The Pump Don’t Work: Chesterfield Report

Chesterfield 4 Grimsby Town 4
27 Mar 2004, Nationwide League Division 2

Bemusement, incredulity, indifference and general confusion abounded as we peered upon the lush green turf. Another week, another Town.

Is that a new player or has Warhurst had his hair cut? Who’s the Beau Geste with the Foreign Legion crew cut? Ah, that’s Armstrong, due for testimonial soon of course, nearing ten whole games for Town. In these mercenary times loyalty should be rewarded. Wherrrrrrre’s Jonny? Perhaps Rowan’s in the basement, mixing up the medicine. He won’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows when his contract expires in June. Hey! No Edwards again, yet Ford is out there lolloping around like Daisy the pregnant cow.

Town lined up in what many would guess as a 4-4-2 formation, as shown. Just four on the bench. Oh, nope, it’s Campbell. Lean back in your chair, stroke your chin, raise your left eyebrow and look at the ceiling. Is that a crack? No, no, it’s Law’s latest lullaby to hush us to sleep. Tonight Matthew, Jamie Lawrence, flying right winger by day, shall be transformed into a hustling, bustling playmaking central midfielder. Yes he’s going to be not Des Hamilton. So who is captain then? Must be the international? No, not Barnard. Must be the longest serving player and heartbeat of the notional "team"? No, not Coldicott. Step forward Jamie with his magic torch. And no Jevons - now that’s a way to get the fans behind you, isn’t it.

Chesterfield were big, they played in blue and they had a rat, or a rabbit, or a wolf or something indefinably animalistic but grey as the mascot. They also had teenage girls pom-pomming. How quaint, they are ten years behind Town, who are ten years behind everyone else. Welcome to 1984. No perms or tight shorts though, at least not on the pitch.

1st half

Chesterfield kicked off towards the Town support. It went in the air, it stayed in the air, it eventually went out. Repeat for the next five minutes. Hit it long, hit it high, at least we could see the ball without these new fangled modernist notions of a roof. Some Town players tackled Chesterfield players. The referee blew his whistle a lot. There were some offsides. Fettis even nearly almost thought about coming off his line to flick a crisp packet away from the penalty spot.

Bored already? Let’s talk about the al fresco toilets then. We had the traditional Yorkshire wall, painted black and with a perfect view of the, oh sorry, Chesterfield Is Not In Yorkshire. There’s a t-shirt in there somewhere, isn’t there?

I’m not telling you about anything that happened because nothing did until now. After about ten minutes, Town got a corner on the left. Barnard tapped it to Coldicott, who stopped it and allowed Barnard to flap it high beyond the far post. Anderson drimbled around the back and about a dozen yards out leapt hugely to smack a firm header down and through the six yards box. The ball bounced once, hit a Chesterfield player somewhere near the hand and diverted straight to Muggleton on the line.

Back to life, back to reality. There ain’t nothin’ going on. Even the official matchday programme failed to divert attention; I suppose I’ll have to watch the park football the other side of the wall. Antoine-Curier almost won a header, but he didn’t. The towering Spireites lumbered forward, barging into Warhust and Young. Town got a few goalkicks.