A QUICK RANT
Sod's Law says when you have arranged to travel to an away game, it will be cancelled due to a cup replay. And so it was on this particular Tuesday night. Accrington Stanley had failed to deal with the mighty Durham City at the first attempt, so their scheduled game with Barrow that evening was cancelled for the replay. In the grand scheme of things this news is of no great importance. Nobody was hurt and there will be other games to go to. However, it's a pain in the neck when the game that's cancelled is the one I'm planning to go to. My problem is my job. I'm a prison officer, and I have to work every other weekend and juggle and swap shifts in order to try to make it to home games. So when a match is cancelled my pain is considerable. My love of the game is truly boundless. I'll watch any type of football match. Apart from attempting to see most of Barrow's home games, I am just as happy at Railway Meadow watching Dalton United grind out a result against Barnoldswick or Feniscowles. I have seen England play at Cardiff, Frankfurt and Toulouse. I've watched pub teams on Ormsgill playing fields, and best of all, Scousers v Rest of the World on Haverigg Prison sports pitch. The game at any level can never fail to entertain me. I recently witnessed an under-11's reserve game on a summer's evening at Ormsgill. Mums and Dads stood along the touchlines giving encouragement, the little fellas running their hearts out, mostly in the wrong direction. One unfortunate lad had the mystifying habit of not only missing the ball every time he tried to kick it, but also falling over in the attempt. Five or six times this happened. Each time the boy would swing his foot, pirouette and fall in a heap of his own arms and legs. He's never going to be anything other than an enthusiastic amateur footballer, but Cowps, what a stuntman he'll make! Did you know that the more inept the child on the field, the more apopletic the parent off it? At dull games I take a notebook, sidle up to a parent and ask, 'Who's the number 7?' Each reply I jot down. Everyone will have you down as a scout for Bayern Munich or Leeds United at the very least. Then, walk up and down the touchline muttering, 'Oh dear! No, no, no, not what we're looking for at all!' At half time position yourself behind one of the goals and look busy with your notebook by writing out next week's shopping list. In the second half, throw your arms in the air and look skyward when a tackle is missed. Five minutes from time throw your notebook, pencil, coat and cap (if you have one) on the ground and turn your back on the game, shaking your head. Retrieve your belongings and stomp away to your car. The loudest, most purple headed oaf of a father, who sincerely believes his boy is the next Michael Owen, will fall to the ground weeping and foaming at the mouth as a result of your performance. It will serve him right. Yes, I'll watch anything when it comes to football, and football has rewarded me in many ways. I saw Jimmy Glass score the 95th minute goal that kept Carlisle out of the Conference. I saw Laurie Cunningham play on the wing and torment a Valencia team that included Mario Kempes and Rainer Bonnhoff into submission. I've seen David Ginola kicked in the air just a few feet in front of where I was standing and then watched him hiding from the action for the rest of the match. Boy, can that Frenchman sulk. That Tuesday night I should have been at Accrington, who knows what I might have witnessed? The last time I was there it was a truly appalling two-nil defeat. Instead I had a night in front of the television, cursing my luck and Accrington Stanley. They owe me. Big time. Peter Phizacklea Issue 047 - January 2001