Diamond Geezers, Episode 57: Hello Darkness, My Old Friend
Returning to earth from the dizzying heights of European competition isn’t going to be easy, but I trust my experienced old hands to keep the spunky youngsters energised for our forthcoming run of Division One games. Marcel Mahouvé is helping Rhys Weston to sharpen his studs as we trundle our way towards Valley Parade, while Roberto Baggio attempts to lend Alexander Farnerud some of the off-cuts from his overflowing locks. He doesn’t seem impressed. Listen to the man, Alex.
A Jim Jeffries-led Bradford City will welcome us next, and the fact is, they haven’t had a great start to the season. Sitting inside the relegation zone after nine games, their ‘star’ players are David Wetherall, Michael Duberry and Robbie Blake, which pretty much explains their situation in a nutshell. Right midfielder James Fowler seems to be their best performer so far this season, so in an attempt to shackle him I replace Victory with Kalvenes due to his vastly superior Tackling stat (11, since you ask). Hmm. Having full-backs that can’t tackle might explain all the goals we’ve been letting in recently, if I decided to give it a moment’s thought… which I don’t.
We line up with our strongest side, the only real change (other than Kalvenes) being that Rhys Weston is going to get a spot on the bench as Mahouvé’s new understudy. Love Mad Dog as I do, his numbers are plummeting as he finally succumbs to the rabies, and it’s time for a fresh face to make an impression in my squad. A two-time Welsh international isn’t a bad place to start.
There’s a spirit of friendship and togetherness amongst the squad, and I feel almost dizzy with pride. Nothing to do with finally finishing that Jameson’s right before we left Irthlingborough, I’m sure.
We begin the game quicker than Bradford and have the first couple of chances, through Benjani and Javan, but both are off-target. Then, in the 18th minute, Benjani is forced off injured, so I throw Peter Møller into the fray. However, despite the presence of the Great Dane, we can’t get anything on target — Baggio and Bubb both shoot wide from further good positions — while Pinheiro has to be alert to turn a Gareth Whalley free-kick around the post. However, this deadlock remains unbroken, and we come in goalless at half-time.
I pass slices of honeydew melon around the dressing room to try to snap the players out of their first half funk, and it most certainly works. Marcel Mahouvé, who seems to be particularly motivated by my unorthodox team talks, stamps and slaps his way into the box for a corner, and when Baggio arrows the ball towards him, our great Destroyer explodes into the air to power his header past Andy Marshall and give us a 1–0 lead. And ten minutes later, we have the ball in the net again through Møller’s header from a Bubb cross, but the Great Dane was offside, so the goal is scrubbed out. However, I feel good about how we’re growing into the game second half, and I turn around to grab a quick celebratory shot of mezcal just as Fernando Couto squares up to Phil Lynch and pushes him over for scuffing up his hair, or something. Our jittery and uptight referee can’t possibly stand for that, and as if just to ruin my afternoon, he whips out a red card and dismisses our handsome veteran. Luckily, Rhys Weston is a D/DMC, so he comes on in place of Roberto Baggio, no less, and lines up alongside Teddy at centre-half; not the debut I wanted for the Welshman, but he came through the Lilleshall Centre of Excellence, so I’m sure he can stand to spend half an hour kicking Robbie Blake into the sky.
And the truth is, Weston and his comrades shut out Bradford for the last 30 minutes, with only Blake managing to sting the palms of Pinheiro before the end, and while we don’t create anything else ourselves with a man down, it matters not: we have a second consecutive league clean sheet, and a nice, narrow, boring 1–0 away win. And you know what? I’ll take it. All the gunslinging we’ve been doing this season is making me nauseous, though again, that might also have been caused by all that whiskey I had this morning. I also take back what I said about Michael Duberry.
Couto is banned for one game, which I appeal — hardly touched him, ref — and Benjani is out for a month with an ankle ligament injury. However, in the very next news item, I’m told that Cherno Samba has just recovered from his shin injury. Coincidence? Serendipity? Perhaps both, but either way, the big lad is promoted to my seniors for our forthcoming games, where we’ll play the teams placed in 17th, 21st and 24th in the league. If Cherno can’t make some magic in those, I’ll eat my shoes.
Millwall’s Steve McMahon wins the Mike Paul Manager of the Month Award for September, which is disappointing, but Marcel Mahouvé’s ridiculous 8.0 average rating wins him Player of the Month — and it’s hard to disagree with the Division One Awards Selection Committee. Since moving into the heart of my team, the Mahouvé Dam has held firm against a tsunami of opposition counter-attacks, and has further established our great Destroyer as a firm favourite amongst the Rushden Ultras. There’s even a t-shirt about it.
Suddenly, various Welsh Premier Division teams decide they want Eddie Forrest on loan. Llanelli, Oswestry Town and Afan Lido all make bids, and to be honest, I’m not desperate for him to go to any of them for the rest of the season. I mean, if fellow UEFA Cup second rounders Total Network Solutions approach me, I’d be more than happy to see Steady Eddie shore up their back line, but the rest of these also-rans? Not so much. I reject them all, and waft Forrest in the general direction of Llansantffriad.
And speaking of Wales, there’s more good news for my squad players as a Rhys Weston-powered Dragons take down England in the European Championship Qualifiers at the Millennium Stadium. The lad can play, there’s no doubt about that, and my confidence that he’s the heir to Mad Dog’s throne has never been stronger.
Meanwhile, Blackburn bid £3.9m for Joleon Lescott, which is way over the odds and completely out of my price range. Good luck to you, Joleon. Never fancied you anyway.
We return to Nene Park to greet Sheffield Wednesday in what will be our first ever clash with the Owls. They’ve got a decent side between Nicky Weaver, Leigh Bromby, Dean Windass, Danny Cadamarteri and Gerald Sibon, but despite their presence, Wednesday are languishing in 17th after just two wins in their first nine games. Their slightly asymmetrical 4–4–1–1 shouldn’t be too much of a problem, especially as Sibon tends to operate in Marcel Mahouvé territory and should therefore be ground into a fine powder before he’s able to have any real influence on the game.
This fixture is the first in a run of four matches in eight days, with the last being our UEFA Cup first leg against SVW Mannheim, so rotation is going to be necessary. To that end, I shift a few people in and out of the squad; Benjani’s injury lets Sir Les back in to partner Javan, Costacurta gives Couto a rest and takes his position alongside Teddy, Brandon and Andersson can have a go either side of Mahouvé, and Ben Dixon can trot up and down the right flank for an afternoon and see if he can win his way further into my affections. I would have Samba in my squad but he’s managed to orange-injure himself again, so he’ll have to be patient for the time being.
We start well, though Costacurta and Mahouvé get themselves booked very early on for a cynical foul and kicking the ball away in frustration, respectively. My players seem very wound up, made clearer by Martin Andersson and then Javan both shooting wildly off-target from good positions rather than trying to place their efforts; I feel like something is off, but nevertheless, we are still on top of Wednesday as we reach the midway point of the half. Sadly, at this moment, Costacurta goes down injured and I’m forced to replace him; I don’t think about it enough and accidentally put Kalvenes at centre-half instead of Weston, but decide it’s no problem. I’m sure CK will do fine in there.
The 40th minute arrives and we’ve had three shots on target to Wednesday’s zero. I feel like it’s only a matter of time before the deadlock is broken; however, the first thing that actually gets broken in the game is Leigh Bromby’s jaw, as Roberto Baggio — for no reason, I might add — walks over to him off the ball and right-hooks him into next week. It’s a red card for the Divine Ponytail, who’s turned heel at a pretty dreadful time; already shorn of Costacurta, we’re now facing an entire half with ten men. We come in for half time and Baggio has already left the building, probably to go to hospital for knuckle reconstructive surgery. I hastily shuffle Marcel back into DMC to protect my back four and basically hope that Brandon and Andersson can marshal the Owls’ midfield long enough for us to hold on for a draw, or maybe even nick a win.
The second half is essentially a siege on our goal, with Wednesday firing efforts from all over the pitch — but, despite my questions about his suitability for our run to the Premier League, Hugo Pinhero is a colossus in goal, beating away efforts from Flitcroft, Cadamarteri, Quinn, Windass and Hamshaw to keep us in the game. Lucic, Mahouvé and Victory are also imperious, making key headers and tackles all over the place to shut out the Owls. We manage no further efforts on target ourselves, which is a bit disappointing, but on the other hand, Wednesday defender Steven Haslam wins Man of the Match for an almost-perfect performance against Javan, plus after Baggio floored Bromby with only 40 minutes gone, we can’t grumble at a point and a clean sheet.
A new record crowd of 16,047 were at Nene Park to watch Baggio v Bromby, which has resulted in the Devil’s Ponytail being banned for three matches, starting on 22nd October — which will rule him out of the Newcastle game in the League Cup. Perhaps a blessing in disguise, since I should almost certainly revert to my 4–1–3–2 for that match anyway, but still. These fiery Italians and their passionate jabs, I tell you.
On the assumption that he’s responsible for teaching the players to use their fists in training, I decide to bid farewell to Bernard Lama from my non-playing staff. The truth is, he’s a horrible coach, and he’s still on £5,000 per week from his playing days, so while I’m grateful for his contributions at Nene Way, it’s probably best for him to retire to Nice and live out his days smoking cigars by a hotel swimming pool and asking young women if they know who he is. Eammon Bannon also leaves with very little fanfare; he’s not an awful coach, but we are in the position to upgrade. I head to my Staff Search and make generous offers to some frankly world-class coaches who are, for some reason, stuck at Glentoran and Perth Glory. They wouldn’t look out of place at Real Madrid, quite honestly. Let’s hope they prefer Northamptonshire.
Chugger’s brand new 24-inch spinners have got smoke coming out of them as we rumble up the M6 towards Crewe for our next game. There’s no time to rest, as the fixtures are coming thick and fast — so I hastily arrange the pieces on my tactical magnetic whiteboard to complete a coherent starting side. Crewe are 21st in the league, and our next opponents QPR are flat bottom and looking pretty terrible, so I decide that Davies and Gatti will play in centre-mid for the next one, but here, I can afford to play Bubb and Farnerud as a warm-up for the visit of Mannheim. Baggio can continue in the ten role; while I’m tempted to punish him for his insubordination, I suppose a three-match ban does that job for me. I’ll have Costacurta explain to him that his fists are for punching the sky in celebration, not defenders’ faces for no reason.
As we kick off I realise I haven’t even given Crewe the courtesy of looking at their players or tactics, and I’m mortified when I realise that Dean Ashton, Martin Rowlands and Christian Dailly are in their starting eleven and are all really quite good. However, we dominate the opening period, and when Rowlands is forced off injured after 20 minutes and we are peppering Chris Stringer’s goal with rangy efforts, it feels like only a matter of time before we stick one in the ball bag. And eventually I’m right, sort of — we actually score twice right at the end of the first half, with one coming immediately after the other. First Baggio repays my mercy by laying the ball on a plate for Meysam Javan to drive us into the lead, and straight from kick off, Farnerud goes on what is becoming a trademark weaving run through midfield and crosses for Peter Møller to rise above Rushden reject Pah Modou Kah (remember him?) and power home a header off the post for his first goal of the season.
I replace the booked Lucic with Weston at half time in order to avoid a third consecutive red card and send the players back out for the second period. Within ten minutes, we’ve conceded; Reddy puts a ball into the six yard box and Pinheiro bungles it straight to the feet of Dean Ashton, who can’t miss, and makes it 2–1. Crewe are starting to come back into the game a little, but we’re still having our chances, though Javan can only shoot off-target from good positions. Farnerud is then forced off injured, which furrows my brow to the point of physical pain, but suddenly Byron Bubb breaks through the Crewe lines, bears down on goal, and is cynically wiped out by David Wright! I’m out of my seat and applauding the inevitable penalty decision before I’ve even looked at the referee, who says… NO PENALTY? WHAT F — KING GAME ARE YOU WATCHING? How many penalty appeals are we going to have waved away this season before we finally get one?! Conspiracy! I see you, Football Association!
Oh well, it’s the 94th minute and Christian Dailly is standing over a free-kick. At least it’s another three points in the bag. Roar, do the post-match tunnel interview, will you?
What’s that?
Ah, Championship Manager. Welcome. It’s taken more than two seasons, but you’re finally here. Let’s dance.
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