Unusually, a blank week. Winter kicking in wiped out the non-league trips. I had everything booked, though, for Sunderland v QPR. Tickets, train from London, hotel.
Yep, money was tighter than Simon Cowell's jockstrap. But a lot less messy. Not to worry though. The weekend's here. Radio day. I hadn't been to The Arena for a while. Chipper hadn't been there ever. Brentwood Town v Wroxham it was.
I looked to the opposite side. Over there, a coach was giving glowing praise to his side. For the massive achievement of running correctly between 3 or 4 cones. If that's how coaching at this level is nowadays, then my mind is made up. Warm with a thoroughly restricted view every time.
The game, predictably, was fairly poor. I can never be too critical though. All these players work through the week, some at weekends too, then when that's finished get up off their arses to train twice a week or play a couple of matches a week. It's a hard slog. It's little wonder quality isn't a byword for the ESL. Especially, mind, if you're praised for just running between cones.
The second half was in similar vein. Basildon huffed and puffed, but really looked less likely to score on the pitch than I was in a nightclub with Eva Longoriathingy. After all, having seen those tv ads, I knew exactly what her pussy liked.
Getting to the last minute. The hosts are seeing the game out. The visitors have the ball, venturing into the Manor half, but there's no threat, nobody near the area. The attacking forward has no options. Except to shoot from a fair distance. Considering there's been nothing on target from their boots this afternoon it really is no option, too.
I'm genuinely thrilled, as are the players, celebrating as if they'd won the league itself. I looked heavenwards, into the clear dark Southend skies, and thought of Mitchell Cole. I hoped he was looking down, seeing how his former team mates had somehow concocted a comeback from absolutely nothing. That one was for you Mitchell, mate.
What I didn't have, though, or could afford to borrow, was the train fare into London and the little extra to keep me fed and watered up there. It wasn't much, but when you have even less, it's too much. Then again, by the look of it, it seems as if I dodged a bullet by missing out.
Yep, money was tighter than Simon Cowell's jockstrap. But a lot less messy. Not to worry though. The weekend's here. Radio day. I hadn't been to The Arena for a while. Chipper hadn't been there ever. Brentwood Town v Wroxham it was.
Unsurprisingly, but annoyingly, the frost came down and the game was off. Oh bloody hell. Let's have a look. Billericay at home. Hmmm. I have a look at my wallet. I don't have the £30+ quid for us both to get in, the train fare, and programme. Rovers are at home. Seen them far too much recently though. This is such a pain in the arse.
Then the news hits me. I'd never considered too much about him from when he left Southend United up until he joined Basildon United. I knew he was still young. I knew he couldn't play top level football because of some health condition. But you just don't expect it. Mitchell Cole, gone at the age of just 27.
It's funny how the passing of someone you don't know affects you. He certainly didn't know me. It wasn't so long ago, though, that I was paying good money at Roots Hall and other League One grounds to see him take a grip on midfields up and down the country.
He quietly went about his business, rarely putting a foot wrong, and scoring against Col Ewe. He wasn't a crowd favourite, Freddy Eastwood was there filling that role, but just about everyone at Roots Hall respected and rated him. Southend United were considerably weakened without his influence.
I laughed when he signed for Basildon United this season. A player that good playing at that level? It seemed such a waste, plying his trade at ESL level. The Bees, understandably, were delighted to have him on board for the short time he was there. He was far too good for this league.
It seems such a waste. 27. Twenty bloody seven. Young family. So much ahead of him, so much potential away from the football field, so many years to carve out a long and successful career in whatever he wanted to do. It just seems so bloody unfair. Like I say, I never knew Mitchell Cole, and he never knew me, but I couldn't help feeling a little heartbroken.
I checked through the fixtures again. A few minutes down from the Bay. Southend Manor. Their game was still on. A bit milder near the beach and the frost held off. Their opponents? Well, it just had to be Basildon United, didn't it? There's no way Chipper and I could be anywhere else today.
The season had been kind to Manor in the FA Vase, through to the third round. Elsewhere, however, not so. Only three league wins all season and drifting around lower to mid table. There were still some resentment between the club officials too. One such official asked how we were. When I reciprocated there came a reply of not liking it there but carrying on. Oops.
The visitors had regrouped after last year's calamitous season. Nothing to write home about, one place below Manor, but the Bees had actually won one more league game than them. To add a bit of spice, one of the coaches that had left Gardiners Close last season - and there were a few - was in the home dugout this afternoon. This could be fun.
It was damn cold though. The only place in Southchurch Park that offered any real protection against the elements meant that your view was restricted to around half the pitch. So I had a choice. Stay warm or see the match.
I looked to the opposite side. Over there, a coach was giving glowing praise to his side. For the massive achievement of running correctly between 3 or 4 cones. If that's how coaching at this level is nowadays, then my mind is made up. Warm with a thoroughly restricted view every time.
The teams came out to a small and frozen crowd. Nobody looked like they really wanted to be there. Including the players as they lined up for their 'respect' handshakes. It was gloomy. It was cold. It was two teams going nowhere in the league this season.
There was one person, of course, who would have done anything to be there. That put things into context. Both sides approached the centre circle and paid their respects. The silence for that minute was so complete you could hear the chirruping of birds in the long distance. Sad, eerie, yet somehow a time where the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.
The game, predictably, was fairly poor. I can never be too critical though. All these players work through the week, some at weekends too, then when that's finished get up off their arses to train twice a week or play a couple of matches a week. It's a hard slog. It's little wonder quality isn't a byword for the ESL. Especially, mind, if you're praised for just running between cones.
By half time, Manor were in complete control, without playing particularly well themselves. Jay Smith had finished neatly for both goals in their 2-0 scoreline. Not that I saw much of either. The restricted view and keeping the radio listeners up to date with their local teams meant I just caught the end of one of them, a nice low shot from about 8 yards, after what seemed a fairly swift move
Basildon United, sadly, had offered little threat, and as they came off the pitch, the familiar arguing amongst themselves had started in earnest. I feared a gubbing for the Bees. It was a far cry from their title winning days in both the ESL and Isthmian Leagues, and an FA Vase run to the quarter finals. Those days are long since gone. With little prospect of anything remotely like that happening again. It hurts.
The second half was in similar vein. Basildon huffed and puffed, but really looked less likely to score on the pitch than I was in a nightclub with Eva Longoriathingy. After all, having seen those tv ads, I knew exactly what her pussy liked.
I digress. As the close drew nearer, a bit of a comedy moment. The home striker through on goal, completely unmarked. All he has to do is roll it into an empty net. He places the ball calmly and carefully. Passing rather than wildly shooting. A foot wide of the near post. Chortle. Not just from me. But from everyone. We all know it just means a 2-0 win rather than 3-0.
Into the last five minutes. A free kick for the Bees. For the first time all afternoon, a header on target. The deficit is halved. Technically, Basildon are in it. But we know it's mere consolation. The red shirted Bees players run back towards the halfway shouting, encouraging each other on. Manor, though, look completely unruffled.
Getting to the last minute. The hosts are seeing the game out. The visitors have the ball, venturing into the Manor half, but there's no threat, nobody near the area. The attacking forward has no options. Except to shoot from a fair distance. Considering there's been nothing on target from their boots this afternoon it really is no option, too.
Which makes the equaliser all the more surprising. I'm up out of my seat for the first time all afternoon, the familiar fist up and shouting "Yes!". Around me are the few Manor supporters and club officials. They knew me well and took it for granted I was with them, wanting that home win. Knowing me well today, though, is not knowing me well enough. There's a couple of looks of surprise and even one glare.
I'm genuinely thrilled, as are the players, celebrating as if they'd won the league itself. I looked heavenwards, into the clear dark Southend skies, and thought of Mitchell Cole. I hoped he was looking down, seeing how his former team mates had somehow concocted a comeback from absolutely nothing. That one was for you Mitchell, mate.
Chipper and I concluded the radio coverage in complete darkness as the floodlights went off. We were cold. We were hungry. We'd seen a game that wasn't that good. But somehow, it felt great. The spirit of Mitchell Cole was alive, the memory of him complete. It felt great to be a Bee again.
Rest in peace, Mitchell. You may be gone, but your Basildon United, and my Basildon United, showed today you will never be forgotten.
Southend Manor 2, Basildon United 2
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