After the synthetic Wembley 'experience', back to Jolly Boy John's "for real" football. Non League Day, no less. And Chipper and I's favourite non league side, East Thurrock United.
I didn't have high hopes of a big crowd today. Over in East Molesey, Met Police struggled to get into three figures. Their FA Cup replay attracted around 200, admittedly, but over half the crowd were visiting fans that night. The Rocks rarely had a big travelling support either.
Nice day, though, and the wander from Thames Ditton was a leafy one, albeit a dogshitty one as well. But that's good luck, innit? The sun was out, it was another trip into the unknown, and we knew with the Rocks, whatever the result, the game would be a good 'un.
Sam Higgins and Hakeem had put East Thurrock two up with less than 25 minutes on the clock. It was at this point, though, that everyone's attention on the game was diverted to the ref. Flying tackles were going unpunished but a little bit of shoving and he was at it, telling them off like naughty schoolkids. The lino was getting stick as well. The Rocks continued to create chances, but it remained 2-0 ahead at the break.
That was a minor bang, though, a mere first date with a Towie girl, compared to what happened a couple of minutes later. A corner on the left, reaches the far post. The Met's full back is in space. He controls it, looks up, and fires it home between keeper and defender. The small crowd celebrate and the Rocks players trudge back towards the halfway line.
I suppose the ref didn't want the game to end with a performance like that. Even with Steve's injury, subs, and the two goals, the board went up for seven minutes of injury time. Which became 8, then 9, then 10. The Met pound forward, the ref obviously playing on until the next goal. A point blank header. Richard Wray somehow gets to it. From cruising with five minutes to go, the Rocks are hanging on.
Across the nation, a very simple concept, Non League Day. No international matches. No Premier League or Championship matches. So why not spend an afternoon at your local non-league club? It had been marketed well enough, in the national media fairly prominently.
I didn't have high hopes of a big crowd today. Over in East Molesey, Met Police struggled to get into three figures. Their FA Cup replay attracted around 200, admittedly, but over half the crowd were visiting fans that night. The Rocks rarely had a big travelling support either.
In fact, the Rocks never had big home gates normally, either, which makes Covo's managerial achievements that much better. You talk about 'Manager Of The Year' in terms of Fergie, or whoever's at Stamford Bridge, but there's scores of managers under the radar of professional football who do equally magnificent jobs cobbling together great teams without a pot to piss in. Sometimes literally, bearing in mind toilet facilities at some places.
As ever, the journey into London at the weekend was a nightmare. c2c must mean crap2customers. Or 'we're a bunch of money grabbing co .. mpany people, f... orgive us.' But I guess those initials are silent ones.
Nice day, though, and the wander from Thames Ditton was a leafy one, albeit a dogshitty one as well. But that's good luck, innit? The sun was out, it was another trip into the unknown, and we knew with the Rocks, whatever the result, the game would be a good 'un.
Imber Court was a decent ground, as well, even if the match sign appeared to be advertising a game in a different time zone. Or perhaps universe. Nonetheless, a nice clubhouse. And a grumpy old gateman, who complained about only being told this morning we were coming down. Which, to be fair, meant, that he was told. He then whinged about two of us being here.
He made me chuckle as I could see a lot of him in me. I've never had any qualms about being a paying punter, and already paid out hundreds this season so far. When I'm on radio work, though, I don't see any more than perhaps 25 minutes, and never get into the game anything like the paying punters do. If he'd demanded payment, I wouldn't have done, simply to see how grumpy he could get. He let us in, though, looking daggers. Chortle.
Nice ground, mind. The traditional covered end, a decent stand, and a cracking press box. Cliff was already there, elevated to match PA for the day. He's another of what non league football is all about. Been a player and club official of the Met for decades and regaled us with tales down the years of tackles, goals, and other events. I was warming to the club by the minute.
I'd said before the game to Covo that six wins on the trot would be nice if it became nine. With a wry grin, he said "one game at a time." The way his boys opened up, though, as the sun gave way to rain and hail, seven was in grasp. The Met just couldn't handle Hakeem. His strength, aerial presence and, surprisingly for them at least, his canny brain when the ball was on the deck, opened up the Met defence like the Red Sea.
Sam Higgins and Hakeem had put East Thurrock two up with less than 25 minutes on the clock. It was at this point, though, that everyone's attention on the game was diverted to the ref. Flying tackles were going unpunished but a little bit of shoving and he was at it, telling them off like naughty schoolkids. The lino was getting stick as well. The Rocks continued to create chances, but it remained 2-0 ahead at the break.
Cliff, mind, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Every time there was a hefty tackle, or a scream of abuse at the match officials, he laughed. I'm guessing this is how I'll be in 15 years time or so, too. Of course, I wanted Covo and the boys to win, but I was beginning to rue the Met having to get beat because of it.
It continued in similar vein in the second half, as the sun shone through again. But then Steve Sheehan, the Rocks centre half, goes down. It looked innocuous enough, but you could see something was up, as he waved for medical help straight away. He was stretchered off, with a broken leg, all from what seemed like just overstretching for the ball a little bit. Poor lad. Good player. I hope he's back soon. And that his work place aren't bastards and give him sick pay.
The game then changed for no apparent reason whatsoever. Steve's replacement, Spencer Harrison, was having a sound enough game. It just changed from Met defending to Met attacking. Richard Wray was at last called into action with a couple of good saves. Then five minutes from time, bang, Met were back in it.
That was a minor bang, though, a mere first date with a Towie girl, compared to what happened a couple of minutes later. A corner on the left, reaches the far post. The Met's full back is in space. He controls it, looks up, and fires it home between keeper and defender. The small crowd celebrate and the Rocks players trudge back towards the halfway line.
But no, the flag was up. The lino's given offside. For a shot that went straight in. With a keeper and defender on the line. The Met players and some of the crowd go mental. Cliff grins and laughs heartily. Oh yes. Then the ref marches over and has a word with the lino. He runs towards the centre circle, arm outstretched in front of him.
The crowd and players celebrate again. But no. A free kick. I look down at the respective benches. Covo has the trace of the merest of a grin. The home bench are apoplectic. The mother of all ridiculous decisions. Never fails to disappoint, a Rocks game, one way or another.
We should have known better though. We all thought that was the sting in the tail at the end of the game, the talking point. None of us are looking at the pitch. Then we hear a shout. I look up and see Richard Wray parrying a shot. Only for the Met sub to follow up and ram home the equaliser. A surreal finish and perhaps, for the first time ever, justice for the Metropolitan Police.
I suppose the ref didn't want the game to end with a performance like that. Even with Steve's injury, subs, and the two goals, the board went up for seven minutes of injury time. Which became 8, then 9, then 10. The Met pound forward, the ref obviously playing on until the next goal. A point blank header. Richard Wray somehow gets to it. From cruising with five minutes to go, the Rocks are hanging on.
Finally, after 11 minutes of injury time, the ref blows the final whistle. What a game. Compared to the drivel that was dished up last night, this was utopia. Four goals, tackles flying in, mental refereeing decisions, a comeback from the dead, this game had it all. Absolutely fantastic.
The crowd? A miserly 122. But was still a slight increase on the league average. Non League Day triumphs again. But with games like this, and people like Cliff and the grumpy gateman, non league kicks the shit out of pro football every day of the year.
Evening all.
Met Police 2, East Thurrock United 2
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