Keep the Customer Satisfied: Mansfield Report

Grimsby Town 2 Mansfield 0
28 Aug 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Nice to see so many had turned left on the Lincoln by-pass, a sea of custard facing us in the Pontoon.

Town lined up in the 3-4-3 formation, as shown. From a distance you couldn’t see the sellotape, staples and waterproof sticking plasters (breathable and medicated) holding together the famous five; the five guys not called Crowe.

I can’t let this moment pass without a word for the Mighty Mariner, leaping around with verve and vim. Actually, choose your own word, I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate one, one that encapsulates the very essence of foamfoolery. A man wandered past the Pontoon in a fishing hat. Looks familiar. How? Surely that can’t be old Jack Hargreaves, I thought he was dead. Maybe it’s his look-a-like, that market has grown so much in recent years, hasn’t it.

Mansfield warmed up with a variation on the usual theme, though the aesthetes among us did wince when they saw several of the larger beefburgers practice heading the ball very high and very far. Mansfield wore their traditional yellow shirts and blue blue shorts.

Dish of the Day was one to bring tears to the eyes of ladies of a certain age, and men of a certain mental bent. Oh, bless his little red cotton stockings: it’s Hockless’ Mum’s Sunday lunch. They even put the apostrophe in the right place too. Standards are rising. What a shame they didn’t think of this culinary wheeze years ago. We’d have all looked forward to Galli’s chilled hop and malt soup, wouldn’t we?

1st half

Mansfield kicked off towards the Pontoon in the second half, so it was Town who kicked off towards the Mansfieldian masses south of the border, down Mexico way. They passed it, passed it again and the ball didn’t go out of play for several seconds. That’s what confidence does for you.

The opening couple of minutes or so were fast but fruitless. A swish here, a swash there; probing and prodding but no salty peanut. Town were in the slight ascendancy, with Reddy regularly rotating his crops. Crowe surging, crossing, Baptiste clearing near goal. Corner. Another minute, another Crowe surge. Reddy rolling, yellow boots stretching. Corner. McDermott, yes Macca, McD, the legendary-but-not-cult-one trotted over to the corner flag. Doesn’t Pinault usually chip them into the goalkeepers arms? Noses were tapped, heads were nodded, we’re up to something. Indeed we were, sir. The penalty box was crowded, so McDermott rolled the ball slowly, slowly, slowly out to the edge of the area. Why, there’s nobody there. Bumble, bumble, bumble, the ball bombled along: with their tiny hands on their tummy the Mansfield Men were chuckling away, laughing all day. Ha-ha-ha, hee-hee-hee. PINAULT emerged from behind a toadstool and thwacked a low shot from the centre right edge of the penalty area, the ball flicking off a yellow socked shin and in off the left hand post. Yes sir, we can boogie.

Oh loveliness, with added chocolate buttons. Town, moving marvellously, passing precisely, Pinault the centre of the universe. Another goal surely? Macca, Pinault and ooooooooooooh everyone, combine with one-touch nicks and knocks sending Reddy rampaging down the right. He got to the touchline, rolled a pass back across goal slightly behind Parkinson. Young Big Ears spun around and, from about 6 yards out at the near post, flashed a shot goalwards. Pilkington flung himself at Parky and superbly blocked, the ball rolling across the face of goal and being swept away in to the bin quicker than a processed-cheese roll.

Crowe again, ram-raiding the local supermarket down the left; crossing long, crossing short. Sestanovich drifted infield and dinked a perfect pass over and through the Mansfield defence. Crowe sprinted in from the wing, chesting the ball into the area. As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared, Pilkington huddled the ball to safety.