Christy
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Posts: 389
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« Reply #165 on: Saturday, April 22, 2017, 22:12:24 » |
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It occurs that perhaps because a relegation struggle is ultimately binary, black or white, it shouldn't be too surprising that so much opinion is likewise. And that when the result is indeed confirmed as black, that Power out, Williams out, players out, Embleton out, physio out (oh) is a natural and understandable reaction. However, even without the benefit of reflection, even staring at the dismal evidence of two and a bit years, I still think reality is somewhat greyer.
Anyway, after 44 mainly miserable league games, here we are at the GWR barbeque, nodding at longstanding half acquaintances, part watching the cricket and kids playing football, all seeking the last knockings of hope in glasses considerably less than half full. It's my first visit here, and all because of the efforts of the few who've tried valiantly to improve the matchday experience of the many. Thank you.
There's a decent crowd inside the ground, and whilst there's some initial encouragement, absolutely gone is the actual expectation and even excitement that filled the air just a couple of long, long weeks ago. As mentioned above, the reading of the roll of honour is so bungled, so rushed, so obscured by applause, that I barely heard a name. Sometimes it's the small things. A loyal, humbling list of supporters who can never come back; I can't help but wonder how long the list will be of those who won't come back.
My heart sank yesterday when I realised Scunthorpe were still in with an automatic shout - there would be no resting of players, and no minds wandering absently to the summer in Skegness. Thus they started brightly and efficiently, without necessarily giving the impression that they'd be leading us on a merry dance. But we could do that ourselves! Vigs didn't come for a harmless through ball, which resulted in Branco then hoofing off for the softest of corners. I know what you're saying - it was only a corner, and they're not even going to score for two minutes. But like I said, it's the small things. So when they work the same short corner routine that they scored from up there, ending up in another corner, I am already unreasonably apoplectic. Fear not, I'm won't analyse every passage of play like this, but this limp, half-arsed minute or two somehow sums up the whole sorry season. The next corner is woefully over hit yet hunted down by their centre half who turns Connor Thomas (more soon) this way and that before delivering a cross for someone else to bundle home, probably using his hand.
Now I don't think Luke Williams (or anyone really) deserves abuse or ridicule, but all of that, like this most sleepwalked into of relegations, was totally preventable. And whilst individual mistakes will happen, the likelihood of making them is (from a coaching perspective) easy enough to reduce. Which is why I tend to take a sharp intake of breath and beg to differ when I hear that Luke is a good coach but a bad manager. Yes, he's a progressive, developmental coach, the type quite rightly beloved by the FA, and I genuinely enjoy listening to his rationale and explanations and knowledge. In time, who knows, but right here right now, at best the approach has been hopelessly naive. Whatever, the philosophy, the implementation, the result, Luke's coaching - they are all rotten.
With my ire drawn, the game seems to meander along, Scunthorpe content to sit in whilst we huff and puff: Obika receives everything, turns then loses it. Ajose is invisible - coaching point again - Williams eulogised his quality when given that one opportunity from a Colkett ball at Fleetwood, clearly tried to repeat it in the first 20 at Walsall...so where did that intent go? Of hitting space early and behind the line? Ajose missed that sitter in the first minute against Oxford, and has barely had a shot at the CG since.
The atmosphere turned nasty, stewards pouring to the Arkells from all directions, and a seething mass of dissent all around the ground that we've not previously heard. As much as anything, it felt sad, that here we were, collectively giving up, one goal down with an hour to go. Some of the players visibly shrunk, and we all limped to half time for a cup of tea and a calm down.
The second half brought a change in shape, a modicum of urgency yet no tremendous sense that this was our time. i could pick out Barry or Gladwin or the referee, but Connor Thomas. Really. A player so completely insipid, so incredibly inconsequential that I don't know where to start. However he plays in the way I do my supermarket shopping with a hangover without wearing glasses: wandering aimlessly and indecisively this way and that whilst nothing around me makes sense, avoiding bumping into other people, desperate to be somewhere, anywhere else.
Both teams scored a goal each, Ince's summing up his splendid contribution which sadly will only be a footnote to the sorry season, although minds were already on the final whistle and beyond. Eventually the referee gave us a comedy moment, hurtling for the sanctuary of the tunnel in fear of the imaginary hostile invading mob. Many were already drifting away, others waiting to pour scorn, whether the players came back out or perhaps thankfully, not.
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