the Spennymoor singing hardcore decamp to the bar five minutes before the interval themselves, perhaps the youngsters are learning from their example in finding something better to do with their time as the game winds down to the break.

Not that the home side’s supporters should feel at all disgruntled as their team themselves go into the break leading their opponents Brigg Town, senior by one tier in the Northern Premier League Divison One South, by a goal to nil. It’s Adam Johnston who scores it, put through the upturned turtle of the Brigg defence before placing his shot through keeper Damien Steer [see above].

Kicking down the set-square gradient of the pitch’s slope in the first half, it’s been a bit of a breeze for the Moors, so much so that former South African midfielder Graham Robinson is able to make the most of a short break in play to converse with some supporters on the touchline about the weather in Johannesburg. “My fathers over here and he’s wearing layers,” he reveals, adding “I keep expecting to see some of you lot turn up in knotted hankies” about as nonchalantly as one can whilst heading away an opposition throw in.

So, rather than being unhappy with their side, perhaps the Moors fans are a little thirsty from their singing. With “Greasy chip butty” and “Ring of Fire” amongst their repertoire, they appear to gather up fairly random songs like a toddler’s cable-knit cardigan attracts goosegrass and twigs. We are also informed that Lincolnshire, county of the Brigg, is “wank, wank, wank” and that “we hate Sund’land and we hate Sund’land.” They also suggest to the away followers that they’ve “come a long way for nothing” which does seem a touch premature.

 However their team do give them a bit of humility insurance with a second goal after 75 minutes, sub David Manson breaking down the right, cutting into the box and unleashing a shot that’s too hot for Speer, the ball spooning into the far corner off his gloves. With three up-front not working out for Brigg, they opt for a bit of midfield ‘presence’ in the form of sub Steve Housham, a squat figure who appears to have been custom built by a village cooper. They manage to get one back in the final minute, Daniel Barrett prodding home after a bit of shin pelota, but it’s all a bit too late, Spennymoor having taken the second scalp of their FA Cup run.

Who knows how far they can go? The fans think, or at least sing, that they’re “going to Wemb-er-lee”, but I imagine the chairman would probably be happy with making the first round proper. No easy task with three games still to win to get there and with the 68 Conference sides gradually filtering in, but the dangled carrot of a potential game against, say, Darlington or Hartlepool will keep them fighting.

Bibliography
Amos, M (2007) Quote unquote. Northern Ventures Northern Gains, 111
Bourne, J (2005) Going down in smoke. When Saturday Comes, 221

Road to Wembley
F: Portsmouth 1 Cardiff City 0 (att. 89,874)
SF: Barnsley 0 Cardiff City 1 (att. 82,752)
QF: Middlesbrough 0 Cardiff City 2 (att. 32,896)
5Rr: Middlesbrough 1 Sheffield United 0 (att. 28,108)
5R: Sheffield United 0 Middlesbrough 0 (att. 22,210)
4R: Mansfield Town 0 Middlesbrough 2 (att. 6,258)
3R: Brighton & Hove Albion 1 Mansfield Town 2 (att. 5,857)
2R: Harrogate Railway Athletic 2 Mansfield Town 3 (att. 3,500)
1R: Harrogate Railway Athletic 2 Droylsden 0 (att. 884)
4QR: Harrogate Railway Athletic 2 Harrogate Town 1 (att. 1,286)
3QR: Harrogate Town 2 Clitheroe 0 (att. 516)
2QR: Clitheroe 8 Spennymoor Town 2 (att. 330) [groundhog]
1QR: Spennymoor Town 2 Brigg Town 1
PR: Spennymoor Town 3 Garforth Town 2 (att. 227)
PR: Brigg Town 4 South Sheilds 0 (att. 116)
EPR: Spennymoor Town 3 North Shields 0 (att. 149)

the Hobo off-Road 2007/08
click here for links to all 2007/2008 FA Cup pieces

Links
Spennymoor Town website
Brigg Town website

Hampshire Hawks v Durham Dynamoes

18aug07
Friends Provident Trophy Final
Lords, St. Johns Wood

Durham 312-5 [Chanderpaul 78, Coetzer 61, Benkenstein 61no]
Hants 187ao [Crawley 68; Gibson 3-24, Plunkett 3-42, Collingwood 3-33]

Durham won by 125 runs

Trick is to be a talisman for the side you support. Soon as Paul Collingwood came out to bat I knew the game was up. As he strolled out, with Durham 180-3, I was reminded of something I had been informed of by m’chum Andrew, my regular Test Match companion. After we’d seen England play the West Indies at Lords, he pointed out that we had seen all of Colly’s Test wickets live and in the flesh, his second coming that day, about nine months after his first - against Pakistan at Headingley Carnegie. Not a prolific wicket-taker? Or just at all other times without the enchanted amulet that mine and Mr McDevitt’s presence provides?

As further proof of this, we were at the fourth day of this summer’s final Test against India at the Oval, when he took another couple. Pedants among you will note that between that West Indies test and the Indian second innings at the Oval, our Paul managed another two Test wickets. However let the record show that both of those were lbw decisions (against Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly), each being more scandalous than a You Tube uploaded web-cam threeway involving a minor Royal, a disciple-hungry under-butler and Leslie Grantham. For all the cast-iron, rock-solid, (I-am!-the-one-and-only)-you-can’t-take-that-away-from-me, proper stuff, Colly needs his dynamic duo. In our absence, only dodgy umpiring decisions will do.

Not that he needed them today. Alright, he didn’t do much with bat, scoring 22 off 35 balls, but then he didn’t really need to, with fine swash-buckling efforts from Messrs Mustard, Coetzer, Chanderpaul and Benkenstein, sending the Hampshire attack, particularly internationals Daren Powell and Chris Tremlett, to all parts. Eight sixes, twenty-eight fours: all in all plenty to keep the Durham supporters, watching their team’s debut Lords final, in canny fettle.

A number of suited and booted Dynamos are sat behind us in the lower tier of the Edrich. The ceiling separating us from the upper ranks is as useful for amplifying their chanting as it is for racking up the risk of all of us here being stricken with hypothermia. It’s like the Arctic down here on the nicest of days, and today is not a nice day in any respect, not merely for the grey clouds but for the sound of those sartorially elegant north-eastern boys breaking into song yet again as another delivery is belted over the boundary. Always the same song too, a song with a lyric of one word. ‘Durham’. Sang to the Pink Panther theme. Making the most of the gift Mancini gave them and it would be a nice conceit, if I were a neutral. You’ll have spotted by now that I’m no more neutral than Midge Ure was a sailor, soldier or feckin' painter.

Shivnarine Chanderpaul remains a constant frustration to me. England could barely get him out both in 2004 and this summer and today he continues to thwart my team of choice, but you can’t help but admire the mastery of his innings. Solid as a flock, he builds methodically but glides effortlessly into expansive shots, like a craftsman, perhaps a dry-stone waller, tentatively experimenting with amphetamines. It takes a product of circumstance to finally get rid of him, his slip backing up allowing Carberry’s alert throw to reach Shane Warne before he can gather himself. The subsequent shouts of “Hampshire, Hampshire” are part exultation, part relief.

To finish their innings with a flourish comes the 38 year old Ottis Gibson. Now if I am Paul Collingwood’s good luck charm, the Hampshire team as a whole are Gibson’s. About a month ago, in a first class match against Hants, he took all ten wickets in their first innings, the first time this had been achieved in England in thirteen years, and only the seventy-eighth man to do so in the long history of first class cricket. Not bad for a man who initially retired from the game six years ago. So, the fact that he should crash a four and six in a seven ball 15 against the Hawks should be no surprise.



Neither perhaps was his taking of Michael Lumb’s wicket, caught nibbling by Michael Di Venuto at first slip, with the very first ball of Hampshire’s innings. Although the joke was being stretched a little thin when the very next ball saw Sean Ervine depart in precisely the same manner. The mirror imaging of the two dismissals was so sharp, you could have used it to have a thorough wet shave. Hampshire fans wouldn’t need to moisten their skin first either, their tears would have been doing a perfectly good job. If a total of 312 to chase was a hint that the game was up, being 0-2 after two deliveries was the words ‘Err, the game’s up’ being writ large in spray paint on the windows of the Media Centre.

The best answer to that though is to have Kevin Pietersen in your locker, coming in at four. However, he won’t have been used to facing the third ball of an innings and although he lasts longer than the previous two incumbents of the crease, it is only 25 minutes longer, before the astonishing Gibson takes his wicket home for the grandkids. Grandkids who may indeed already exist. It is an LBW so plumb, Pietersen walks on it, leaving Hampshire 17-3 after eight overs and staring down the barrel of a real humiliation. Certainly when the following over the Duckworth-Lewis parity score flashes up for the first time, the reality kicks in. 96, it reads. Slaves to the algorithm.

Gallows humour mixes with rolling eyes amongst the Hampshire support, as well as the scratching of pens on a few ‘Dear Shane’ letters. Thankfully, the old, wise and dramatically hairless head of John Crawley steadies the ship for a while, albeit in fairly erratic fashion. Knowing the rain is coming he tries to up the run rate, but in doing so lives dangerously, spraying it everywhere like the Mannequin Pis body-popping on the live rail. The green shoots of recovery are soon gone over with a sit-on lawnmower, firstly by Graham Onions, who forces Michael Carberry to play on. Then Collingwood comes on, and I wince. Squinting to prevent my powers from gushing forth.


It is no use, he bowls Crawley for 68, and although this brings the potentially explosive Dimitri Mascarenhas to the crease to join the classy Nic Pothas, the only feeling I have is that these two have been called onto to rescue us after a top and upper-middle order collapse on so many occasions before (at Tunbridge Wells in the vital two-run squeaker that propelled us to this final for a start) and this might be one too far, particularly as Nic the Greek starts his innings by continually reverse-sweeping, seemingly until he gets good at it.

They have time to consider their options though as, not long after Creepy's castling, the rain that has threatened all day finally turns up, and stays for dinner, light cheese-platter conversation and a naughty night-cap. Being London based it would have been very easy for me to return to Lords on the Sunday for the remainder of the game but the combination of more murky forecasts, rain delaying the start and my not wanting to sit in the pissing rain for hours just to watch Hampshire lose, I stay at home. Part of me also hopes that my remaining on the couch watching telly will be Delilah’s clippers to Collingwood’s Samson locks. Sadly rumours of my importance appear to have been over-estimated, and Colly takes the wickets of both Tremlett and Pothas, as well as the catch off Liam Plunkett to remove Daren Powell, even in my absence.

So, Hampshire lose their first Lords final. The first one I’ve been able to attend. Perhaps then my abilities to affect performance are not related to Paul Collingwood at all.

Links
Hampshire website
Durham website

Erith & Belvedere 2 Ashford Town 0

31aug07
FA Cup Preliminary Round
Park View Road, Welling
att. 216

Once again the FA Cup weekend finds me indisposed of the Saturday, whisked away in the roll-over-and-farts of the morning to a Cardiff wedding; a 3:15 garter-up making the entire day a football write-off. Thank God then, or possibly Crunchie, for Fridays. Friday night football meant Stansted was achievable in the Extra-Preliminary two weeks ago, and now I can get in an advance for this round of the prelim proper, as ‘twere, albeit by returning to a familiar setting than setting down fresh tread marks somewhere new.

Three or four times I’ve been to Park View Road along with the H&’Dub hardcore, but that has been with Welling United as host. Today however I am brought here by Welling’s Kent League flat-mates, Erith & Belvedere, who had a Park View of their own, in Belvedere, until the 1st of September 1997 when arsonists destroyed their main stand and saw them, for a time, staring down the barrel of extinction. They made do and mended with portakabins for a while prior to entering the current arrangement with the Wings.

It is not your conventional landlord and tenant relationship however, as essentially these days Park View Road is like a house in which amicably divorcing parents are staying under the same roof for the sake of the kids - Welling staking their claim on the Turkish rug while Erith & Belvedere examine the pre-nup to establish their right to the Human League LPs. Thankfully there is shared custody of the pitch, even if there is a metaphoric line drawn down the centre of it, with each club having one side administratively speaking, to themselves.

If you were to look at the ground from the top of passing City-bound bus, Welling’s entrance is in the right corner, leading onto the side with their slightly dank rickety old stand, while the Erith & Belvedere turnstiles are at the left edge, leading to their shinier four-year-old seated stand. While both stands are open for all matches, there is also a social club and set of changing rooms on each side, meaning both clubs can engage in their own money-making activities without stepping on the toes of the other. Eight years in, they seem to remain happy bed-fellows, but then they have yet to meet in league competition, Welling having been in the Conference for most of the twenty-three years in which the Deres competed in the lower tier of the Southern League before their first ever relegation back to the Kent League two years ago.

However, Erith remain a club with ambition and having missed out on promotion last season despite a club record thirteen match unbeaten run in the latter part, they will be keen to go one better this year. Their progressive thirst is certainly matched by their cup opponents tonight, Ashford Town, who after a few seasons of struggle, have recently welcomed new investment that will see a refurbishment of both ground and playing side. The Nuts and Bolts will present a formidable challenge for the home side competing, as they do, a division higher, in the Isthmian Division One South, promotion to which will be the Deres ultimate goal this season.

The challenge the higher-ranked team represent is slightly undermined prior to kick off by the number of practice balls that fly out during the warm up into the busy Park View Road itself, making life rather precarious for drivers and for daredevil ballboys alike. Despite this, Ashford impose themselves on Erith & Belvedere virtually from the kick off. A short cross after a run down the right meets Steve Sodje’s head, but keeper Grant Wallis is spread-eagled like a rack-strapped husband rapidly losing patience with the imbalance toward the ‘S’ in his Gala Bingo-bound wife’s S&M fetish, and is able to paw it off the line.

If Ashford’s dominance and seniority isn’t causing the home side to teeter enough, their reduction to ten men as early as the twelfth minute has them clutching at a short and rubbery exposed root peeping from the top of the cliff-face. Mark Nougher is the guilty man, tunnelled for throwing an angry fist in the direction of Tony Browne.

However, having clearly had ‘Touching The Void’ on the team-coach to their last away game, they weather the increased gaps Ashford can now exploit as they come cascading down the pitch’s slope with the aggressive, but giddy, abandon of an army of Zulus tripping over their shoelaces. Wallis makes another couple of vital saves, while Steve Sodje passes up another chance as the ball slides off his shiny bowling ball ‘ead and wide.

However after 36 minutes, the tide turns. Perhaps the E&B players are increasing their strength and morale simply by taking their opponents literally (and comically) at face value; Barry Gardner’s wispy chinly tuft giving him the air of a teenage wizard, while Aron Freeman must have gone about ten rounds with a car-crusher appearing, as he does, to have been recently cubed. Whatever it is that causes it, Adrian Deane is most surely struck by some kind of inspiration, as he flumes a twenty-five yard kick past the ear of the last wall defender, the ball deviating the slightest fraction to take it past Jake Whincup’s hand and into the top corner.

In the second half, Ashford regroup and try to make the most of their extra body. Six minutes in, a corner flies over the Erith defence but Danny Lye at the back post skies his header and he ends up in the corner of the net himself, Grant Wallis able then to palm it away. After this though Erith are soon able to bring the pace of the game down to a level their ten men can easily cope with.

Just after the hour, during a break in play, Jake Whincup is trying to get the assistant ref’s attention, apropos of a time-check. However, our man with the flag appears to be giving him the cold shoulder. “Line-oh” bellows Whincup, from about twenty feet away, over and over and over, like a stricken Thundercat of the lower ranks, or maybe a flooring fetishist going through a particularly traumatic cold turkey. Eventually, after about a minute of this, the linesman turns and says “yeah?” Whincup missing the comedy gold opportunity of replying “oh, nothing.” Soon enough play restarts, Ashford sub Walid Matata getting the ball at the back post and his shot requires a diving stop from the busy Wallis, who then has to punch a cross away off Matata’s head as the Ashford man seeks to develop his orbiting moon relationship with the ball.

A minute before the end, as the Nuts and Bolts stretch themselves for an equaliser, lone Deres striker Mike McKenna gets put through on the left and waits patiently for Nick Smith to make his run. McKenna threads the ball behind the defender, Whincup makes a dive on the ball at Smith’s feet but only succeeds in making it cannon into Smith’s shin and ricochet back past him into the bottom corner. Over in the Welling stand, the Erith & Belvedere under-13’s squad squeak out a “we can see you sneaking out” at the large contingent of green-scarved Ashford fans walking at pace toward the exit. It is the least that can be sung in praise of an astonishing effort by ten men, who not only held out for eighty minutes against a side from a league higher but also did what their senior opponents could not – take their chances when they arrived.

Road to Wembley
F: Portsmouth 1 Cardiff City 0 (att. 89,874)
SF: Barnsley 0 Cardiff City 1 (att. 82,752)
QF: Barnsley 1 Chelsea 0 (att. 22,410)
5R: Liverpool 1 Barnsley 2 (att. 42,449)
4R: Liverpool 5 Havant & Waterlooville 2 (att. 42,566) [HOBO]
3Rr: Havant & Waterlooville 4 Swansea City 2 (att. 4,400) [HOBO]
3R: Swansea City 1 Havant & Waterlooville 1 (att. 8,761) [HOBO]
2Rr: Swansea City 6 Horsham 2 (5,911)
2R: Horsham 1 Swansea City 1 (2,731)
1R: Billericay Town 1 Swansea City 2 (att. 2,334)
4QR: Folkestone Invicta 0 Billericay Town 2 (att. 659)
3QR: Billericay Town 2 Heybridge Swifts 0 (att. 530)
3QR: Heybridge Swifts 2 Billericay Town 2 (att. 522)
2QR: Billericay Town 2 Maidstone United 0 (att. 594)
1QR: Maidstone United 3 Erith & Belvedere 0 (att. 351)
PR: Erith & Belvedere 2 Ashford Town 0

Previously, on Dub Steps
17mar07: Welling United 1 Havant & Waterlooville 1
12nov06: Sporting Bengal United 0 Erith & Belvedere 5

the Hobo off-Road 2007/08
click here for links to all 2007/2008 FA Cup pieces

Links
Erith & Belvedere website
Ashford Town website

Greenock Morton 3 Clyde 2

04aug07
Scottish League Division One
Cappielow Park, Greenock
att. 3,784

At face value, Greenock Morton were always a bit too big for the lower half of the Scottish leagues. Their crowds dwarfed the majorty of others in Division Two, let alone Division Three, where a couple of seasons in financial flux managed to send them in 2002. A takeover by the current chairman Douglas Rae made sure they didn’t stay long in the basement, but the ‘inevitable’ return to the second tier didn’t come as breezily as they might have imagined. However, after three flat-pack-assembly seasons of frustrating, clunky, fall-away finishes, Morton finally climbed back up to Division One this past summer. With the champagne finally leaving the crate, Morton have been keen to celebrate, and no more so than today.

The lure of the second level in Scotland may cause some to scoff. It causes Greenock fans to start their queues two hours before kick-off, waiting patiently and politely for an hour before the gates open. You might imagine a certain restlessness when there is pretty much pig-all else to do around Cappielow on a matchday. It is part of an industrial estate on the banks of the Clyde, and although the views across the river to the mouth of the Gare Loch; to Ardmore and Cardross are unexpectedly handsome (the heavy industry associated to this river being much further west towards Glasgow) it is not quite visible from the roads outside the ground. Despite the lack of distraction, the Morton eagerness displays itself in a most polite manner, too much excitement about the new season abounds for there to be too many worries about aggro.

Clearly, for some, the promotion party has never stopped, particularly one yoong lad betraying a heady and giddy summer squealing (I’ll use cod phonetics here) “Champio-Knees” in the only Scottish accent you’ll ever see described as cute. Most of the toddling voices round here merely rank around the ‘well, not that threatening’ mark, but this gleeful young ‘un gets an upgrade cos, frankly, I am delighted to finally be here. Cappielow has long been a bit of a Holy Grail to me.

Y’see, I knew a guy in my music-promoting days in Portsmouth who was a Morton supporter as a boy, although he had downsized to a Pompey season ticket by that point (I like to think through practicality reasons alone). Let me quickly remind you of the fundamental Hobo maths. Quality bloke + faintly obscure football team = Skiffoid soft spot. I have many, but this represented a bit more of a challenge in terms of getting a first hand look. Sure, I am in Edinburgh each August for the Fringe festival, but every year I have come, Morton have always been away from home on the weekend I’m around. Until, of course, this year.

Couldn’t have really a better time to turn out either as, like I say, they are not shy in their relief at finally making it back to Division One. To celebrate, they raise the Division Two championship flag amongst the fans on the Sinclair Street terrace. A flag that has been delivered to the chairman minutes before by four members of the Scottish Infantry parachute display team. The falling men having completed their emotive ballet on landing by disrobing from their protective gear and upturned hammock to reveal Morton strips. At once, several thousand Inverclydians develop a profound understanding of their wives appreciation of ‘Dirty Dancing’.

All this ostentation might be a little much for the away support to stomach, particularly as the guidance flare for the paras is placed on their end of terracing, the wind causing its smoke to billow into their increasingly grumpy faces. Disgruntled or not, and whether it is as a result of the ‘accident’ of the smoke or by their design, the away support does appear to have gathered in a distinct pattern. Croatian fans might well be able to form a swastika of bodies on the terrace, but much more laudibly, the Clyde fans have appeared to have arranged themselves today at the top of the Wee Dublin End to look collectively like a raggedy pair of ‘lucky’ y-fronts.

These gathered followers of the Bully Wee (I would leave that alone, but any club nickname that conjures up an image of television’s favourite darts-loving bovine emphatically urinating like a Belgian fountain deserves a cap doffed) however do get amongst some early chanting, trying to reclaim the terrace momentum. A tall order in these circumstances, but if nothing else, they can claim success on a shock value scale, “Banter? From opposing fans? Not heard tha’ for about ten year” says one Morton follower.

After all the build up, the expectation, and the excitement, many a time the Gods of football will send down a grey blanket of realism. A 0-0 is their usual favourite, or a heavy defeat for the promoted side if they are feeling particularly malevolent. However today’s game, from the outset, is everything the Ton fans might have hoped for. Well, perhaps not everything. They won’t have been dreaming of a nervous defensive display in the opening twenty that suggested this was a Christmas-time, hostages vs keen pistol whippers sporting détente. Perhaps we can blame the billowing inflatable tube-man nature of the long-johns they’ve seemingly been issued for the season.

A fingertip save from debut-making keeper Lee Robinson means Greenock survive the first five minutes, but making it to ten is thwarted by Steven Masterson’s free kick which he clubs from the edge of the box into the far corner. One hard-boiled egg into the new season and the Clyde supporters are already confident enough to claim “we’re gonna win the league.” On the quarter hour, as the impressive Christian Smith crashes a lob off the bar, it doesn’t look so ridiculous a boast, but perhaps Morton are merely soft on too many years in the lower divisions.

However, while Clyde look drilled and well connected, the rocking of the bar shakes the Morton players into upping their game, as three minutes later, Clyde keeper David Hutton is required to make an astonishing point-blank double save. Around the pitch the tackles come flying in from both sides, the fractiousness rising on and off the pitch, and things become equal on the scoreboard on the half-hour, Peter Weatherson getting enough of a feather touch onto Kieran McAnespie’s cross to scalp the ball into the far corner.

After a less frenetic period of play, Morton stir the passions once more with a second goal. Kieran McAnespie pistons a free-kick off the underside of the crossbar, and it may well have been over the line, but it will be Jim McAlister’s follow-up that remains in the record books. Not that the Ton could remain giddy for too long as Clyde, to their credit, steam straight back up the other end and fashion an equaliser of their own, another Masterson free-kick skimming off Chris Higgins head like a pebble off a frozen pond.

At half-time, as the players try and wind down from such a pacey first period, Cappie the Cat does his mascoty rounds. Bounding along in front of the Sinclair Street end, he ruffles the hair of a young ballboy, who turns and gives the big blue feline a look which says, quite clearly “Ya touch me, ya fucken prick.” Morton arrive back for the second half with the same kind of fighting spirit, a spirit which shows that while the learning curve might be steep, they have their hiking boots strapped tightly on.

After 57 minutes, Morton take the lead once more, Neil McGregor having felled Jim McAlister in the box, allowing Jamie Stevenson to stroke home from the spot. After this, they continue to grow in confidence and begin to play some magnificent football, everything suddenly clicking, as they stampede continually toward the Clyde goal like giddy sk8r bison skidding down a half-pipe, and only another point blank save from Hutton prevents a fourth.

Yet in the 85th minute comes the typhoon through the Mardi Gras, as Clyde get another equaliser from Masterson’s boot. At the other end, Clyde’s keeper celebrates, kissing the badge and arsing around in front of the Morton fans, who soon take great delight in pointing out the linesmans flag. The linesman may well have been the only person in the ground to believe Gary Arbuckle was obstructing Lee Robinson whilst standing in an offside position. However, as the final twist in a thrilling game of football, I’m sure the Morton fans will take it by way of reintroduction to life in the second tier.

Links
Greenock Morton website
Clyde website