25/09 Cambridge Part 2

Cambridge United 0 Grimsby Town 2
25 Sep 2004, Coca Cola League 2

That someone else was Macca, constantly sprinting into space down their right, constantly ignored by Sestanovich and Fleming, who insisted on playing dinks over the top for Crowe and Parkinson not to get. Reddy almost, Crowe nearly, tackled by Aberdeen Angus, the right back. Hardly football though. Wahey! At last, four passes, on the ground, to Town players! Fleming, Parky, Sestanovich, a one-two and McDermott zippity doodahing down the right. He reached the bye-line and lifted a cross into the middle of the area. Crowe, unmarked, leapt and launched a header a foot or so over the crossbar.

Another minute, another bit of passing and movement. This disease is contagious, call a doctor. Reddy rolling down the left, turning his marker, barging along the bye-line and passing back to Crowe, who calmly passed the ball infield to Parkinson, unmarked ten yards out at the near post. Little Big Man fell over the ball, got up and poked a shot goalwards. A defender awoke from his golden slumbers, singing lullabies as he blocked the shot. Parkinson should have done better, that’s all that need be said. A little later Parky back-heeled a volley towards goal. The ball looped slowly straight to the ‘keeper.

What happened next? Fleming took a rubbish corner, which went straight out of play behind the near post. That pleased the locals down in the cowshed end. Oh hello, nice to hear you, to hear you nice. Excuse me whilst I scratch an itch. That’s better. I think I recognise that person over there, three rows down, six from the right. Why are the Cambridge supporters all wearing blue track-suits?

Oh yes the football. Oh no, the football.

When two or more Town players could be bothered, Cambridge were on the cusp of inconvenience. Reddy won a few corners, Crowe didn’t. Parkinson kept falling over, Sestanovich kept moaning. At least he learnt something from Neil Warnock. McDermott kept slapping his thighs in frustration, so many miles motored, so few glimpses of the ball. Something was missing: Pinault the passer, the bon viveuer of vision, that certain je ne sais quoi was absent. Transit Stan drifted past three players and lazily curled a drooper from 25 yards way, way over the bar. Perhaps it would have gone in 10 years ago, but they’ve moved the goalposts since then. The pitch has moved 10 yards towards London since the days of John Beck’s route zero murderers.

Hear that, did you? It’s a sigh. Another Saturday afternoon wasted.

Bouncity, bouncity, bouncity, bounce. The ball lolloping about at chest height, legs flailing, heads dipping, control absent, everything absent. Especially £13 from our pockets. Williams caught a cross. A highlight. The only thing that kept us awake was the inability of the Cambridge ‘keeper to kick the ball. Fed a constant stream of back-passes he managed to slice them all out for throw ins about 20 yards out. His finest moment was when he miscontrolled a back-pass from his left at his near post. Fleming ambled forward and nearly manhandled the ball in. Apparently this teenage wasteland in goal used to be at Moan United: he’s no longer protected by a silver spoon as he sucks his thumb by the banks of the Cam.

"Is Cambridgeshire known for its moose population?"
"I didn’t recognise Swin, he was smiling."
"Has Crowe done anything right with his left foot."
"Does your girlfriend know you work at the same place?"
"Pinault wears his trousers like a Frenchman"