Take Me To Church, Ep 11: Arrival
It’s a quiet drive home from Maidenhead after that loss. I’m not too disheartened, in truth; we were, once again, the better side. You’ve got to focus on that at the end of the day. Losing is part of this nonsense — as long as your players are showing up and sort of doing the things you’ve asked them to do, plus a few extra good ideas you didn’t think of but still work in your favour, you’ve got to take it. That, and several large, strong drinks the moment you get home.
The good news is that we are still top of the pile as we welcome Eastbourne Borough to The Stadium, a side sitting joint bottom of the division with 12 points from 18 games and who I hope will be a tasty tonic to that dreadful defeat three afternoons ago. My only change is Tolley starting up top in place of Birchall, for no real reason other than that Birchall will be leaving when his loan ends and I’d like to bed in his replacement. Plus, if The Sports are the gracious, wide-open visitors I’m hoping they’ll be, it might be good for both his match fitness and a spot of duck-breaking.
The first half is more even than I’d prefer, but we still have the better of it. We take nine shots of which, naturally, only two are on target — but most importantly, one of them does go in. The first, an effort on the run from arch-dribbler Simieon Howell, is palmed away by Lee Hook in the visiting nets, but Howell collects the save on the left byline and swings over a cross that Windross heads into a hapless defender and past Hook for 1–0 at half-time.
My midfield are dominating this game as we move into the second period, and it only takes three minutes for us to extend our lead. Boothy is the latest to get to the byline, he pings the ball to the edge of the box for Sarge to hit a dipping volley of all things, it crashes down off the crossbar, and Windross cleans it up for 2–0.
We’re looking pretty good, and although Eastbourne do claw one back through yet another flukey deflected free-kick that hits the wall and changes direction entirely before nestling in at Corderoy’s near post, the game is wrapped up nicely by substitute Adam Birchall, on for Tolley, who chases down an excellent D’Laryea interception/clearance and tucks the ball in at Hook’s near post for 3–1 in the last minute. Hornchurch are back on the horse, and I’ll be back on the Strongbows the first moment I can justify leaving getting out of here. And I’ll be taking Sarge with me, if he’ll come — what a man-of-the-match performance this was.
I have so many potential transfer deals in the pipeline that I can barely keep track of them, although since my filing system is little more than an inbox full of text messages from numbers I didn’t save and various pieces of paper strewn across the heavily-stained couch in the pub’s upstairs living room, my chances were always pretty slim. I’m so disorganised that I only realise it’s Christmas Day and then Boxing Day when I go downstairs for my morning pint to find the place locked up.
Then again, there’s no real need to pay too much attention to what’s going on with my transfer business. Almost all of my incredibly one-sided courtships are with non-EU players who won’t get work permits anyway. I resolve to only get excited if one of them actually goes through.
Oh hang on a minute. Hang on just a minute there.
To my surprise, Jaroslav Timko is from the very European state of Slovakia, and using all 38 years of his experience on this Earth he decides he’s happy to take a 150% pay rise and saunter around in the Conference South for six months. A true gentleman footballer if ever there was one. The question is… am I going to sign him?
I feel the wind rush through my hair as every single one of you reading this lets out an incredulous and simultaneous “pff” at the very idea that I might turn down an ageing foreign striker, but hear me out. We’ve got Windross, we’ve got Birchall for a while longer. I’ve just signed Shane Tolley, plus Lee Paul and Jerome Vareille are arriving in a week’s time. Comparing the attributes, there’s absolutely no question that Timko is better than all of them — he’s probably better than Paul and Vareille combined — but do I need six strikers for two positions? Do I really?
Of course I do. The moment I looked back at Paul and Vareille’s attributes, I’d decided. They’re both fine, of course, but look — they’re streets behind our soon-to-be brand new 18-cap wonder.
I’m excited as I push through the following few days, looking ahead to our New Year’s Day return clash with Weston-super-Mare where I’ll get to dress up all my shiny new playthings in Hornchurch kits for the first time — but before that, there is the small matter of our away trip to Carshalton followed by a final home game of 2004 against St. Albans.
As we hit the road in Limey for the short journey around the M25, I plot my starting side for these fixtures, which come just two days apart. Cabrera has hit his yellow cards limit so the lesser-spotted Sam Tillen will take his place at left-back. The Robins (who in 2022 are managed by none other than “Big” Pete Adeniyi, let’s hope I didn’t teach him anything) are hovering precariously just above the relegation zone, so I decide rotation will be the order of the day. Elcock is shoved into the hole left by Nathan D’Laryea at right-back, Browne replaces Gaughan at CB, Birchall is restored to the starting team up top with Windy, and in midfield, it’s all change.
Boothy, Sarge and Howell are all a bit tired, so rather than thrash them until they can’t walk, I tell Pegger to do what he does best, Tolley to see whether he likes being our star quarterback, and Ruel Fox to just do something, anything, that resembles Mark Booth. Let’s see how he does.
Ruel Fox wins a header in midfield in the 10th minute, if you can believe that, but it’s the only bright spark in a frustratingly even first half-hour that sees one good chance at each end, but not a lot else. That is, until 29 minutes and 52 seconds tick onto the board, at which moment James Smith goes into my bad books in permanent ink by committing a foul, screaming half his known obscenities at the ref, receiving a yellow card, then proceeding to scream the other half in response, resulting in an early bath. For absolutely nothing. Why the hell do I pay these children? Ohhhhhhh right I don’t pay him anything. That’s a small consolation.
The easiest change is to move to a flat back four and leave the rest of the team the same, and being a man who likes to work only as much as is absolutely necessary, that’s what I choose. The loss of Smith puts the rest of my defenders all over the shop for the remaining 15 minutes of the half, leaving gaps you could sail an aircraft carrier through, but every time the Robins get in on goal, they can only fire wide — and we make them pay right on the 45.
It’s a textbook Mike Paul-era goal, too. Sam Tillen “plays it long” according to the commentary, but really what he’s done is panicked at the sound of me screaming at him from the touchline, mere yards away, to GET RID, and in response he’s launched the ball as far as his scrawny legs can kick it. Fortunately, that distance is exactly far enough to sail over the heads of the Robins defenders and into the path of Adam Birchall, who takes a first touch so heavy the home keeper should gather it easily, but instead he simply taps it back into the path of our top scorer who makes no mistake at the second time of asking. It’s 1–0, somehow, at the break.
Tolley has plummeted to 71% fitness from his first-half excursions, and having done little to justify staying on, I hook him for the safety and warmth of Sarge, who goes into left MC with a backwards run instruction, mirroring Pegger on the other side. A goal up but a man down, I decide to play it slightly safer for the second half.
It works. We get a 56th minute pen that Sarge dispatches with ease, and after Corderoy makes a stunning one-handed point-blank save from a Carshalton corner on 67, I know the game is going to be ours. I replace Fox, who’s on a 9, with Lawless and Gaughan comes on for Browne, and while the Robins do score a consolation goal having gone to the standard 2–3–5 that everyone resorts to when they’re losing, we hold them off just long enough to scarper home with all three points.
There’s just enough time for me to be rejected by former Arsenal defender Oleg Luzhnyi, understandably, before we’re straight into the home dressing room for our final game of the year. St. Albans City are mid-table and don’t really have any stand-out performers; their top scorer is Lloyd Opara with four goals in 21 games. He does however have 12 assists that he’s spread around the rest of the team, although his average rating for the season is, somehow, just 6.95. This pretty much sums up the kind of team St. Albans are; a curious bunch.
We’re just three points clear at the top of the table, and I’d very much like to maintain that, at least, as we head into 2005. To make that happen, it’s all change to my starting side — everyone who played last time is at 90% fitness, so it was required, but even if they were all raring to go again, I’d still take Cabrera over Tillen and D’Laryea ahead of Elcock, plus Booth, Howell, Sarge and Gaughan return to the XI in place of Fox, Pegger, Tolley and Smith, who’s been strapped to a barge and pushed out to sea.
Our opener is an absolute blockbuster from Andrew Windross. Some good approach play between him, Birchall and Howell ends with the ball teed up to him, about 22 yards out, and he winds up a scorcher that pings in off the far post. He’s not only got good feet for a big lad, he’s also got the odd blinder in his locker as well.
The goal, on 25 minutes, brightens up a pretty drab first half that then peters out as quickly as it appeared. I leave the players in place for the start of the second, and before too long, it becomes apparent that my players are all trying to put in late contenders for Goal of the Year. Booth and Windross combine to find Howell in midfield, he shimmies towards goal and unleashes our second thunderbastard of the game that clatters into the postage stamp for 2–0 to the good guys!
With Corderoy a spectator and only a single other highlight to watch, which is Opara launching a shot into orbit with five minutes left, that’s both game and year over. A very quick, very satisfying win, courtesy of two of the most YouTubeable goals you’ll ever see. If only YouTube had been invented in December 2004 and not February 2005! What a shame.
Oh, go on then.
I let all my players and staff go home to their families as soon as the game is over; it’s New Years, after all. Mick offers to spend the 31st with me several times, which I decline with decreasing politeness until he finally takes the hint.
As the clock ticks through the afternoon, I clink glasses with Big Sooz, who’s gone all out, it has to be said — she’s wearing a pair of those “2005” glasses and has several lengths of tinsel draped over her shoulders as she pours an entire bar’s-length of Aftershocks for us to slam in preparation for the big night ahead. It’s been a good half-year worth celebrating. I take a deep breath as I line up to smash the front nine, when I’m distracted by my phone buzzing uncontrollably in my pocket.
Oh shit. This would be genuinely huge. He’ll surely get a work permit as well — 50 Ukraine caps and five previous years playing in England, which only ended at the beginning of this very season? Lads, our new skipper could well be inbound. Sooz! Get the bottles back out, for tonight, we prematurely celebrate!
I wake up on the floor of the home changing room at midday, with an empty bottle of Lambrusco in one hand and my clothes still mostly attached to my body. Normally I’d simply collect myself and slink off home, but this time, I don’t wake up naturally — I am instead awoken by several unfamiliar faces, who say they’re here for their first day.
Ah, welcome in, my boys! Of course I remembered that you were all arriving today. Go out and do a few laps of the pitch and some stretches, will you? I’ve just got… I’ve just got a few things I need to sort out here!
My god, I need an assistant. And I don’t mean Jorge or Mick; I don’t understand anything the former says and I wish I could say the same for the latter. I could really do with someone to organise my actual, y’know, day-to-day affairs. Four new guys showing up at once? Four? That’s insane.
I watch my new charges gallop away, noting that Lee Paul does seem familiar, and while Timko is the slowest, he also appears to make a stray ball roll into the net with the power of his mind, so as my other, longer-suffering players arrive at the ground for our New Year’s Day meeting with Weston-super-Mare, I’ve already done some scribbling on my whiteboard. We’re going to see what some of these new boys can do.
The real reason for all this rotation is fitness, as most of my players are hovering somewhere near 90% following their excursions from the previous night. Howell is suspended anyway so Tolley gets another bash in midfield, and while I would also rest Booth and all three of my centre-halves, I still don’t really have good enough replacements for them to risk losing our first game of the year. And besides, WSM are only a point away from being flat bottom of the table, so a home fixture against them is the perfect way to get my newbies off on the right foot.
As I hoped, we’re all over WSM from the get-go. Mark Booth is playing the role of tormentor-in-chief, and cracks two shots on goal from just inside the box that Northmore fields well in the visiting nets. Our guests are crumbling, however, and just past the half-hour mark, we make the breakthrough. Kevin Gaughan lifts a deep free-kick forward, Lee Paul spins his defender, and takes the bouncing ball on the half-volley to rattle home a debut goal for the mighty Urchins! GREAT HIT, SON! THAT’S SON IN THE COLLOQUIAL FOOTBALLING SENSE! NOT THE PATERNAL ONE! GREAT HIT, SOMEBODY ELSE’S SON! THAT’S NOT MY BOY!
We reach half-time with just the single goal advantage, but requiring a change. Shane Tolley has been goosed up in centre-mid and is orange-injured, so I replace him with Stephen Cooke for the second period. It starts well — Paul is an absolute menace up front, both to the WSM goal and their players, as he hits the side netting twice before being booked for scything down a hapless defender who’s just trying to clear the ball. On 65 minutes I decide to replace him with Vareille, since he looks a bit too wound up for my liking — he avoids my attempted hug as he leaves the pitch — and with the next action of the game, my two substitutes combine. Cabrera releases Vareille down the left flank, he beats his defender and crosses low for Cooke to connect with a first-time shot that nestles into the far corner. 2–0, game over, and a very satisfactory first win of the year.
And it’s broadly a great start for my new players, too. As well as Paul and Vareille directly contributing to both goals, Pastuszka, my new right-back, picks up the Man of the Match award for literally winning more tackles than the rest of the starting team put together. Timko was a bit quieter than I expected, but that’s okay. He’ll come good. And if he doesn’t, my other two new strikers look the business.
We’re only a day away from the short trip over the Dartford Crossing to see Welling at their place, so I pile everyone aboard our lime avenger and consider my starting team. The main thing we missed against WSM was headers — Timko only won two of seven, and Paul didn’t win either of his attempts. I think we still need Windross up there to do the dirty work, so I restore him to the side and let Paul be the buzzy little mosquito who mops up his knock-downs. It’s not nepotism.
Howell is back so he replaces Tolley in CM, while Sarge also returns in place of Pegger. Pastuszka is knackered after what was probably the most productive and professional game of his career, so Elcock returns to haunt the right flank in his place. I really could do with a larger squad, or even a squad of the same size but with considerably better depth and fitness, but what can you do? We’re six points clear at the top of the table, so mustn’t grumble. I just need to keep on being a tactical and managerial genius for a few more months, I suppose.
Welling are hovering around the playoff places in the league and are theoretically no slouches, but we absolutely shred them in the first half. Paul, Windross, Howell and Booth all have unbelievable chances to put us in front, slicing through the home defence time and time again, but all our shots are either off-target or saved by the excellent and appropriately-named GK Charlie Mitten in the home nets.
Welling actually only get forward once in the whole first 45, right as the referee is about to blow up for the break. A far post cross comes in from the left, right-midfielder Phillip Jones beats Cabrera in the air, and wouldn’t you just know it, we’re 1–0 down at half-time from absolutely nothing. A more against-the-run-of-play goal has never been scored against us. I am apoplectic.
At the break I also note that both Booth and Sarge have picked up knocks; this is not going the way I planned. They don’t seem to be too badly affected by them, however, so I fire the players up with some guttural howls and send them back out for the second half as they started the first.
Within five minutes, Mitten’s mittens have twice prevented Windross from levelling the game, the first as he bears down on goal from a narrow angle and the second tipping over a point-blank header from Howell’s corner. It’s really starting to feel like it won’t be our day, and that feeling is compounded just over the hour mark as, with their second attack of the afternoon, Welling play a ball over the top that D’Laryea misses, Jones runs onto it and smashes a shot at Corderoy, which he saves — but striker Paul Booth is on hand to score the easiest goal of his career, and despite having run this game from back to front, we are somehow 2–0 down with half an hour to go.
I turn to my bench for inspiration. As always, Mick is standing right behind me and gazes deeply into my eyes. I gently move him aside and consider my options as the game continues behind me. My substitutes are staring at the pitch, open mouthed, and before I can make a decision on how to clean up this mess, they’re all out of their seats — and I turn just in time to see Cabrera get down the left, put a deep cross to the back post, and Mark Booth rises to head back across goal and in off the post to drag us back into a game that, if there was a God or any justice in this stupid world, we’d be winning.
Windross is now also sporting the little green “I’m a bit injured boss” symbol next to his name, so I make my changes. He makes way for Vareille, Sarge also comes off for Cooke, and I decide to leave Booth in since he just scored and is our best player by a mile, instead going to a back four and introducing Pegger into DMC, allowing all three of my CMs to get forward in support of my strikers. We have to push now. A draw is the least we deserve.
Pegger trots onto the pitch, straight over to Welling goalscorer Paul Booth, and kicks him into the sky. He’s not challenging for anything, there’s no ball present — it’s not even in play. He has literally just walked up to Booth and tried to break off one of his lower leg bones. One red flourish from the referee later, and Pegger is trotting back towards me, down the tunnel, and out of my sight. I give Sarge a nod, which he returns, before rising from his seat and disappearing down the tunnel as well. I’m not sure we’re ever going to see Giorgos Peglis again.
The game restarts and Welling waste their free-kick, which is a relief. I am officially sick of this game and just want it to be over. Boothy wins us a free-kick in the centre circle, which he lifts forward. Elcock is up, which is something we don’t see very often, and he wins the header, nodding down to Howell. His shot is blocked and spins out to the edge of the box, but Booth — who’s made up the ground — collects it and sends it back into Elcock’s feet. He takes a few touches, probes around the edge of the Welling penalty area, and suddenly unleashes a left-footed hellstrike that catches Mitten off-guard and flies into the top corner at the near post!! Unbelievable strike from Elcock, and just like that, with ten men and seemingly no hope, we’re level at 2–2!
The game kicks off, and Lee Paul immediately intercepts an attempted Welling attack. He lays off for Howell, driving forward at the home defence, before finding a perfect pass to Cooke, who’s rushing up to support. Cooke looks up, decides not to try to beat the two centre-backs, and shoots from the edge of the box! STEPHEN COOKE!!
IT’S THERE! IT’S THERE! WHAT IS HAPPENING! I mean, by all rights we should be winning this stupid, stupid game, but this turnaround is unbelievable! 3–2 up, Welling restart again, hoof it forward, it’s returned by Simek to Howell, he dances into the left channel and crosses — the defensive header is horrific, it drops to Cooke on the penalty spot! COOKE!!
IT’S FOUR! IT’S 4–2! We’ve scored four goals in nine minutes!! Did Pegger do this?! Maybe he knew what we needed all along! His disgraceful sending off has inspired us all! Sarge! SARGE!! STOP THE INTERROGATION! WE’RE WINNING!
Welling, of course, then go to basically eight up front and are all over us — with ten men, there’s only so long we’ll be able to withstand the numbers. They drag the game back to 4–3 with a horrible scrappy effort in the 89th minute, and in the 92nd, just as they’re about to equalise and I’m imagining the most efficient way to set this entire town on fire, Stephen Cooke, monster among men, holder of my heart, hero of Hornchurch, makes the most unbelievable charge-down of a Welling shot with the goal agape, and that is more or less that. What an absolutely ridiculous, breathless game.
It’s such an important win, too, because both Margate and Grays are keeping up the pressure. We’re still six points clear, but they are right on our tails, and just one or two small slip ups could mean we drop right back into the pack.
And who are our next two games against, you ask? Yep — you guessed it. Grays at The Stadium, followed by Margate at their place. This season is about to get interesting.
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