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Joachim: Late Goal
Joachim: Late Goal

24/09 Boston 2nd Half

By: Tony Butcher
Date: 25/09/2005

BOSTON replaced Whelan with Rusk. I suppose the salad dodger wants to remain alive. Thirty seconds in and Town had nearly punched their own sucker.

Home > 2005-2006 Season > Reports > Boston (a)

Boston United 1 Grimsby Town 1
24 Sep 2005, Coca Cola League 2

Maylett spun on the left edge of the Town area and fizzled a low shot which struck Bolland's shins and skipped towards the bottom right hand corner. Mildenhall just managed to get down on the dance floor to push aside for a corner. Up went their big men, in other words the son of Cod, and the ball eventually fell to Maylett who shanked a dreadful swirler way over, way wide, way on down for a goal kick.

Yes, the son of Futch proved to be a big clod, perhaps he got all his mother's football genes. Or Uncle Ron's. A couple of minutes later he panicked when a ball was tumbled over the top, rolling slowly towards the penalty area. Futcher hoped Abbey would come, but as is his habit the keeper ummed and arghed before waving a big white glove. Futcher just wellied it out for a needless corner. He then glued himself to Rob Jones, demanding the shirt off his back, but the referee didn't want to give another penalty: we'd had our water rations.

Town were full of shape, but without ideas, without energy. The players stood around in their positions, occupying space, encouraging Boston on. Reddy was sent free but hit a defender's hands with his mouth when falling over a foot rather than dribbling on. There was a long hold up as blood was wiped away. Finally the kit man remembered he was holding a bag of shirts and Russell Slade thumped the side of the dug out. Reddy walked off and swapped into a numberless, nameless polyester bodyhugger.

Town sank further and further back, holding a line on the edge of their area, watching and waiting as Potatolanders peeled around in front of them, preparing to fry. Bostonians fell, free kicks a-plenty. Twenty yards out in the centre, a free kick. The Town wall was cobbled together from old newspapers and toilet rolls, lining itself up in the centre. Both posts were exposed, the glue pot empty, staples and safety pins keeping the wibbly-wobbly wall together and Mildenhall bellowing instruction for it to be pulled across his left hand post. Noble and Ross stood over the ball, Ross spun and clipped it with his right foot. The ball seemed to curl to Mildenhall's left, then zoom back to his right. The Big M adjusted his feet, swung his body back and brilliantly parried the ball away from the right side of the goal for a corner. No need to worry about that corner which was cleared easily up to Reddy, who turned past Rusk on the half-way line and was off down the touchline quicker than an invoice through the office shredder. Out came Rusk's tusks and Reddy was impaled and tossed aside spectacularly, rolling thrice along the round. Rusk was booked. Boston fans raging.

Reddy was toying with his new admirers, nudging and nurdling his markers, who descended upon him like a disturbed wasps nest. Reddy tangled with Maylett on the touchline as they challenged for a bouncing ball. They fell upon each other off the pitch, right under the inkpot of nutty Fensters, who roared at the referee in a attempt to get Reddy sent off. They failed: sensible refereering for once. The Town tide washed back and with no offshore breeze there was no danger of flooding to the locals.

Back Boston came, suddenly outnumbering Town everywhere. Every clearance went back to them, no respite for the wearying Townites. Crosses raining in, Joachim bullying his way past sturdier opponents. A free kick way out on their right was clipped to the far post. Futcher rose unmarked and headed back across goal... and out for a goal kick. Why is Whittle, not Jones, marking Futcher? More crosses, more flickery and trickery from our county cousins, with more moments of extreme concern. The Town end was quietening, beginning to mumble; the Town team was slowing. Substitutions anyone?

Steve Mildenhall
John McDermott
Justin Whittle
Rob Jones
Gary Croft
Gary Cohen
Paul Bolland
Jean-Paul Kamudimbagoal
Tom Newey
Martin Gritton
Michael Reddyyellow card


Andy Parkinson75 mins
Gary Jones
Terry Barwick
Tony Crane
Simon Ramsden


Graham Salisbury


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A cross through the area, Macca was forced to nod away for a corner. It's coming, you can see it, you can feel it: Town were barely in this match, standing and waiting for the next attack. Remind me again - who has ten players? Another free kick, lofted to the left edge of the Town area. Mildenhall came out and half punched the ball straight to Maylett, twenty five yards out, who took one touch and spun a volley goal wards. The ball glided over the retreating Mildenhall, over McDermott on the line and just over the angle of post and bar. Town tried some possession football to slow the game down, to dictate, but after five passes the ball ended up back with the centre backs, who just whacked it upfield.

The change it had to come, we knew it all along. With fifteen minutes left Croft was replaced by Parkinson, with Newey retreating to left back. Only one change? Within a minute Town broke away from the half way line, Cohen dribbling forward, the defence retreating, he slid a perfectly weighted pass out to Gritton on the left. The Gritster took the ball on with the defenders running parallel, not closing him down. He got inside the area, looked up and saw blue shirts arriving in the centre. He took another stride and, from about a dozen yards out wide of goal, pinged a firm drive across Abbey, who parried the ball to Parkinson, a dozen yards out. Parky stretched to control the ball, but sliced a clearance out of the area, such was the power of the parry.

Once more into the breach in their defence. Boston desperation, Town clearance, Kalala in the centre, Gritton peeling, Reddy reeling and a perfect pass into Reddy feet. He zoomed, he loomed, he failed to look up. Kalala and Gritton were unmarked inside the area but Reddy only had eyes for himself. With three defenders huddled around, he cut infield and tried a further shimmy, rather than rolling the ball five yards to his right. He wasn't the toast of the Town at that moment.

Reddy and Gritton were hardly moving, Cohen seemed to be limping, Kalala was starting to become static, but still Town had the ball and an extra player. Town took up time with another period of possession football. Olé, olé, olé, oh no, it's back with Whittle. Boom, ball back in Abbey's arms. Five minutes left, and Town broke again, Parkinson tickled away down the left and losing possession, then winning it back. About twenty five yards out, just to the left of centre Parkinson delightfully curled a shot over and around Abbey. The ball suddenly dipped and clipped the top of the crossbar. A sure victory missed by perhaps an inch.

Hold tight defence: count to three, gotta stay close to Newey. Hold tight fans: sing and shout, shut our eyes, ride this roundabout. Boston piled forward, sending Futcher up to be centre forward. Such space into which we could move, but we'd have to get the ball first. Gritton acted as an auxiliary centre back, then left winger. He was everywhere, yet nowhere. More free kicks given away, pressure building, we've been here so many times, where you see the future and it hurts. With less than a minute left Bolland pursued the bouncing ball as it bumbled across the pitch. Close to the touchline he jumped and a Boston boot stretched out and lifted the ball, it striking him on the arm and going out of play. The referee decided to give a free kick. The ball was lofted in, Mildenhall half came out, a Town head nodded half clear, straight to Rusk, who punted it back, high towards the far post. Gritton was outbumped by Ellender, the ball skidding off his forehead to the right edge of the six yard box. Bolland pursued JOACHIM who spun instantly and harpooned the ball high into the top right hand corner.

There were three minutes of added time, during which Town thrust forward, getting nowhere until Reddy, with just a few seconds left, was pushed over on the edge of right edge of their penalty area. Reddy fell on the ball and immediately took the free kick, as Bolland dashed in to the area unmarked. Free behind the defence and about eight yards wide of goal, Bolland opened his body and steered the ball over and around Abbey towards the top left hand corner. The statistically worse keeper in the division soared to his left, stretched every sinew and then some of Futcher's, Ellender's and the tea lady's, to magnificently tip the ball aside. The ref ended the game there and then. The Town players stood aghast, astounded and apologetically in front of the huge wedge of Grimsby banked before them. Doing enough isn't enough sometimes.

Overall you can't complain about the result, Boston created just as many chances and had far more of the game than Town in the second half. After half time Town were hanging on - against a numerically inferior opponent. Town didn't play well, they didn't pass the ball well, some players didn't look well. But if this is going to be our disappointment this year, I think we'd take it.

I think we're all a little bit giddy from this last week. Let's take a break for a couple of days and put this down to hormones.

Nicko's Man of the Match

Only two possible candidates here. Mildenhall was his usual commanding self, making three excellent saves, especially from the free kick. So, if not Mildo/Mildew/Mildy then who?

You've known him since you knew his name,
He's always on our side,
He's always there or thereabouts,
He's taller than he's wide.

Here's another clue for you all - the walrus was Paul. No that's a red herring. Who else but media tartlet John Sir Mac of St Dermott. Why is he always interviewed in a helium filled room?

Rob's rant of the day

They all came out today. Enquiring as to their mode of transport to this match and whether they all came on the same Massey Ferguson. Yes, rubbish ground and no fans, but that loses its edge when it's true: we must have irony, we are Town, we are unique.

Official Warning

Mr G Salisbury. Concerned the cognoscenti by playing up to the crowd when clapping us for recognising his peccadilloes, but we warmed as he gave a penalty, sent one off and generally calmed down a bit. He was a bit inconsistent: similar challenges didn't necessarily result in the same decision, and he was a very reluctant giver of advantage. That suited us fine as it hindered Boston more than us. Overall he was OK. I see it in the stars, between Ursa major and Ursa minor: 7.03

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