26/12 Macclesfield Part 2

Grimsby Town 0 Macclesfield Town 0
26 Dec 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Sir Maccalot carefully clipped a cross towards the far post whereupon Gritton, on the edge of the area, beat his marker and looped a gentle header towards the foot of the right-hand post. Wilson scooped without fuss.

Another minute, another long ball, another rebound, another McDermott moment. Briefly free at the corner of the area, he chested down and slapped a shot through the penalty area. It didn't even go out of play, the Silkyboys knocking it back to Town nicely. Shocker! Ball played along the ground. Gritton turned, flicked and the Maccmeister swooshed a left foot drive goalwards. Wilson flung himself low to his left and parried the ball away from the bottom right-hand corner. Parkinson followed up, Wilson got up, and the shot was blocked by the crouching ex-Tiger for a corner.

With all of his strength Parkin gave a mighty shove. As he tried to bully his way through the Town defence, Williams picked the ball up. Mm, he is quite big.

The Orinoco flowed back to the Osmond. Who was it this time? Gritton, low dribbler, saved easily. Sestanovich, swishing, swaying, slicing wide. Parkinson, thumping straight at the 'keeper. Seven minutes, seven Town shots. Always the bridesmaid though.

Oh dear, they should have scored. They ran, Town napped. They crossed, Town flapped. A little orange man burst through on the left. Bull? Hello, is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. A cross, Fleming jumped up, missed ball and everyone turned to look, but it was gone, Williams couldn't put his finger on it as the unmarked Sheron about eight yards out at the far post, steered the ball slowly, slowly, very, very slowly, an inch or two wide of the top left hand corner. The remnants of the Cheshire Light Infantry Regiment down at the Osmond probably didn't realise how close that was. Best not to get their hopes up too high, eh.

Don't worry about them for a while. The game stodged, glumped up in a drossy festering boiled cabbage and brussels sprout slop bucket of gunk. What is this thing we see before us, round, light and jaunty? Ted Bovis? No. A ball. What is passing?

More Town attacking, the randomness of nature played out in football form. Occasional glimpses of Town past, one, two sometimes three passes to friendly faces, or Sestanovich. Ah, S-Stanley, the most ephemeral of presences, stuck in the middle, waiting for the ball that never came, watching the ball zoom overhead. Shards of frozen ice descended from the heavens and he took the opportunity to recreate his Yeovil goal. The bit where he runs forward, not the bit where he scores, of course. After 18 minutes, a typical Transit Stan moment: weaving, roaming, dreaming, droving the Silkmen sheep to market and back. On the edge of the area, on the right, wham! A shot slammed straight at the wobbling Wilson, the ball pinging away off his chest and being swept away by a wave of defenders. Crowe, running, jumping, standing still, crossing. Gritton almost in, Wilson scuttling off his line to punch away. Crowe again, slapping a shot goalwards from the right corner of the area. Wilson blocked with an indeterminate part of his anatomy. Crowe again again, on the same spot, smacking a shot towards the top right hand corner, Wilson parried as Gritton was lurking by the gherkins. And Pinault was in Travis Perkins buying some shelving. Has Billy Bragg just walked into Blundell Park?

"I'm sure I saw Cramb wearing a white puffa jacket in the pie queue"
"I'm wearing my Tony Rees 'tache with pride".
"I hope his nose is the only thing that is battery operated. Or flashes".
"Town, like Christmas, has to be endured rather than enjoyed".
"You can have my ticket for the next game, I'd rather watch frost thaw."