Question of the Week
How much would you accept for Omar Bogle?
|JPK: Stunning Winner|
20/09 Tottenham 2nd Half
By: Tony Butcher
ROBINSON was greeted by the Pontoon with cheers and support, not the usual mundane insults. Ah, new tactics from the big book of Cod Psychology - buttering up the keeper so he cooks more easily under the grill.
Grimsby Town 1 Tottenham Hotspurs 0
Spurs break, Town apply the brakes through a strategically placed clump. Free kick to them about twenty five yards on the centre right. Out came the theodolytes, sextants, laser-guided toothpicks and all mod cons. Yes sirs, it's one of those tricksy training ground routines. There are a thousand ways to kick a ball over the bar and that was number 137: the flight of the bumble bee. On the hour a Town free kick allowed Whittle and Jones to chunter upfield. The ball was cleared, Town aching with Defoe flung free down the centre. Enter the razor-clawed dragon, breathing fire and roaring like Brian Blessed with a hangover. Kalalalala outsprinted Defoe and shrugged him aside. Marvellous
Reid - you've been Macca'd. Goodbye. With about 25 minutes left a little lad named Lennon replaced the Tottenham Teletubby. Ah, perhaps we'd have preferred Tinky-winky to have stayed on, for Lennon placed Croft in a gas-fired oven at mark 4: he'd be cooked in twenty minutes, just sprinkle a little lemon over the top. Imagine there's no possession, at least not for Town. If you've seen Town this season, it is very easy if you try. Lennon stripped Croft of all his flesh, forcing the Crofster into a cameo of Gallimoreness, backing away as the winger advanced, edging closer and closer to goal. Panic in the Pontoon. Two, three, four times, he shingled his way into the area, pulling crosses back, across, over, through, under. Town bodies hurled themselves ballwards. Rebounds, blocks, a brilliantly timed Whittle lunge. Croft, a fabtastic tackle as a Spursite lurked on the edge of the six-yards box. Mildenhall hadn't had to make a save.
Lennon again free and flapping a cross through the area and out for a throw in. Then Defoe replicating the illusion of danger. In the last twenty minutes Town players were zombified: the walking, running, standing still dead. Reddy was a lone bagpiper, playing with amazing grace, still nibbling away. With less than ten minutes left Barwick replaced the straining Cohen and Town had a bit of a second mighty wind with Reddy running them to ground in the corners. Big men up, no chances, just pressure, free kicks too, wasted, Kalalala overhitting. Lennon tied Croft into a yellow ribbon and ran off, pursued by the cast of Byker Grove. Relax, manful manfulness by Town and a rubbish cross did for that.
Listen lads we can still do this.
Did Gritton have a shot? Maybe, so what? Sorry, the last few minutes disappeared in a blur of delirium. Reddy won a corner on the right and almost sat down, just incapable of moving his limbs anymore. One last push laddie! He got up and walked into the middle, whilst the big bruisers barundled upfield. Parkinson clipped the ball into the near post, nowhere near a Town player. A defender nodded powerfully up and out of the area. The ball hung above Kalala, on the edge of the "D". Spurs players raced forward, the ball stayed up, waiting...waiting....Kalala just waiting, manoeuvring his body into the perfect shape to volley. BOOM, his boot connected, the ball zoomed through a thicket of legs and smacked into the left hand side of the goal; Robinson unsighted, unmoving, unable. JEAN-PAUL KAMUDIMBA KALALA - history is yours: a goal. The ground lifted from earth and went on a short trip around Cleethorpes. The crowd was a throbbing, heaving mass of happiness.
Err, how long left? A couple of minutes. Knees knocking, but through sheer joy, the crowd deafening, defiant and delighted. Defending to do: Spurs urgent, balls whacked forward to the little folk, Whittle and Jones nodding donkeys, impervious to the Tottenham charms; imperious, impassable. Three minutes of added time. Even the referee was time wasting for us when Keane stood in front Mildenhall as he drop kicked the ball away. The scoreboard ticked on..91 minutes..92 . A Spurs break down their left, a cross, Keane unmarked inside the area...volleyed down, across and safely into the arms of Mary Mildo.
The clock said 93, c'mon, get that whistle out. We saw it in his mouth, the arms waving, but the sound was drowned by the Mariners multitude. Cue a good old fashioned pitch invasion: uncontrollable glee, delirious delight, a Klinssman dive in to the Pontoon goal. It's a miracle! The traditional Town man-on-crutches hobbled across the pitch, shaking his props. The Town players were engulfed, the world watching. This is Town, this is our Town.
The party hasn't ended, and may never do. Pride: a much used word, but so apposite. Our players played with it, our fans have it, we have it, wherever you go they shall know our name: Grimsby Town. Spurs? Their players can go back to their cosseted mansions and spend the money they didn't earn; we care not. They live on a different planet, we live on this island earth, and for a day, it's our earth.
You know Russ had a dream: that his footballing children would one day live in a world where they were not judged by their bank balance, but by the content of their character.
Mildenhall had just two saves to make. That says everything about the ten in front of him. We, the nation of Grimsby, salute you. Now go and beat Boston. Booo, sort it Slade, booo.
Nicko's Macca of the Match
The Methuselah of pop-art full-backs was better than all the rest, no-one can tear him apart. International wingers on enough to buy 20 fur lined sheepskin jackets a week hold no worries.
Sue's Superman of the Match
With ketchup, not kryptonite, on his burgers, it's thunderbird 12, Mr Rob Jones the Stick who wowed them in the living rooms of Kuala Lumpar with his magnificence. Here, there and everywhere: Jones was peerless. Russ had better keep incanting the Rush back-catalogue over headless hamsters for a few more mornings; the magic potion hasn't worn off.
Mr G Laws
Didn't seem to do anything to annoy us (though the text messages from the armschairistas claim a 1st half penalty we didn't see). He spent the last few minutes wasting time for us. Overall he seemed to know what he was doing, not being a fussypot booker, or a laissez faire madman. So far, so good, so why not 7.974? It's the number on the tip of everyone's tongue these days.
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