I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in

Stevedore from Tyneside

Grimsby Town 0 Wycombe Wanderers 1

Apparently it's grim up north. Perhaps those who say so have never been further north than Peterborough for anything other than a football match, or have never had the pleasure to waltz around the narrow back streets of York or swanned around Harrogate with the sun high in the sky; saying that, Grimsby wasn't the finest place to venture for a brief visit on a Tuesday night. Perhaps the hauntingly-dark skies and the leak in my Cuban heels impaired my judgement, but it was hard not to feel slightly disheartened as I skipped over puddles past the hoards of boarded-up shops and pubs on the way to the ground. Not even the Oasis Club, which promises Fosters, John Smiths and...Fosters, could lift the feel of the Cleethorpes Road.

Sewing the seeds of love

Still, this was a BIG GAME and as I took up my position in the sparsely-populated away end and slung my sodden socks over the back of the seat in front as if to fend off a bad dose of trench foot, I looked up to see Gary Holt on a one-man mission to hug all of his on-pitch comrades before the kick off; I felt his love and sensed something good could come of the evening.

Slippery when wet

The pitch resembled the Great Lawn of Central Park - a tell tale sign of a lack of pests or parasites gnawing away at the turf every other week – and, other than the Somme-esque trench which separated the masses from the field of play, was in fine nick indeed. Coupled with a good hosing of Humber cloudburst, you could actually hear each blade of grass crying out to be caressed by hexagon-shaped stitched leather. Grimsby started lively enough, forcing Yvette Fielding into a decent save early doors, but then the Wycombe midfield took over. Tommy Doherty was everywhere and impressed the two onlooking SMBU executives enough for them to consider renewing the lucrative sponsorship deal for next season. Nothing was getting passed Mr Loverman and Stefan Dennis was pinging the ball around like Pingu on ice. The top-heavy Facey was impressing too and was winning virtually every ball coming his way. When Russell Martin sent in a free kick to the back post, Facey’s textbook downward header was a bit too textbook, as the ball bounced up at a nice height for the keeper who was able to push it away. Torres was making space for himself wherever he went and my socks were still dripping when he linked up with Facey and made enough room to smack home a left-foot drive from 10 yards, maybe? Once the ball passed the halfway line, it was anyone's guess whether the ball was about to be walked into the net or was still within the centre circle, so low was the view from the away end.

Sock it to me

Grimsby's main threat seemed to be coming down the right but even on the odd occasion that they managed to get round the back, a gaggle of blue shirts were on hand to hunt them down and quash the danger. The defence looked solid and, other than the odd slice of the wet ball off the shin under pressure, looked to have the Grimsby forwards sussed. There seemed to be an eager, pack mentality amongst the Wycombe players and as half time came and I pulled on my socks, I was more than content with what I'd seen. Equally content was the complete lack of queue for a beer at half time. “I’ve only pulled four pints all evening”, muttered the semi-inebriated and sickeningly-bored bloke at the kiosk as he pulled out his pint from under the counter and took another swig. Not that I’m condoning binge drinking or such like but: 133 people yet only four pints? Perhaps there are a few more Wycombe fans on the wagon than I realised.

Sultans of Ping FC

Grimsby were in the game more after the break but Wycombe should have had it sewn up with around 20 minutes to go. McGleish, whose work rate was epic, could only stick the ball at the keeper's midriff when put through by Facey. Oakes then went for one more ping and hit the post from 40 yards having been advised to shoot by the tracksuit-trouser mob to my left after their keeper fluffed his clearance. A couple of other decent chances materialised but missed the target, but by this time Grimsby had begun to look as interested as a seven-year-old in BHS on his birthday. Some late substitutions helped to eat away the remaining few minutes but it seemed somewhat rum as to why John Sutton didn’t deserve a round of applause when coming on.

I drove all night

Everyone knew what this result meant; the players were so pumped at the final whistle that I’m surprised not to have seen some badge kissing. But Wycombe never looked like losing this one. With the play-offs looming, I can only take encouragement from what was a very positive and promising performance. “It’s ours to throw away”, they cry.

True, but the only thing getting thrown away around here are my boots.

17.04.2008. 11:01

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