Question of the Week
How long before new manager arrives?
27/08 Barnet 2nd Half
By: Tony Butcher
TOWN made two changes at half time: Gritton replaced Reddy and Andrew came on for ..,hang on, what's all this? Wahey! Ho-ho-ho, hee-hee-hee, we're the laughing gnomes. Town kicked off, knocking back to Ramsden who launched a long punt up the left.
Barnet 0 Grimsby Town 1
With about 20 minutes to go Croft came on for Ramsden, presumably before the crowd sent him off. All hands on deck, all hands on deck, the Barnet brig is about to attack on the port bow. The busying Bees made a series of substitutions hauling off defenders and replacing them with attackers, the ball flung furiously forward, bodies hurtling into each other. Graham barundled through two challenges, on their right, the ball ricocheting once, twice, thrice into his path. A cross shot towards the near post was smothered without fuss by Mildenhall. Crosses from the left, crosses from the right, bargeball, not football. The ball was rebounding at crazy angles, Mildenhall imperious, impervious to the little blackshirts snapping at his heels. Town heads were emerging from the morass to clear, Town boots poking out to block. Frantic and frentic: finesse merely a clothes shop in the High Street. Barnet were fraying and flinging abuse at the officials. Oo-er, just because you're losing; keep your hair on.
Town were infrequent visitors to the Barnet half, Parky sent free, oozed away by the defender with just a squint a quiet word in his ear. Time ticking down, Town players being booked every minute. More pressure, more corners, more flan-flinging, more moaning, more bookings. Relief, a Town throw in; despair, another sending off. Bolland and a Barnet player grizzled at each other when Town got a throw in on the left, underneath the Underhill posse. Bolland held the ball, the Barnet player growled into his face and appeared to knock the ball out of Bolland's hands. Bolland was booked, shouted at the referee, and was booked again. Town players surrounded the referee to hand him the petition they'd just signed, holding a candlelit vigil and singing "We shall overcome" in a peaceful protest. Minor pandemonium, play on.
There were four minutes of added time.
The ball was wellied high, there was dancing, there was prancing, there was mincing too, but no chances were being created. Town broke away with Andrew, three against two. He looked up, looked for instruction, then ran into the corner. The referee gave Barnet a free kick for an invisible foul. The ball was back again in the air, fighting, biting, kiting: a corner. Another corner, half cleared, crossed back to the far post and a header looped across and over Mildenhall. From the mists of time an ancient warrior returned to save his nation. McDermott rose and headed the ball off the line. Our hero. Barnet still didn't know who they were dealing with - the perfect defending machine. Town broke, four against two. Andrew advancing, Kalalalalala sprinting forward, Gritton waiting in the centre. Andrew underhit his pass and.., that was it, victory.
The sweet smell of success. Town were organised, determined and professional. At no time did they look like losing, for Barnet huffled and puffled but didn't even get to the front door, they just wailed at the garden gate. Town have a large front garden. Plaudits all along the watchtower at the back, with the three sentries in the midfield guard house getting a ribbon on their medals. Town did enough, and even looked likely to string passes together when attacking. Andrew was lively and direct, a sort of stronger less dizzy Mansaram, whilst Gritton appeared to be focussed upon his present job, rather than a game of darts in his local next Tuesday. G Jones was efficient and not without hints of skill. The longer the game went on the more direct Barnet became, until they just went route one. They looked like a team who wanted to pass the ball but were reliant upon pace, rather than a playmaker. A few strategically placed roadblocks were all it took to confuse them. Sound familiar?
The music was soothing and every Town fan was groovin'. Now we know what was under the tarpaulin: three points - and they're ours.
Nicko's Man of the Match
We love saying "we told you so". We told you so Russ, four defenders, four midfielders. Jones was a colossus, but restored to his plinth John McDermott was macca-nificent, defending with his head and hips, not with hope. The last minute header off the line was the icing on a particularly sweet cake.
Markie's Unman of the Match
Forty five minutes of total terribleness, incapability on a brown-field site. Tom Newey: oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. You are new, so this is the slack you get: must do better.
Rob's rant of the day
"Howzat" to a ball pitching outside leg stump.
Mr S Dorr. The camp crusader, shut that Dorr. Weak, a daytripping official seeking the easy way out. He'll get his licence revoked for he's broken an iron law of football: he booked John McDermott; ergo he has no competence. Easily influenced by the moaners and groaners in the popular stand he always looked likely to send someone off. So George Daws, what's the score? 3.786.
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