By cub reporter Ianuccini
Post 1978 World Cup, there was an influx of World Cup winning Argentinians into English football. What – you mean Ardiles and Vila to Spurs? Well of course everyone knows that. But the other less celebrated and less well-known import, was Alberto Tarantini, who signed for Div 1 journeymen Birmingham City. Big deal – well it was. City were still holding onto a superstar in the making, Trevor Francis, who was to be sold to Forest and Euro glory with Forest and Cloughie a few months later, so Alberto was, to say the least in local parlance, a “shrewd” signing.
Just where is this heading, regular readers are already protesting?
Well, after finally getting his work visa, Alberto was settling in and in a home match at St Andrews, casually strolled over to take a corner. A 2-step run up - and then curled it in direct, to the near post, past a flapping keeper. A feat so rare for the skill set of any honest, decent British footballer that had it not been so admired it would have been decried for taking the mickey, and easily have brought forward the Anglo-Argentinian discourse well before the ’82 hostile takeover of the Maldives. Bloody Johnny Foreigner showing us up.
WTF – get to the point I hear the murmurs.
OK, the point is, that Alberto was a left full back. So, here we are again, and in the finest traditions of (a) great left-backs and (b) those who have scored direct from corners…..enter Sparky Mark who casually repeated the same feat on Saturday after 9 minutes to put us 1-0 up over Eastbourne. Sparky now ticks both boxes (a) and (b) above, plus the third of (c) has played for the Bombers. So suddenly Nige’s exclusive club of one is now TWO, and Sparky and Alberto can lay claim to having performed one of the rarer acts of skill (not wind assisted: Ed) in the game.
And so from such a start, it set up the boys for a period of scintillating football. Pinball triangles, late runs, shots asunder and the PRESS all spelt trouble for lifeless Eastbourne. Ragg was, er, ragged, Sceats on fire, Jaco bossing the back, it was all looking good. Soon Carl found himself with ball at feet, head down and gaining momentum, stumbling with intent, charging like a pepper-sprayed wolverine into the box and with grit and gorm, aimed for the far post as the hapless keeper came out….2-0. 22 mins gone, looking good.
Speaking of hapless keepers, we’re not. Our David-James Reebok kit wearing No 1 Big Jeff oozed calm and confidence between the sticks, which he seemed to fill with ease, and as with last week (OK and every preceding week), security was to be found at the back. But being able to hurl the pill over half way in .5 of a second may well become an attacking feature. Midfields are over-rated, as we all whisper under our breath.
The hook came out at 30 and off we all trotted, as the bench, sniffing blood, brought on the heavyweights (that’s just a figure of speech). Doc and Graham suddenly were playing a game of their own. But soon the shape became distorted. G-Man, who had nearly scored with his first touch, couldn’t keep down the howitzer he launched over the bar. It was as if he’d misplaced Billy’s Boots and couldn’t hit the target – surely not destined to be trapped on a paltry 17 goals? Several adjacent barn doors and banjos seemed breathed a sigh of relief. More reckless thrashing ensued as the clock ran down and the ref, to be fair a dead ringer for Asst Gardner, ended first half proceedings.
To the casual listener parachuted in from Mars, half-time team talks must present a deplorable state of affairs of the human race to any visiting alien. How easy could world domination of this miserable shower be? (I for one welcome our alien overlords: Ed)
Dissent, anger, anguish, learned helplessness, unquenchable thirst and repetitive swearing, no hierarchical system of control, no hint of logic or a thought-based framework to match analysis anywhere. Thankfully the take-me-to-your-leader question was solved quickly, as the real Asst Gardner stood up. With beautifully annunciated RNZ tones and delightful vowel control, he commanded the many disparaging silo-based conversations that would make a government department proud, and unity was restored. With finger-on-the-pulse Gregan-like authority, soon the mood changed and turned positively Churchillian, imploring, driving and instructional. As Marky Mark’s George Michael linens moistened in the lambent sun, soon were heard those immortal words….just keep-it-on-the-deck; the eternal panacea to any tactical, technical, physical or psychological coaching problem. Thus said, collective tension dispersed and we knew we’d be safe in the second half.
Off we went; Wriggles cavorting and leading the defence a merry, rather one-paced dance (half-paced: Ed); Dazz just cavorting, Davey unleashing pace and torment and (B)Ruce running the show. It was only a matter of time….or was it. Suddenly, G-Man knew it wasn’t his day and took the pass out. I’m back in….surely all I have to do is hang around the box and someone will deliver…please.
A few touches, a cut back way too rich for Dave at the far post; curses. What next? Then…combo time on the left – Dave/Carl/Dave – the cross, another lopsided bounce, still control was made, the aim was set, the keeper stranded and ….WTF?? Did that actually go in??
Yes, well it did, and the net slightly rippled and it was a goal. Sheepish acknowledgement and consoling arm around the keeper and the retreating centre-back who somehow kicked the post instead. Mild wave to the bench who are howling with laughter, and already the echo of “they all count” beginning to thud in the mind. Migraine material.
Happy days lasted only minutes, until the hammy started tightening, and with Tiberius seen clutching a beer on the touchline, that seemed a better destination. Fulltime sounded, handshakes all around and it was off to Ragg’s for cigars and coke-snorting, dancing girls and loud hedonistic music, and vegan sausage rolls.
As Sunday dawned with the pounding hangover and inflamed nostrils, a glance at the league table showed the fruits of our endeavours from the day before. Top place, single goal difference of +1. So it’s true, they do all count.