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12/03 Boston 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 13/03/2005

NEITHER side made any changes at half time. Unfortunately, they both came out and we had another 45 minutes. Even more unfortunately the referee emerged too. How unfortunate.

Home > 2004-2005 Season > Reports > Boston (a)

Boston United 1 Grimsby Town 1
12 Mar 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Err, they attacked for a minute or two. They got a corner, some kind of exceedingly minor panic ensued with a little scurrier, probably Clare, doing something or other which resulted in nothing or other not happening much really oh dear, so what, yawn, wake up at the back, is this still 2005?

Aaaaaaaaargh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest. Or was it Pinault volleying the ball over the stands, causing a traffic congestion on John Adams Way? Nurse Fletcher, we’re ready for our medication now. Fleming, booked for scything down Pitt, then moaning to the referee. A minute later Bull idiotically slid in two-footed as Town attacked down the left, swiping Charley Farley away, rather like a golfer using a sand iron to plop the ball onto the green. Bull said sorry, limped very unconvincingly towards the yellow ref in a yellowbelly derby, and looked a little relieved to see just a yellow card fluttering above him. A minute later Bull did a stamp tackle, fortunately missing amber ankles. A few seconds later Fleming bundled over a Bostonian right in front of Mascara Man, who jumped around like an electric frog. Fleming, arguing with the ref and having to be dragged away by Whittle, was immediately replaced by Reddy. An hour of unimaginable slime had passed. Unlike Town, who had yet to string a pass together. A. Singular. One.

With Reddy’s entrance Town moved to a 4-3-3 formation, if anyone says it was 4-4-2, they must have had an obstructed view. Lucky them.

The game changed. Not that Town played any differently; there was no passing through the middle, from the back. The ball was launched as high and as far as possible, but three up front forced Boston back, and they wilted. Harrold was a handful, an old fashioned "presence" who fought for everything and had a inkling where the ball might drop when the Town juggernaut took route one to salvation.

It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t football, but at least Town had stopped Boston skipping through the bluebells on a bright spring day. Ooh, spoke too soon. A long shot from Noble straight at Williams who, of course, allowed the ball to rebound off his chest. Luckily Boston hadn’t bothered to watch any videos of Town and didn’t anticipate what every Town fan knew would happen at some stage during the match. Williams collected, looked up and threw the ball to the unmarked Bull, who wasn’t watching and was nearly dispossessed by a posse of Boston Belles. A minute later Williams sliced a back pass high to the left. Whittle chased after the ball and controlled it against his own chin and out for a throw in. Calamitous, the nadir reached, the tannoy should really have blared out the theme from Steptoe and Son. "Harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrold"

From the detritus a lifejacket emerged. Pinault was released in the middle, he turned, looked up and hit a perfect chip down the pitch at a cunning angle, straight on to Martin Gritton’s head. Now that was a lofted pass, not an aimless hoof. Gritton, on the centre left of the area, headed firmly down across and into a space behind the defence. Abbey stepped out, PRINCE HARROLD OF HADDOCK wrestled with his marker and hooked the ball across the ‘keeper into the bottom right hand corner from about a dozen yards out. The very antipathy of a Town goal, but we ain’t complaining. It’s the sort of goal we normally concede. We like Harrold.

Anthony Williams
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Terrell Forbes
Ronnie Bullyellow card
Terry Flemingyellow card
Thomas Pinault
Stacy Coldicott
Andy Parkinson
Martin Gritton
Matt Harroldgoal


Michael Reddy61 mins
Graham Hockless
Rob Jones
David Soames
Glen Downey


Mick Russell


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From the off Boston caused a fright; Thomas zipping away down the centre left, behind the defence racing after a flick. Williams sprinted out and plucked the ball off Thomas’ toes. Now that was a fine bit of ‘keeping. He’s not all bad.

And that was it from them for twenty minutes. Boston were stuffed, they had little fight, it was all Town. Gritton was barely able to move his legs but still contributed to the tightening of the tourniquet. Reddy began to vroom into overdive. Is that a typo? Surely I meant overdrive? Maybe both? Swish, hup, hup, hup, swoosh, peel those cowbells. Reddy doing a super giant slalom through one challenge way outside the area. Swing to the left, swing to the right, shiver left and right, through three, into the area, pull back the trigger, look at the bullseye. Bang! White slid across and blocked the goalbound shot for a corner. After the corner there was a bit of argy-bargy between Harrold and Abbey, resulting in some macho stomach grinding. The ref did nothing. Abbey was unhappy, seemingly, with comments within his earshot.

Still Town turning the handle on the vice, the Boston eyes not yet popping. A magnificent crossfield ball from Macca to Gritton’s toes, the cross curving through, clasped by Abbey as Harrold lurked. Gritton in the left corner, rolling along the bye line crossing to the near post, Parkinson steering wide. A Pinault cross inviting and inciting, Abbey clutched. In, up, battle, Harrold, Gritton, Reddy, oooooer, not quite.

Boston made a double change with 10 minutes left: Clare and Rusk off, two little boys on. Well, no harm in knowing that, is there? Evans became more and more histrionic as his team receded. He’s like a mini-Warnock, but without the charm. His teams are less ugly, but also less potent. Their changes had a little bit of an impact, as they scuffled away and had a couple of crosses. Out there in the cold distance, it looked like nearly-almost-maybe moments, rather than anything worth worrying about. Whatever, no shots, no saves, nothing to report.

Flicking and tricking, Harrold acting as a wall, Parky bamboozled by an invitation to play football, forgetting to move, chance gone. Reddy, tossing his mane, turning his marker, past one, into the area and over he goes. Hackery and William Makepiece Thackery inside the area. The ball bumbling, Gritton waiting, twisting, a space to shoot, tackled by Coldicott. First one of the day, oh the irony. Another high ball, Harrold heading, White handling. A huge roar demanding a penalty; ignored. Collina would have given it. Colin the Dachshund would have given it. Reddy rampaging down the right (does he do anything other?), shrugging away some local irritant, sweeping majestically into the area through two tackles and tumbling over the third. The hint of something good. Sounds like an advert for air freshener.

Into the added time, Boston go forward, Boston shoot, ooh close. Some bloke hit a surprising shot from about 20 yards out, which sailed a few feet over, that’s all. Town got the collywobbles, but the referee was determined that he wouldn’t actively make a decision to allow a goal to be scored, so that’s nice then. Macca’s leaping dummy inside the Town area didn’t set them up, it must have been a foul, eh?

There isn’t any more to say. It ended. The Town players came over to accept the non-criticism in the form of applause, basking in the warm glow of being rubbish but not losing. Finally Cyril, after all the other players had wandered off, Williams ran over to the Town fans, with fear in every step, to greet a little girl behind the goal. He survived his ordeal.

An awful pitch, an awful game. Town were, in essence, incompetent until we scored. Thereafter, the power and the passion was with us. The forwards tried hard, Pinault ran everywhere and did the job of three. Whittle and Forbes weren’t terrible. Is it possible to have five UnMen of the Match? And what does that say about Boston if only half of Town played adequately?

The worse we get the higher up the league we go. If only we’d started the season playing rubbish we’d be top.

Nicko’s Man of the Match

Pinault was the entire midfield, but without Matt Harrold Town would have lost. So it has to be him; a proper centre forward.

Official Warning

Mr N Coward (aka M Russell). This man was weak, weak, weak, weak, weak. It worked in our favour in that he probably should have sent Fleming and Bull off, but everything else went the way of Boston. Town could barely look at them without a free kick being given. One of the linesmen was excellent, but the other would only give a throw in if the ball went over the roof. A number? I do not feel charitable. 0.1

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