The Grimsby Town FC


Question of the Week

Will Paul Hurst stay at Grimsby?



10/08 Boston 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 11/08/2004

NO changes were made by either team at half time. Town slashed ‘em to pieces. But not until after an early wibble. After a couple of minutes Carruthers was flicked free inside the Town area on the right and his low shot went straight to Williams at the near post, who grabbed it at the second attempt.

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Grimsby Town 1 Boston United 1
10 Aug 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Then it was all Town, a raging storm lashing the Blue Meanies; the Bostonians stumped by passing and movement made flesh: Pinault and Parky. The Town fans awoke from their torpor, the silent masses finding voice, lifting the lads, roaring on the raiders. Pinault rolled the ball forward to Mansaram, who flipped the ball aside to the marauding McDermott (hello, nice to see you again Macca). A void filled with an icon straining, pushing his ageing limbs to the limit. One touch, one shot, sailing a couple of feet over the bar. Argh, shame.

Pinault ran the game, dispossessing, distributing, disturbing the Bostonian peace, threading passes through, floating passes over, pushing and prompting Town forward. Crowe free, Parkinson free, almost, nearly, not quite. Temperature rising, the fever is high.

And the final Boston attack of note came and went in the 52nd minute. Whacked upfield, Carruthers falling over, Whittle penalised for looking at an opponent in a funny way. A free kick 25ish yards out in the centre, a Town wall made of sand, the tide rushing in, Noble curled a beauty over the wall, on to the bar right above Williams’ head. After that Boston got near the Town penalty area sometimes, had a couple of corners and possibly made Williams come out and save at someone’s feet. Maybe. The ghosts down at the Osmond End were difficult to see and frankly they never looked like troubling Town.

Town, pure Town for half an hour. The Pontoon sucked the ball towards Abbey, who made a habit of saving Town shots. We don’t expect that sort of thing from fourth division keepers: that’s two on the trot that have been star savers. This will not do. Sestanovich sent free down the centre, hareming ‘em, scareming ‘em, shooting low. Abbey flying solo, so low to push aside the dribbler. Aww, what a cracker. Pish-posh-pass, Pinault wooing the ladies, Parkinson scarpering free, letting fly from 25 yards. The ball drifted, drifted, catching thermals to rise and shine towards the top left hand corner. Abbey, superbly, rose like a mighty salmon to lift the ball over the bar with his wrist. Pinault again, swoon at the swinging pantaloons of Paris as he smithered a whacking great effort from 30 yards. The ball wobbled over the defenders towards the bottom right hand corner and Abbey again saved well, plunging on, and pushing away a dangerously dropping drive. The crowd were on their feet. Pinault again, a perfect pass inside the full back setting Parkinson free down the left. On the bye-line, at the very edge of the area Parkinson clipped a cross to the badlands of the back post. Crowe raced in, unmarked and from 10 yards out headed firmly back across goal. The ball crawled past the angle of post and bar as everyone stood motionless watching, waiting, wailing. How did it miss? Any answers Mr Crowe?

Still Town drove on like a demented shepherd taking his flock to market. Cross the river, run up the hill, follow that star. Sestanovich does the usual: turn, run, hold off, shoot, miss. This time just the four defenders bounced off his body as he singed the Boston beard down the centre. Now, surely, the time is near? Parkinson behind the defence on the right after a Mansaram flick. The cross hanging, titillating, teasing Abbey. Fleming hung like an albatross upon the air, inside the 6 yards box, at the near post. A goal certain, certainly? Abbey jumped at Fleming and smothered the ball. How did he do that?

Will we ever score?

Anthony Williams
Justin Whittle
Simon Ramsdenyellow card
Rob Jones
John McDermott
Thomas Pinault
Terry Fleming
Jason Crowe
Ashley Sestanovich
Andy Parkinson
Darren Mansaram


Greg Young11 mins
Michael Reddygoal69 mins
Clint Marcelle86 mins


Brian Curson


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With 20 minutes left the existential finesse of Mansaram made way for the muscular hairstyle of Reddy. He jumped and missed an up and under, the ball ricocheted back to Town. Fleming free in the centre, licking the ball forward to Sestanovich, infiltrating the empty spaces defenders used to walk. He bundled forward, Parkinson veered right, Reddy left, the Boston defence put its collective hands on its cheeks and screamed, and the blue sea parted as he searched for the promised land. Near the edge of the area, Sestanovich flicked the ball to his left and Reddy pushed the button marked turbobooster and accelerated forwards. Abbey raced off his line, dived full length and the ball skidded on towards his waiting hands. The hairboy stretched forward and just managed to divert the ball from a straight line. The ball eluded Abbey and REDDY skipped past him and rolled it in from a yard or so out, next to the right-hand post. Grimsby was now Grinsby: one and half touches, one goal, what a performer.

The game fizzled away slowly. Town were a blur of movement upfront, but nothing clear cut resulted. Abbey was forced to hare off his line a few times to whisk the ball away from the rampaging Reddy’s feet. What will he be like when he’s fit? The pattern of the game was broken by Boston barging. Town seemed to play most of the game with 10 men, for centre backs kept being led off the pitch to have head wounds tended to. Whittle, again, was sent away to replace his shirt. Young was battered by Lee and eventually came back with someone else’s shirt, it was far too small; he could barely got his head through the collar. Town got ratty, especially Ramsden who was eventually booked for failing to clobber a Boston player.

With about 5 minutes left Sestanovich was replaced by Boney Marcelle, he’s crazy like a fool with that hair. Marcelle got the ball once and nearly passed it to McDermott. Nothing else to report, unless you really want to know about the Boston substitutions. Lee was taken off near the end before even this daft ref would send him off. Boston brought on players and they did nothing of any consequence, so why bother thinking about them? Sometime towards the end the Main Stand lost its temper with Evans, for his constant moaning and jumping around. And that’s just about it. Two minutes of added time brought Boston a corner, Boston a throw in and a happy ending for the men and women from the heart of Potatoland. They seemed ecstatic at not losing to us, a bit like we used to celebrate when we used to beat (no disrespect to) the likes of Wolves away from the Park. Ah, those far off days of 2002, so long ago.

Town thoroughly deserved to win in the end; let’s ignore that travesty of a first half performance. Fitful, fretful, failing. Slade’s half time pep-talk, no doubt using the phrase "work ethic" at least twice every minute, did the trick. The force was with Town, if not the fortune. Boston were much better, more formidable opponents than Darlington had been, but less potent as an attacking force, though Lee’s arms were potent (as the A & E department nightshift will tell you). First half blunderers reached a level of adequacy in the second, and the twinkling heartbeat of the team kept knitting some stylish continental cardigans in midfield.

The ingredients for sustained pleasure are there, and we can’t keep meeting keepers who play blinders. Not perfect, but getting there.

Nicko’s Man of the Match

One man, one vision-ision-ision-ision. Thomas Pinault, ooh-la-la, magnifique, hit them with your rhythm stick, pass it slowly, pass it quick. You must be a lunatic to come to Town, in the fourth division. What are you doing playing for us? Working for peanuts is all very fine but you can show us a better time. Yes, he played very well.

Official Warning

B Curson. And we were a-cursin’ this pompous twerp. His indulgence of Jason Lee was quite disgraceful, perhaps he had decided that only after the final defender on Town’s books had had his nose snapped off would he find the red card. He kept giving Boston free kicks for blatant "falls", but ignored their wandering boots. And at times he allowed Town players to kick Boston, the later the tackle the more likely he was to allow play to continue. He managed to be worse than his linesmen: some feat. He set a standard, of sorts, and a score on his door not exceeding 1.022 would be more than fair. I feel in generous mood.

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