On the face of it, I didn't really want to go. It was cold, and dropping nearer to freezing by the minute. The prospect of sitting in a warm home, watching darts players score 16, supplemented by curry and cans of Bru, was about a million times more attractive. Just do the decent thing. Call the game off after that 5.30pm pitch inspection.
Except no. They had to spoil it over at Ship Lane. Just after 6pm, the news came through that Romford v Brentwood Town was on. This being a radio game, too, I had no option. I could feel my nads shrivelling even then.
Not that I had anything against either side. True, both were mid table in the Ryman One North. But both had plenty of games in hand on everyone else and were in with a more than decent shout of muscling in on the play-off action. Romford steeped in history, Brentwood Town with their understated FA Cup pedigree in decades gone by. It was an attractive looking game for both the football neutral and romantic.
But it was bastard cold and at my age that was the overriding factor as to whether a game should be on or not. Added to that, mind, was the journey from the Bay to Ship Lane. Train, then tube, then bus. If I'm lucky, with all the connections waiting by handily for me, it'd take an hour and a half door to door. As the train leaving the Bay, however was at 10 past 6, getting there for kick-off was going to be a tighter squeeze than Lisa Riley in a boob tube.
It did, however, avail me of one minor historical moment. The tube was apparently 150 years old today. I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking wistfully to when my age was less than double figures, as back then all I really wanted to do was travel around in the underground, and be a tube driver when I grew up. Looking at their current wage, and propensity for taking a day or two off when they felt like it by striking, I wish I had done now.
So it was with due reverence that I boarded the westbound District line to Elm Park. The thought that went through my mind, travelling by tube on such a landmark day? "Get me to Elm f***ing Park now, I've got a f***ing bus to catch and match to get to." Yep, I really love my public transport.
Ship Lane had got no warmer than my last visit. It had in fact got several degrees colder, as the frost beginning to settle on the pitch showed. Nope, this was going to be far from a classic tonight. As the teams came out, and my interweb connection remained unconnected, I cursed missing out on that comfy chair, cans of Bru, and curry, all left behind in the warm. And the sound of a darts scorer shouting "7".
Cursing was something the Romford PA man was very adept at doing. After a bright home opening, a mixture of Brentwood pressing the lodger hosts back, and perceived poor refereeing decisions, led to a shout of ire. That's how you politely describe a string of mild obscenities. He was very clever though. No f or c words, but plenty of bloody's, lots of anger, and real volume to his voice. He didn't need a mic at all.
Alex Read opened the scoring for the visitors, pouncing on a defensive error, leading the PA man to shout in frustration at every tiny error Romford made. It continued like that right up until the point Romford equalised. A cross from the left beats everyone, bounces off the far post, hits a startled Kurt Smith, and rolls in from about 3 inches. Suddenly, they were all brilliant heroes. Chortle. You've just got to love the football fan.
The ref decides to join in with the fun. He books a home player for an innocuous tackle. Ryan Doyle takes the free kick on the left, a good 40 yards out. It curls towards the far post in slow motion. Missing everyone. And going in. Bizarre. 2-1 Brentwood and a bit of controversy thrown in. Suddenly my frozen tootsies and fingers seems almost worth it.
It's not something I can convey very well though. I was feeling so cold I was having difficulty in actually talking. Which was probably no bad thing. The entire half time break was spent trying to speak coherently into a mic for around 20 seconds. I managed it after about 12 takes.
The ref starts the second half as he ended the first, enraging the Romford supporters, after he gives a free kick during the course of a goal line scramble as they searched for an equaliser. This led to a chat between the Romford PA man, Brentwood Ray, and myself, about the role assessors have to play in refereeing performances.
Call me old fashioned but I'm of the belief that refereeing assessors should just sit there and assess. They shouldn't be able to go into the changing rooms before a game, be with them during their pitch inspection, or even speak to them in the bar beforehand, and tell them what they expect of them.
Players and managers would be fined and suspended if they did that, and be accused of intimidating a ref. Assessors should just assess anonymously then have a chat afterwards. They are the ones that are ruining games by putting pressure on a ref before he's even started. And it's the ref who gets it in the neck for simply doing what's been unfairly asked of him.
Anyhow, soapbox aside, Romford again equalise on the hour thanks to a Jack Bowry volley into the roof of the net from close range. 2-2 and anyone's game now. Brentwood are pressing but Romford are looking dangerous when they break. You feel there's more goals left in this, and with the pitch looking whiter and frostier, it'll probably come from an error.
Seven minutes from time it presents itself. Ryan Doyle. Had a decent game at right back, scored that bizarre goal in the first half. He gets in the way a speculative Ben Jones shot from just inside the area. He stoops to head clear. Only to nestle it snugly into the bottom left hand corner of his own net. Ship Lane rejoices. It's unfair on Brentwood but that's football.
With a mixture of tiredness creeping in, and just trying to keep their balance let alone kick a ball, Brentwood's creativity has frozen up quicker than the pitch. As we head into injury time, a narrow defeat for the visitors looks a certainty. Bar a terrible error along the way somewhere.
Funny that. Just as I was thinking of how to sum up a disappointing defeat, a Romford defender trips over himself. Steve Butterworth is left on his own with the ball and he makes the most of it. 3-3. Yet another injury time equaliser. I comment on how they've salvaged a point.
As I do so, Brentwood win a free kick. 25 yards out, just to the left of goal. No, this won't happen, it'd be too ridiculous for words. Up steps Alex Read. And I'm left almost wordless by the ridiculousness of it as it smacks the ball into the back of the net.
The Brentwood players run and slip around crazily. The Romford players are on their knees. The whistle blows. For full time. Last kick of the game. Somehow a certain defeat going into injury time has been turned into three points. If you ever look online for a definition of 'snatching victory from the jaws of defeat' there will just be a pic of Alex Read taking a free kick.
The journey back to the Bay may have been even colder than before but somehow I didn't feel it. 150 years of history and a seven goal thriller would warm up even the most frozen of heart cockles. Or any other cockles. Suddenly Lisa Riley in a boob tube doesn't seem so unappealing.
Well, it does, but you know what I mean.
Romford 3, Brentwood Town 4
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