So this was it. Some people would call it the day of destiny. With a 7.15pm kick-off, though, the day meant agonising hours for Southend United fans to kill before the agony of 90 minutes later that evening.
I was having my own internal agonies. Oh, I'd long since accepted victory and defeat as twin imposters. Whatever happens, happens, and that's it. No, mine was different. Brentwood Town Ladies had a rare midweek home game. Perhaps it was the only chance I could get to see them this season.
Then there was the issue of cost. I had enough in my bank account to get to Tilbury, where the Ladies were playing. I didn't have enough for a Southend ticket though. It seemed to be leaning one way. But then again, money was due to hit my account at any time during the afternoon. And there was this feeling I'd be missing out on a bit of history one way or the other if I wasn't at Roots Hall tonight.
With these internal machinations going on I, just like a number of Southend United fans last night, needed to be at another game, but not to forget about what was coming, but to make a choice. Maybe being at a game will give me the inspiration to choose what game to be at. Unless I'm not paid. Then it's definitely a night out with the girls, no questions asked.
Luckily, there's always something going on somewhere. Today the Southend United youth side had a League Cup tie against the same team that turned up the last time I ventured over to Boots & Laces, Watford. I couldn't remember too much other than a mentalist bloke haranguing Rob and a bit of handbags at the end. This could be a chortle.
It always underwhelms me, though, when I get to Boots & Laces. The building looks as if it was 30 years out of date as soon as it was built. The signs outside look beddraggled and unkempt. It all gives an impression of a club down on its' uppers. In reality, a training ground is a training ground, it doesn't matter a monkey's what a set of changing rooms, showers, and weights rooms look like from the outside.
It puts me in mind, though, being next to the Jones Memorial Ground, of many years ago, on cold, windy pitches that were a mixture of mud and dogshit. They were next door. The Boots & Laces ones were pristine. It was still bastard well cold and windy, though. Some things never change, even if you do.
Rob was there again, as was Phil, along with a few old codgers, among them a Millwall season ticket holder back from their 5-1 spanking at home last night. Against Peterborough. Ouch. You know you're in trouble when that happens.
Talking of trouble, as the game settles down from an early Watford goal, along comes Bilel Moshni. Bri's in the car, wisely out of the wind with Olly, and already chatted to him. As he strolls down the side of the pitch, though, nobody else does. In fact, nobody even acknowledges his existence. There's a slightly embarrassed silence.
Well, b*****ks to that. I know he's been a twat about things, but you tell me who at his age didn't act like a twat about something? And, let's face it, the agent advising him has played a big part, without getting any flak. I like the lad. He makes the effort to see the youths and local non-league football. And he's here today when he could easily hide
I break the silence with a terrible thumbs-up and a "Top man" with a winning smile. I'm like Keith Chegwin on crack. He says "thank you" with an little grin of his own. Despite the cheesiness, I can see him visibly relax. Then again, he might just have seen a spare pair of scissors the physio left on the touchline and thought he was now sorted for Orient later on.
Half time comes and goes. My mind is made up. If I've been paid, it's Roots Hall. If I haven't, it's Chadfields. My whole day depends on a balance enquiry at a cashpoint. That can wait though. Something else has taken my eye. And everyone else's.
The Southend United number 11, Mitchell Pinnock, puts on a display that is, quite simply, the best I've seen in the flesh at any level this season. He drifts out wide on the left. The ball is coming towards him. It's high.
But he's already looking across the pitch. Play is all condensed but he's spotted a team mate in a yard of space. Without even looking at the ball he traps it with his right, then plays a 50 yard cross field pass with his left, right to the feet of his team mate. Astonishing.
And so it goes on. Taking players on, seeing space that others don't realise exist. Inch perfect passing with both feet. In-swinging corners from both sides of the field that cause panic and desperate goal-line clearances. A free kick that smashes off the crossbar. His brain is two seconds faster than anyone else, his feet also a couple of seconds quicker.
Then, late on with Southend still chasing the game and their undeserved 0-1 deficit, Pinnock is on the right hand edge of the area, around 10 yards from the bye-line, with his back to goal. The ball is played towards him. He turns, stops the ball, steps over it, and somehow shoots all in one movement. The keeper's beaten but again the woodwork saves Watford. A moment of pure genius. Even the Watford players applaud.
As luck would have it, Watford break away and kill the game off, but the result isn't the talking point. Not even Bilel being there. Mitchell Pinnock was the name on everyone's lips. You could even see it on the wry grins on the faces of the old codgers.
They'd never dare do anything so namby-pamby as admit to enjoying themselves at the match or, well, anywhere. But they had that look of someone who been taken back to that golden era, in their own youth, when football really was the beautiful game. For 45 minutes, though, Mitchell Pinnock had done just that. To all of us. He could go a long, long way, that lad.
I wander off in the cold, having been warmed to seeing a rare diamond at Boots & Laces. Whatever happens this evening, today I've seen something special. But now .... Bournemouth Park Road. North Road. Sutton Road. Guildford Road, Cashpoint. Bloody hell, why I am so nervous?
Okay, let's see, balance enquiry. I wait. And wait. For f*** sake machine, hurry u .... Ah. I take my card back. And resume my trudge. It's cold. It's getting dark. As I feared, what money was in my account had ruled where I was going tonight. But for now my trudge took me down another road.
Victoria Avenue. Roots Hall. Ticket.
History? Who knows .....
League Cup: Southend United Youths 0, Watford Youths 2
I was having my own internal agonies. Oh, I'd long since accepted victory and defeat as twin imposters. Whatever happens, happens, and that's it. No, mine was different. Brentwood Town Ladies had a rare midweek home game. Perhaps it was the only chance I could get to see them this season.Then there was the issue of cost. I had enough in my bank account to get to Tilbury, where the Ladies were playing. I didn't have enough for a Southend ticket though. It seemed to be leaning one way. But then again, money was due to hit my account at any time during the afternoon. And there was this feeling I'd be missing out on a bit of history one way or the other if I wasn't at Roots Hall tonight.
With these internal machinations going on I, just like a number of Southend United fans last night, needed to be at another game, but not to forget about what was coming, but to make a choice. Maybe being at a game will give me the inspiration to choose what game to be at. Unless I'm not paid. Then it's definitely a night out with the girls, no questions asked.
It always underwhelms me, though, when I get to Boots & Laces. The building looks as if it was 30 years out of date as soon as it was built. The signs outside look beddraggled and unkempt. It all gives an impression of a club down on its' uppers. In reality, a training ground is a training ground, it doesn't matter a monkey's what a set of changing rooms, showers, and weights rooms look like from the outside.
It puts me in mind, though, being next to the Jones Memorial Ground, of many years ago, on cold, windy pitches that were a mixture of mud and dogshit. They were next door. The Boots & Laces ones were pristine. It was still bastard well cold and windy, though. Some things never change, even if you do.
Talking of trouble, as the game settles down from an early Watford goal, along comes Bilel Moshni. Bri's in the car, wisely out of the wind with Olly, and already chatted to him. As he strolls down the side of the pitch, though, nobody else does. In fact, nobody even acknowledges his existence. There's a slightly embarrassed silence.
Well, b*****ks to that. I know he's been a twat about things, but you tell me who at his age didn't act like a twat about something? And, let's face it, the agent advising him has played a big part, without getting any flak. I like the lad. He makes the effort to see the youths and local non-league football. And he's here today when he could easily hide
I break the silence with a terrible thumbs-up and a "Top man" with a winning smile. I'm like Keith Chegwin on crack. He says "thank you" with an little grin of his own. Despite the cheesiness, I can see him visibly relax. Then again, he might just have seen a spare pair of scissors the physio left on the touchline and thought he was now sorted for Orient later on.
The Southend United number 11, Mitchell Pinnock, puts on a display that is, quite simply, the best I've seen in the flesh at any level this season. He drifts out wide on the left. The ball is coming towards him. It's high.
But he's already looking across the pitch. Play is all condensed but he's spotted a team mate in a yard of space. Without even looking at the ball he traps it with his right, then plays a 50 yard cross field pass with his left, right to the feet of his team mate. Astonishing.
And so it goes on. Taking players on, seeing space that others don't realise exist. Inch perfect passing with both feet. In-swinging corners from both sides of the field that cause panic and desperate goal-line clearances. A free kick that smashes off the crossbar. His brain is two seconds faster than anyone else, his feet also a couple of seconds quicker.
As luck would have it, Watford break away and kill the game off, but the result isn't the talking point. Not even Bilel being there. Mitchell Pinnock was the name on everyone's lips. You could even see it on the wry grins on the faces of the old codgers.
They'd never dare do anything so namby-pamby as admit to enjoying themselves at the match or, well, anywhere. But they had that look of someone who been taken back to that golden era, in their own youth, when football really was the beautiful game. For 45 minutes, though, Mitchell Pinnock had done just that. To all of us. He could go a long, long way, that lad.
Okay, let's see, balance enquiry. I wait. And wait. For f*** sake machine, hurry u .... Ah. I take my card back. And resume my trudge. It's cold. It's getting dark. As I feared, what money was in my account had ruled where I was going tonight. But for now my trudge took me down another road.
Victoria Avenue. Roots Hall. Ticket.
History? Who knows .....
League Cup: Southend United Youths 0, Watford Youths 2
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