The Truth Sometimes Hurts (Reprise)

[BTRFTG]

Sept 98: Leaving Portman Road angry, very angry that gutless City once more capitulate in the face of an organised Ipswich XI. Angry that uncommitted, feint-hearted players, not without a modicum of potential (Clarence Winerack excepted,) have forced the decent man that is John Ward to do the honourable thing in signing his own execution notice: “I’ve taken these players as far as I can.”

Fourteen years on and history repeats; Carey’s still there, the keeper’s kept the score to ‘mild blushing’ rather than full-on, sanguine embarrassment. Save this time I’m not remotely angry. To be so I’d have to acknowledge these players have potential, and talent, and commitment. The fact they’re without isn’t their fault. Blame & anger lays wholly with those who’ve successively tasked metaphorical BOYZ II do MEN’s work (perhaps we should run out against Leicester to “End of the Road”?) Vent any anger at Johnson, Coppell, Millen, their faceless, useless scouting & coaching regimes, Sexstone for his lack of control.

The first section of this post (after the Posh debacle) contained an error, to wit I thought Foster might fulfil a role, if supported. I was wrong. His performance yesterday admirably displayed why he’s earned a recall to international ‘Pub’ duty (why aren’t they made to play their fixtures on a Sunday morning like the best of us cloggers?) Martin skinning Lewin round the back (he’d tracked across to cover the AWOL Scot) and crossing for the first wasn’t a surprise for he’d done so three times in the previous ten minutes; the accident was waiting to happen. The ease though with which Chopra ‘lost’ Fonts is cause for concern and put a blemish on an otherwise gutsy performance from Liam. Credit too Davis who at least made an attempt to impress but whose gaze dropped ever lower as the game wore on. How dispiriting to look up, to want to play football, to find its only opponents seeking to do likewise. In Hide & Seek our midfield would be Champions League. First half fine stops from James served only to prolong the pretence that we might sneak something. His second half distribution brought forth the cold snap of reality that our foundations are crumbling from the base up. The front two huffed & puffed with little service, though didn’t blow down any houses when the rare chance came their way. If Wood is a ‘confidence player’ this is likely the move that ended his career. The remainder on show were awful. Ipswich, so close in recent weeks, are through the telescope lens light years distant from us.

Those in rose-tinted glasses will point to the referee’s shameful decision to change his mind in awarding the corner that led to the second – our marking at which was non-existent. They may make reference to the ‘treatment’ handed out to their adorable Adomah , treatment they’re conversely imploring our midfield to dispense to others (i.e. nothing more than robust challenges.) I don’t know whether Albert’s injured. I do know the shrinking violet wasn’t up for it, that he wouldn’t have been crocked had he the ability to control the ball. Injury is the inevitable consequence when ‘trapping the ball’ means keeping it within four feet. Their bloke was unlucky to get booked; many wouldn’t have awarded the foul. Kilkenny once again gave the impression of a displeased schoolboy forced to undertake games in cast-off kit having deliberately left his at home. He should contact Rob Edward’s mum – now such really knew how to draft a sick note. Neither is Kilkenny the exception that proves the rule all Australians are consummate athletes. He’s as Australian as I and me entering this mortal coil at BMH. Our similarity doesn’t stop there – I too have never been good enough to be a professional footballer.

By half time yesterday the focus in the stands wasn’t wholly directed at activity on the pitch, smartphone interest in how others were doing was order of the day. For City diehards our season is akin Richard Pitman atop Crisp on the ‘73 Grand National run-in. We’re looking over our shoulder but we all know the outcome. His horse had heart, gave all, yet still came up short. We’ve no such consolation.

A footnote for those of tender years – season 98/99 we finished rock bottom.

[SimplyRed]

Cracking post - sums it up for me...

[Abraham Romanovich]

BTRFG - very good

"If Wood is a ‘confidence player’ this is likely the move that ended his career"

[chinapig]

Superb post. I too love the Wood comment. It also touches on yet another thing about the modern game that gets my goat (grumpy old man, me?). That is the ever increasing range of excuses available to players. The poor dears play too many games, are tired and this latest one about being a "confidence player". It seems to me to translate as "he is mentally weak and crumbles the minute things go against him", a phrase that could in fact be applied to the whole squad I reckon. Presumably our response to "he is a confidence player" is supposed to be "oh, alright, we therefore excuse his crap performances and even his lack of effort". Fernando Torres springs to mind, someone I struggle to feel sorry for I'm afraid. When exactly did footballers become so fragile and precious? Is it a function of the way they are mollycoddled from such and early age? I can imagine any grizzled old pro having a good chortle at their expense.

[Maesknoll Red]

Long time no post BTRFTG, your eloquent prose summing up how many of us feel about this seasons depressing displays and failure to deliver even a crumb of comfort, to the long suffering diehards.

[Redcliffe 78]

Sept 98: Leaving Portman Road angry, very angry that gutless City once more capitulate in the face of an organised Ipswich XI. Angry that uncommitted, feint-hearted players, not without a modicum of potential (Clarence Winerack excepted,) have forced the decent man that is John Ward to do the honourable thing in signing his own execution notice: “I’ve taken these players as far as I can.”

Fourteen years on and history repeats; Carey’s still there, the keeper’s kept the score to ‘mild blushing’ rather than full-on, sanguine embarrassment. Save this time I’m not remotely angry. To be so I’d have to acknowledge these players have potential, and talent, and commitment. The fact they’re without isn’t their fault. Blame & anger lays wholly with those who’ve successively tasked metaphorical BOYZ II do MEN’s work (perhaps we should run out against Leicester to “End of the Road”?) Vent any anger at Johnson, Coppell, Millen, their faceless, useless scouting & coaching regimes, Sexstone for his lack of control.

The first section of this post (after the Posh debacle) contained an error, to wit I thought Foster might fulfil a role, if supported. I was wrong. His performance yesterday admirably displayed why he’s earned a recall to international ‘Pub’ duty (why aren’t they made to play their fixtures on a Sunday morning like the best of us cloggers?) Martin skinning Lewin round the back (he’d tracked across to cover the AWOL Scot) and crossing for the first wasn’t a surprise for he’d done so three times in the previous ten minutes; the accident was waiting to happen. The ease though with which Chopra ‘lost’ Fonts is cause for concern and put a blemish on an otherwise gutsy performance from Liam. Credit too Davis who at least made an attempt to impress but whose gaze dropped ever lower as the game wore on. How dispiriting to look up, to want to play football, to find its only opponents seeking to do likewise. In Hide & Seek our midfield would be Champions League. First half fine stops from James served only to prolong the pretence that we might sneak something. His second half distribution brought forth the cold snap of reality that our foundations are crumbling from the base up. The front two huffed & puffed with little service, though didn’t blow down any houses when the rare chance came their way. If Wood is a ‘confidence player’ this is likely the move that ended his career. The remainder on show were awful. Ipswich, so close in recent weeks, are through the telescope lens light years distant from us.

Those in rose-tinted glasses will point to the referee’s shameful decision to change his mind in awarding the corner that led to the second – our marking at which was non-existent. They may make reference to the ‘treatment’ handed out to their adorable Adomah , treatment they’re conversely imploring our midfield to dispense to others (i.e. nothing more than robust challenges.) I don’t know whether Albert’s injured. I do know the shrinking violet wasn’t up for it, that he wouldn’t have been crocked had he the ability to control the ball. Injury is the inevitable consequence when ‘trapping the ball’ means keeping it within four feet. Their bloke was unlucky to get booked; many wouldn’t have awarded the foul. Kilkenny once again gave the impression of a displeased schoolboy forced to undertake games in cast-off kit having deliberately left his at home. He should contact Rob Edward’s mum – now such really knew how to draft a sick note. Neither is Kilkenny the exception that proves the rule all Australians are consummate athletes. He’s as Australian as I and me entering this mortal coil at BMH. Our similarity doesn’t stop there – I too have never been good enough to be a professional footballer.

By half time yesterday the focus in the stands wasn’t wholly directed at activity on the pitch, smartphone interest in how others were doing was order of the day. For City diehards our season is akin Richard Pitman atop Crisp on the ‘73 Grand National run-in. We’re looking over our shoulder but we all know the outcome. His horse had heart, gave all, yet still came up short. We’ve no such consolation.

A footnote for those of tender years – season 98/99 we finished rock bottom.

Great post, but Wood was jet lagged.

[marcc]

Great post!