Mrs Nedved Saves the Day

I have a lot of nice things to say about Wales, and not just because Mrs Nedved hails from a large Welsh family. We visit her relatives regularly, and there were few places better to be this rainy bank-holiday weekend than in Auntie and Uncle's farmhouse. It is in a valley so remote even some sheep need a map to find it. We arrived Friday afternoon and I spent Saturday playing with the children, going for walks in the hills, and (from 3 pm onwards) pretending that I was not desperate to find out how City was doing away to Dorchester. No one was really fooled by this, of course.

I was able to hold out for a long time, actually, because following the match at all was virtually impossible. Sean's City Updates website was not available to me because the Internet has not yet reached this particular valley. Even the phone lines are touch and go. That is because at one point the phone line runs across a field (on the ground, not on a pole) and if a sheep or cow steps on it then Auntie and Uncle won't be making any calls for a while. I'm not making this up. So, to sum up, the information super-highway hasn't built an exit there yet.

Thank goodness for satellites! Auntie and Uncle may not subscribe to Sky channels (if it is not on BBC One or Two they generally don't see it) but they do have a Sky box in order to be able to receive any television signal at all. At about 4:30 my resolve broke down and I barricaded myself in the sitting room in order to watch the BBC vidiprinter (a sort of soccer ticker tape that the BBC run). The vidiprinter is a wonderful invention, but Conference South matches only show up on it for half time and full time scores. Since full time was at least a half hour away I had no real justification for watching it. Regardless, I still felt compelled to sit alone in a dark room to wait while the family frolicked outside on the one sunny afternoon of the visit.

"Dorchester 2-2 Bath City" came through a few minutes before 5pm. I had been hoping for a victory, and three points, but it is hard to know with a scoreline like that if City had blown a lead of battled back bravely. No texts from friends were going to penetrate the communications black hole I was in. That was all the information I was going to get. I successfully managed to get back outside without gnawing on any furniture.

The next morning Mrs Nedved and I drove to the nearby town to do some grocery shopping. Sometimes the supermarket there carries the Non-League Paper, which would have carried a City match report, but alas, not that day. Feeling a distinct absence of football, I came up with a cunning plan. As we moved into the dairy section (where all cheese is MADE IN WALES and has a fierce looking red dragon on it), I decided to make my move.

We had been planning to drive home Monday evening - too late for me to attend the afternoon home match against Worcester City. Was it fair for me to go an entire four day weekend with no football? Of course not. The day before I had scoured the local press for anything interesting. I had found a listing in the local paper for a League of Wales match in Llanelli that I could go to that afternoon. Would Mrs Nedved think this was a good idea, or that her husband is just plain doolally? I decide to start with a feint, to draw attention to the fact that I will be missing the City match the next day.

"What time are we planning to set off tomorrow?" I asked.

Unexpectedly, she responded with, "I was thinking maybe we should leave early in the morning. As soon as we are up, really. It would be nice not to get back too late."

This undermined my cunning plan, but was amazingly good news! As I said, getting home in time enough to still make the City match had not been on my radar. I had to think fast, and after a split second analysis I decided the best plan was not to say anything at all. Being a very intelligent woman, though, Mrs Nedved was able to read me like a map.

"Is there a football match?" she asked.

I will spare you the rest of the small talk and marital maneuvering. I want to make it clear to everyone, though, that Mrs Nedved is the most fabulous, wonderful woman in the whole world. And not just because she let me tear through the misty Welsh countryside in the Nedvedmobile this morning, family in tow, to make it home in time for kick off. And not just because she was content to eat her packed lunch in the driveway of a dog obedience school outside Pontypridd (it was quicker than finding something more scenic). No, she is wonderful and fabulous for many, many reasons I cannot begin to list here for fear of boring everyone. Needless to say, though, a wife who will indulge her husband's sporting obsessions has worth far above rubies.

Atlanta Turns on the Cash Taps and Goes Soccer Crazy!

While I have been working on my account of my time in the Atlanta Attack front office (the eagerly awaited "The Soccerball Years, part 2") several prominent citizens of my home town have decided to throw caution (and a lot of cash) to the wind and invest heavily in new professional soccer franchises.

Investing in a professional soccer club in Atlanta is not for the weak of heart. I've recently described the first two incarnations of the Atlanta Chiefs (1967-1973 and 1979-1982 respectively). Since then the following clubs have come and gone: the Georgia Generals (1982), the Atlanta Attack (1989-1991), the Atlanta Express (1990-1992), the Atlanta Steamers/Quicksilver/Lightning (1990-1992), the Atlanta Magic (1991-1996), the Atlanta Silverbacks (1995-2008), and lastly our professional women's team, the Atlanta Beat (2001-2003). Attending a meeting of Atlanta soccer investors is therefore like going into a Las Vegas casino: don't take any money with you that you can't afford to lose.

You'd think that Atlanta might have run out of people willing to get their fingers burned on this, but you would be wrong. Check this out....




Yes, that's right, thanks to local resident T. Fitz Johnson and his expansive wallet, Atlanta will have its own WOMEN'S professional team next year. And no, that really scary sports presenter was not lying, the Beat did have a 'nice' following. Nice enough to be the best supported club in the ill fated Women's United Soccer Association, but not nice enough to be able to survive once the league had failed. Now that there is a new national pro soccer league, the Beat are reforming. Its about time, I say. The US women's team has won two world cups. We are the Brazil of women's soccer. We need a viable league and a team in Atlanta!!!

Now, if you were paying attention to paragraph two of this entry, you may have noticed that Atlanta is missing a senior men's team at the moment. The Atlanta Silverbacks, who had been playing in the American equivalent of the Championship (the United Soccer Leagues, or USL), folded last year. The only club left in a city of three million people was an Under-23 development league team. Would Atlanta be the home to a women's top flight club, but not even have a men's team at all?

No, as it turns out. Move over mysterious, middle-eastern Premiership club owners, some real estate developers from the "Big Peach" have trumped anything you have done. Just today, an Atlanta-based company called NuRock has just gone and bought the entire USL! That's right, Atlanta may not have a club in the league, but now the league itself belongs to an Atlanta company. And, of course, the new owners have granted themselves an option for a new Atlanta franchise.

I know that the American soccer leagues are not held in especially high esteem by European football fans. That is mostly a perception of the quality of play. What can't be doubted, though, is that there is some serious money behind both of these moves. Even without superstar salaries you can't employ an entire roster of full time players, rent a stadium, and fly your team around a country as big as America on the cheap. Whatever Atlanta's failings as a soccer town, it has not run out of local millionaires willing to put their money up to give it another go.

Here is my guess how things will go: the Beat will do relatively well if they just copy what the first incarnation of the Beat did. The bigger question is if the new "Women's Professional Soccer" will last. NuRock obviously have oodles of cash. After establishing a new team in the USL I expect they will make a move to get their team into the top flight Major League Soccer (MLS). In England this would be done by rich owners spending lots of cash on big signings who would hopefully win the club a Premiership berth. In America, where there is no relegation and promotion, it is a much simpler process: just spend lots of money. As long as the cash continues to flow freely and this new Atlanta team gets decent support the MLS will eventually grant it an expansion slot in their growing league. And, as the recent trend is to name new teams after the failed soccer franchises of the '80s, it may not be too long before I am cheering on the Atlanta Chiefs once again!

Now, can we find any spare Atlanta property-developer-millionaires who want to throw a bit of money at Bath City?

A Kind of Violence Americans Don't Understand

The mere idea of a West Ham and Milwall fixture sounds violent. Both clubs, especially Milwall, have had a reputation for supporter violence. And there are few rivalries in English football as intense as the one between these two East London clubs. The fact that meetings are rare now that Milwall now plays two divisions below West Ham made last night's League Cup match all the more tense. Both of the clubs and the Metropolitan Police, however, have the experience to prevent and control the sort of events that occurred last night. The fact that they did not probably points more to the (mistaken) view that serious fan violence was a relic of the '80s. This has been a rude wake up call for the authorities of English football, especially the FA who do not want to have their bid for the 2018 World Cup scuppered. Expect harsh penalties to be meted out to any hooligans successfully identified from film clips, and perhaps to the clubs themselves.

I first became aware of violence in English football in my doctor's waiting room in 1985.From the magazine pile I picked up an issue of Sports Illustrated with the strap line, "A Soccer Tragedy Shocks the World," on the cover. Inside was a long essay explaining the disaster at Heysel stadium on the 29th of May of that year (and thanks to the wonders of the Internet, you can read that same article yourself here) when 39 people were killed after Liverpool fans rushed into an area of the stands mostly populated by Juventus supporters. I remember reading that article really not understanding it. The idea of fans of one team massing and attacking the fans of another made no sense. What was the point? What was the motivation? It would not change the score on the pitch, would it?

Fan violence in American sport is mostly limited to scuffles under the bleachers at high school football games on Friday nights. There are usually parents on hand to step in if things get out of hand. Most Americans (except Texans) outgrow the taste for high school football when they leave high school, and with it the hormone-fueled style of support. Rightfully, fighting in public is generally viewed as childish.

And here is a great irony: although America is undoubtedly a far more violent society than Britain, you are much less likely to see violence in America. Local evening news programs in America vie with each other to lead off with the most violent (and ratings grabbing) story they can find, but for 99.9% of their viewers this violence will remain purely theoretical. Violent crime in America happens in certain well-known urban areas that most sane people avoid. While this in itself throws up some pretty uncomfortable questions about American society, it does mean that most people live a life free from the fear of physical threat. It was not until I moved to the UK that I ever saw someone being attacked live and in person. That is not a common experience, but I have had to learn that there are certain scenarios in Britain (usually involving alcohol) where you need to be on your guard in case things start to 'kick off.' Until the late 1990s the most common of these was football matches. Conversely, I have been to hundreds of sporting events in America covering at least six different sports and I have never been to one where the fans needed to be segregated. I can't really think of a scenario where that would seem at all appropriate.

The reasons why English football should be plagued by hooligans is complicated. The fact that cricket and rugby are virtually free of such problems makes it harder to identify the problem as something specifically 'British.' Yet it is absurd to think that there is something about the sport of football that incites people to violent behaviour. It is also not a matter of the famous 'English football passion' going a bit too far on match day. Most hooligan activity is arranged in advance by organised groups. The only possible conclusion one can make is the same one I drew in that doctor's waiting room twenty years ago: it makes no sense. In other words, football violence has no footballing purpose. The football matches themselves are just a convenient pretext for a bunch of people who appear to like fighting to get together and beat the tar out of each other.

This is not fair on the majority of supporters who don't come to matches to beat the tar out of each other. It isn't really fair on the clubs or the FA either since football is essentially being invaded by organised gangs. Regardless of whether it is fair or not, it is only the clubs and the FA who have the ability to rid football of this pestilence once and for all. The thugs who came to yesterday's match to fight, and not to watch the football need to be identified and banned for life. They aren't real football fans anyway, so it would hardly be unjust. I do wonder, though, if West Ham or the FA will really have the stomach to do this. If we see this gentleman in the stands again, we will know they did not.

There is one silver lining to all of this. This is a wonderful country to live in. British people are much to suave to say this about themselves, but I'm American so I'm allowed to gush. Much of UK life would seem idyllic by US standards. For example, I know all of my neighbours well. I can also, in a few minutes, walk to the shops in the centre of town, the fields in the nearby countryside, or my children's school. I only drive when I need to make the short journey to Bath. I feel privileged to live here. It is not perfect, though. All societies have their problems. Hooliganism is one problem that the British have, more or less, managed to control admirably. Helpfully, it is in public view, which makes it easier to identify the troublemakers and harder for the authorities to ignore. One further thing yesterday's violence did was to demonstrate just how far everyone has progressed since Heysel.

A Tripple Helping of Frustration

Bath City lost today to Hampton & Richmond Borough 3-1. Losing is painful, and for some reason losing in football hurts a lot more than it does in other sports. This loss was harder to bear than normal though: it was a match of continuous frustration. They say football will break your heart and they are right. This, however, was more like football cornering you at a party and talking to you endlessly about themselves in a tedious fashion until, to your horror, you see that the buffet has been picked clean and now there are only the cheddar and pineapple h'ors douvres left that no one else wanted. It was that frustrating!

I was feeling relatively positive as my friend Mark and I approached Twerton Park. City were putting together a decent run, Hampton had struggled out of the blocks, and we were due for a bit of luck after last year's home fixture against Hampton. My brain cheerfully ignored the fact that Hampton's brutish squad from last year was largely the same. It also blocked the memory of how they had made it to the playoffs last year using an ugly, physical style that helped them grind out wins across the league. My brain thinks it is being helpful when it does this. I try not to complain much because it has so far prevented me from going down to the betting shop in such a condition.

In the car park I receive what I think is good news: Will Puddy, our embattled keeper, is injured. Okay, that doesn't sound good, but he is going to be replaced by Steve 'Porks' Perrin, our second choice keeper (Putty was our third choice - the first choice is having a back operation and has yet to play this season). This sounds good especially because last year Hampton had City on the back foot for almost the entire match. Pinned in the back third, the City defence struggled valiantly, but it was Perrin's superhuman shot blocking ability that kept City in the match. Nearly a full match's hard work was undone, though, when referee Mark Philpott awarded a terrible penalty. A sharply hit ball in the penalty box hit Jim Rollo in the arm. The fact that his arm was pinned against his left side and that he could not have avoided being hit there was not considered. City lost what should have been a valiant defensive draw.

Things appeared to be looking up with Perrin between the sticks, but something else was wrong. It may have been the overcast, autumnal sky. It might have been the humidity, which gave the air a 'heavy' feeling. Personally, though, I think the Hampton club just have a bad vibe. I remember it from last year as well. It is the same sort of vibe you feel in a dentist's waiting room, or a bad party. There was a nervous tension in the air that was not related to the expectation of the play of the match. I feel bad saying this, but I think I just have a visceral dislike of Hampton that I can't explain. Ugggh. Even before the first kick this had the feeling of a match to endure rather than a match to enjoy.

One big improvement over last year, though, was that rather than trying to grind out a 0-0 draw from the beginning, City started the match looking to score. Although they rarely seemed on the verge of a finishing shot, City played with a bright style that relied on passing and possession. Most of the Hampton squad was content to keep its shape behind the ball. City regularly charged forward en masse, sometimes dominating mid-field play. Inevitably, though, the surge would break down as it entered the Hampton penalty box. There were several on-target shots in the first half, but never from anyone with the position or time to get much on the ball. Despite looking more like a tax assessor than a keeper, Matt Lovett was always in a good position and kept Hampton in the game.

Eighteen minutes in, it looked like City had gotten some payback for last year's penalty call. During a scuffle in front of goal a Hampton player appeared to sit on Lewis Hogg. This year's ref, Andrew Newell, rightly pointed to the spot. Edwards lined up for the penalty. He had to line up for a long time because the Hampton players kept wandering into the penalty box and Newell would have to wave them out again. Whether or not this was intended to be a distraction, Edwards' kick glanced clear off the top bar. The opportunity to put City in the lead was gone.

Within two minutes, in one of the few sequences thus far in the City half of the field, a mix up in front of goal led to Chris Holland scoring an own goal. Missed penalties and own goals are perhaps the most frustrating things you can witness as a fan, and we had witnessed both within a few minutes. Hampton had gotten a two goal swing on the cheap.

City kept playing aggressively, however, often sending players forward from the back line. Half-chances came and went. Edwards almost redeemed his missed penalty with a fantastic header from a free kick. This was one of only two shots that Lovett was not able to handle cleanly. From an off-balance position he managed to get enough glove on the ball to flick it over the bar. Although, again, against the run of play, Hampton got a penalty three minutes before the break. This penalty was taken cleanly. City were behind 0-2 in a match that they were dominating in every category except scoring.

In times of crisis the British get a cup of tea. Mark and I settled down on the terrace steps and tried to come up with scenarios that would end in a 3-2 City victory as we sipped our brews. I knew City would keep fighting, and that was some consolation.

Although the two goals lead for Hampton was not really deserved, they had given City plenty of scares in the first half. They are a big, physical team. Their strategy appears to be to out-muscle their opposition and capitalise on any resulting mistakes. They rarely showed much creativity. Their most effective passing was from the keeper, Lovett, who had a booming kick with which he could pick out his own players more often than not. Because of their size, and because their striker duo of Craig Dundas and Lawrence Yaku were big and fast as well, it was effective. They got a third goal not long into the second half off of a bad pass by Marcus Browning. Yaku ended up in a one-on-one with Perrin and scored with ease.

Afterwards City still attacked. And, they attacked well. At the hour mark I saw what I think is the most impressive goal scored by a City player I have seen, especially considering the opposition. Lewis Hogg got the ball off a Hampton mid-fielder in the City half. Although he appeared to be on the verge of passing at several points, he kept the ball and managed to weave through the kicks and tackles until he got the ball into the left corner of the Bristol end. Despite having two Hampton players covering him, he managed a sharp cross in front of goal and Mohamed Kaid, our reserve striker, was in exactly the right spot. It happened in a flash and seemed ran completely counter to the style of the game up to that point. It almost made the eventual defeat worthwhile.

Again, City kept attacking. Kaid managed two bicycle kicks in front of goal. They were on target and, at least for me, totally unexpected. Somehow Lovett managed to be right in front of them each time. Despite the venom Kaid kicked with Lovett stopped them with the composure of a pre-match warm up. With such efforts Kaid deserved another goal. He deserved a hat-trick.

Scuffles began to break out on the pitch. I could not help but think the City players shared my irrational dislike of the Hampton players, but I think the Hampton players gave them enough reasons to be disliked without being irrational. A few minutes before time there was a double red card. Marcus Browning and Ian Hodges both collapsed to onto the pitch clutching their faces. Presumably they had headbutted each other, but both acted fell so theatrically there were no complaints about the refs decision in the stands. Browning is becoming increasingly unpopular in the terraces anyway. Several people around me welcomed his inevitable suspension as good news.

The match ended 3-1. I don't feel City were robbed - Hampton are a difficult side and City should have taken an early lead. I felt, to be honest, a bit of relief. Relief that the match was over. Relief that I probably won't have to watch Hampton play again until next season. Relief that the quality of City's play would beat most teams in the Conference South this year.

As Mark and I walked away from Twerton Park we could hear the Hampton travelling support cheering their team. I can't blame the supporters, and credit to those who came, but I am truly thankful that City is my team and not Hampton. Football is meant to be the beautiful game, but they play it in a dark and ugly fashion. I appreciate a team that plays with fire and spirit, but watching a team win in such a one-dimensional way is not fun. And, besides all this, there is something about them I just don't like. I really did not want City to lose to them. How frustrating!

The Soccerball Years, part 1

As a child there were five professional sports teams in my home town of Atlanta, Georgia. The Braves played baseball. The Falcons played American football. The basketball team was the Hawks. Surprising everyone, as winter sports are not popular in the South, we had a pro hockey team called the Flames. Lastly, and perhaps most dear to the hearts of fourth graders across the metropolitan area, was the Chiefs, our soccer team.

Atlanta has always been a relative hotbed of soccer. My high school had a team as early as the 1950s. It took until the late 1970s, though, for soccer to take a place in the wider public imagination and become an increasingly popular activity for middle-class parents to sign their children up to. My parents enrolled me in the local church league. We didn't know much about tactics. Most matches consisted of eighteen kids crowding round the ball and kicking each other in the shins, while the goalies sat on their haunches and looked for four-leafed clovers in the pitch. We had fun, though, and we enjoyed fooling ourselves into being experts at a game which mystified our parents.

Although I did not know it at the time, the Atlanta Chiefs of my pre-teen years was actually the second club to operate by that name. The original club had been one of the founding teams of the North American Soccer League in 1968. It had, in fact, had won the league's first championship. No one remembers this now, of course, but two surprising legacies of the original chiefs are still extant. One of the star players that year was Kaizer 'Boy Boy' Motaung. After a single season in Atlanta he returned home. He enjoyed his experience with the Chiefs enough to use the name for the new club he founded, the Kaizer Chiefs (and in fact he used not only the name but the logo of his old team as well). Over twenty years later, the Kaizer Chiefs sold Lucas Radebe to Leeds United. He quickly became a fan favourite, and inspired a group of local musicians to name their band after his old club. So now when I watch my boys bounce around their room listening to a Kaiser Chiefs album, I secretly enjoy it as an unintended memorial to my first football love.

The original Chiefs folded in 1973, practically unnoticed by anyone. The NASL continued without them, and despite nearly a decade of obscurity, suddenly found itself to be the major American sports fad of the late 1970s. The league began to expand its membership and in 1979 Ted Turner moved a franchise to Atlanta and renamed it after the original Chiefs. This incarnation lasted only three years but left a lasting impression on the children of the city. After all, soccer was our sport.

Getting to matches was difficult. My parents, like most parents, thought that soccer was boring. They did not understand the rules and they did not understand how a sport could allow play to go for so long at a time without anyone scoring. Saying that, it was my parents who saw the Chiefs first. They were invited by one of my father's clients to a evening match when the Cosmos were in town. They went, brought me home a Chiefs pennant (which I still have) and were able to tell me they had seen Pele. That's right, my mother, who doesn't even know there is such a thing as an offside rule let alone posses the ability to explain it, has seen Pele play. I could cry. As far as I can remember they never went again. I suppose it was only going to be downhill from there.

I did get to see the Chiefs myself, finally, thanks to the efforts of my friend Marthame. Marthame was the most soccer mad of any kid in Atlanta in 1979 without doubt. He could have explained the offside rule, that's for sure. Marthame always had his birthday parties at Chiefs matches, and one of these coincided with a 'meet the players' promotion. After queueing for ten minutes I got my picture taken with the Chiefs keeper. After some research I am pretty sure this player was one 'Tad Delorm,' but he could have just been a reserve. Whoever he was he had a wonderfully 'porny' mustache and the facial expression of someone who would rather be doing almost anything other than posing with nine-year-olds for souvenir Polaroids.

The match itself was played in the cavernous Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium with a capacity of over 50,000. I remember finding it hard to follow the play on the pitch - we seemed a million miles away, and they style of play was not what I was used to (as in eighteen players crowding around the ball and kicking each other in the shins). Whenever I had a question Marthame was always there to answer it, always with enthusiasm. The half time entertainment was, believe it or not, a short exhibition of rugby. Really. I can remember the announcer explaining to the crowd that the players were not allowed to throw the ball forwards but could kick the ball forwards if they chose. Considering that the adult half of the crowd that day was undoubtedly confused by the soccer already, a rugby match was probably one novelty too far.

Despite soccer never really becoming 'mainstream,' the Chiefs still managed to draw decent crowds. It was a natural step, therefore, for Ted Turner to enter the Chiefs into the NASL indoor league in 1979. The games were played in the Omni, where the Hawks and Flames played as well. Although Americanised to the point where its relationship with proper football is at best tenuous, indoor soccer has had a commercial success that outlived the NASL. It continues to be played in several small professional leagues across the country today. The games are fast, have little room for complex tactics, and involve much more scoring. Certainly as a child I found it easier to follow. Marthame liked it too, and his parents would organise groups of children to go with him to occasional matches.

I have three memories of the indoor Chiefs matches. One was that there was a banner hanging from the ceiling proclaiming the Chiefs status as NASL Indoor Eastern Division Champions, 1979. Considering the fact that no other Atlanta team had won anything in my lifetime that could be sewn on a banner, I was suitably awed. There was also a woman who was at every match I attended who had a wooden football rattle. She swung it around so much I found it really annoying. No one has ever produced a football rattle at any match I've been to here in England so there is no telling where she got it from.

My most vivid memory of the indoor Chiefs matches, though, was the Atlanta keeper, Graham Tutt. I wish I could say that I was fascinated by him because of his playing record. I wish it was because I knew that he had played for Charlton Athletic in the old First Division from 1973-76 before a traumatic eye injury sidelined him for eighteen months. The real reasons were much more mundane: (1) His jersey number was '00,' which I thought was 'really cool.' (2) The King Tut exhibition had just caused a huge media sensation in America and having 'Tutt' for a surname was also 'really cool.' (3) The Omni had a huge, four-sided scoreboard that hung suspended from the ceiling. Every time Tutt kicked the ball had to be careful to avoid it. Once he did hit it, and I thought that was 'really cool.' I was ten years old, okay?

After three outdoor and two indoor seasons the second Chiefs were wound up as well. Although attendances were good, soccer struggled to succeed on television. It continued to do so until my generation became old enough to become a demographic grouping advertisers wanted to reach. Today's Major League Soccer reaps the harvest the NASL sowed.

After the Chiefs folded most of the players who could move on to other teams did so. Graham Tutt, however, stayed in Atlanta and played for the equally ill-starred Georgia Generals. After that he began running training camps for children and playing amateur soccer. Little did I know that as an adult, our paths would one day cross again.....(continued in the Soccerball Years, part 2)

How to Torture Yourself Online

After getting to watch the first three matches of the season live and in person, it was difficult to adjust to the reality that I would have to miss tonight's match anainst Havant & Waterloooville FC. I knew absolutely I would not be able to go, but I still sneaked a look at the train times from Bath to Havant, and checked on Google Maps to see how far the ground was from the train station (1.4 miles - a 27 minute walk it told me). The truth, though, is that Mrs Nedved needed me at home tonight to put the kids to bed while she attended a committee meeting. With all of the grown-up commitments I have these days I can't really expect to go to every match. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Fortunately, thanks to the 'information super-highway' I can get a steady stream of live updates as they happen from the ground. This is mostly due to fellow fan 'Sean,' who runs a website called 'www.cityupdates.co.uk.' The website uses a very simple, but elegant concept. Sean attends the matches with his super-duper mobile phone which can access the Internet and adds lines of text to the sites page as the game progresses. In the past, as many as seventy-nine people around the world have been hanging onto every word Sean types in, so it is quite a responsibility.

The other website I always have up when I'm not at a match is the Non League Vidiprinter. This amazing website, which is based on the BBC's 'vidiprinter' which does a similar job for the larger clubs on television, lists goals, half time, attendances, red cards, and full time whistles from the top four levels of non-league football (some 254 teams) as they happen. It does this smoothly and silently each match day, regardless of how worked up and emotional its audience is. It is an amazing achievement, especially considering that there is no live media coverage of any sort for the majority of the matches it is covering.

The Internet revolution has transformed the experience of following a non-league football club, and this is most evident on these painful match days when you are not attending. Less than a decade ago if you missed a match you would have had no choice but to find something to take your mind off the subject until you could find out what happened (at least a few hours later or probably the next day). Fathers and husbands around the country probably spent the time with their families, or engaged in some edifying activity such as gardening or reading a book. Due to the bounty of technology, however, we can now spend this time hunched in front of a computer screen chewing on our nails. Progress.

As I said, Mrs Nedved had a committee meeting she was holding at our house at 8 pm. Through careful child-management I was able to get both boys into bed by 7:40, five minutes before kick-off. I had myself pretty worked up - we really needed at least a point from our visit to Havant & Waterlooville, but I was worried that the 'Hawks' were showing much more form than the pre-season surveys had suggested. Two seasons ago Havant managed to get to the fourth round of the FA Cup and drew Liverpool away - the non-league equivalent of winning the lottery (with the powerball!). Through prize money, their share of the gates, and television earnings the club earned an estimated £750,000. All the pundits tipped them to run away with the league last year because of this, but they finished a mysterious fifteenth. Although no one was talking about them before this season, early reports are that they may be feeling the effect of that cash injection a year later than expected. Seven points from a possible nine was impressive, and better than City's record. Despite all of that, City would surely want to keep the momentum of the previous two matches going and at least come away from the match with something.

In the first half hour things looked bleak. Sean was reporting that the Hawks were really dominating play, and their new signing, Manny Williams, scored a goal at seven minutes into the match.

Reading about City losing with only a computer screen to look at is an excruciating process. I would much rather watch them lose live and in person. On the computer the bad news comes suddenly and out of context. Your mind, trying to make sense of the information, is in a state of shock. It tries to comes up with all sorts of scenarios to explain the news, but none of them satisfy. The only thing a sane person can do, and sanity at this point is already being pushed to the limit, is stare even harder at the screen, hoping this will force an update carrying better news to appear.

In this instance the starring worked. As my wife's fellow committee persons began to assemble downstairs word appeared from Sean that City was playing more aggressively. No goals came before the half, but having seen City's fightback in Chelmsford I knew they were up to coming back from a goal down.

Once half time was finished I began to get the BBC i-player loaded up in order to listen to Caroline Barker's Non League Show that is broadcast on Monday nights at 9pm on BBC London. It is a good source of Non League news, something that is not always easy to come by the way the Premiership dominates the sports media. Luck was in because Caroline had a reporter at West Leigh Park, so for a few precious minutes I was actually hearing ambient noise from the match itself. Not much happened while he was on the air except a City player got a yellow card, but for a brief moment I felt an irrational surge of excitement.

The news from Sean continued to be positive. The meeting downstairs continued in a manner that gave me confidence I would be able to follow the match to its conclusion undisturbed. Then, all hell broke loose.

I must have concentrated on the digital reports a bit too much because unbeknownst to me the meeting had in fact finished and everyone had left. Whoever heard of a meeting that only lasts forty-five minutes, anyway? Mrs Nedved calls up, 'Is the computer free now?' Disaster! Saying 'no' would be risky. This is the same Mrs Nedved who's blessing I need to go to the Saturday match against Hampton & Richmond Borough, and annoying her with Bath City stuff could bias her against this. After making a quick, Richelieu-like calculation, I said 'yes.' Just as the words left my mouth, though, important news from Sean appeared: an excellent cross from Darren Edwards had connected with Mark Badman who put the ball in the net. City were level!

I punched the air, silently, and tried to compose myself. Mrs Nedved would not want to see me acting like an imbecile, no matter how understandable it might be in such a situation. Then, as I heard her ascending on the stairs, Sean sent through a cryptic update: 'Bath City penalty.'

Was this a penalty for City? Or against it? Or maybe I had misunderstood Sean's previous update and the goal from Edwards and Badman was a penalty? I waited eagerly, pretending it was no trouble to open a new window for Yahoo mail, and walked away from the computer none the wiser. As I did this I could hear the sound of the computer working hard to process some data - exactly the noise it makes when an update from Sean is coming through!

Just then my phone began to vibrate furiously with incoming texts. 'Who's texting you?' she asks. I don't know actually. I'm having trouble concentrating at this point to be honest. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' I ask weakly.

Down in the kitchen I fumble with my phone and find a text from a colleague at work. He is a Swindon Town fan, but by glorious providence, had chosen that moment to see what the score was for the Bath City match and to text it to me! He had never done this before, but chose just the right moment to start. 'Bath 2 -1 H & W, get in there,' he wrote. Then a moment later I get further commentary on the scoreline: '2 goals in two minutes, just need to hang on, City going up!!!!!'

I managed to make the cup of tea and spill less than half of it on my journey up the stairs. Mrs Nedved was furiously typing out emails. Being a perceptive person, and of a kind nature, she senses the distress I am trying to hide. 'Do you want to look at the Bath City page?' I gave her a half-mumbled answer and lunged for the mouse. Yes, it was true. City lead 2-1 with minutes to go.

As she returns to her emails I tried to text my colleague to ask for more help. I say 'try' because the message I meant to type was, 'Wife has tied up the computer so keep the texts coming.' What I actually sent to my puzzled friend (thanks to predictive text and a lack of concentration) was, 'Bomb has tied us the computer so keep the texts congo.' Just as I was pressing 'send,' another text came in: 'S***, 2-2'

Mrs Nedved was finished moments later, but there was no further change in score to get updates about. The game finished with two goals each. Conflicting voices filled my cloudy head. 'You said you would be happy with a point, and that's what you got. Be happy.' 'Yeah, but if City had gotten all three points they would have been in third!' 'Yes, but they were a good side and' ........blah, blah, blah. Time for a distraction.

Fortunately I don't drink.

Not All of Bath's Sportsmen Can Afford Cocaine

Exposing Bath's drug shame - Times Online

While Bath City's new campaign has started off with a delightful six points out of a possible nine, the bigger sports club in town is facing up to a real catastrophe. Bath Rugby is in the midst of a drug taking scandal of the likes of which have never been seen before in British rugby. And the really scandalous thing about this scandal is that it is happening to a rugby club. Footballers are the ones the media expects to struggle with the pitfalls of modern life. In England, despite being more popular, football is looked down on as the sport of the masses (the working class). The elite play sports that depend on good character. This explains why it was so extraordinary when Tony Blair pledged his love for Newcastle United. The fact that it appeared to be a very shallow love was not important. No prime minister within living memory had admitted to being a football fan before.

Rugby and cricket claim to have much loftier standards. Both sports are still imbibed with a Victorian morality that has lived long after the Victorians have fled the scene. You do not just play cricket or rugby. You are, supposedly, transformed by it into a better person. Likewise, players of these sports are expected to be a cut above the poor unfortunates who are cursed to play less noble sports. It seems like a nice tradition when first encountered, but in both sports these antiquated notions descend into hypocrisy and naivety very quickly. English cricket, for example, opened Lords, the spiritual home of global cricket, to the now disgraced financier Alan Stanford. He landed a helicopter on the pitch and wheeled out a perspex case containing $1 million in banknotes. The ennobled guardians of cricket said 'thank you very much,' shook his hand, and didn't realise that something was amiss. Needless to say, they were understandably shocked when he was later arrested by the FBI.

The Bath Rugby scandal is also shaping up to be a masterpiece of voluntary myopia. In the early months of this year, star player Matt Stevens was banned for two years after testing positive for cocaine in a mandatory drug test. Although Stevens' drug use had gone undetected by the coach Steve Meehan. At the time Meehan 'wondered whether other Bath players might have been using the drug but was reassured by high-level performance on the training ground and in matches.' Well, then, that makes it okay. Right?

It turns out it was not. Ten weeks later Meehan was tipped off by another player that (shock!) Stevens had not been the only cocaine user on the squad. So far four more have been suspended by the club (although technically their suspensions are only for refusing to take tests, not positive results). This mess appears to be headed for the courts because Bath Rugby may not have handled the testing procedure properly. Doubtlessly, everyone involve in this will end up looking even worse in the end.

As an American observer of all of this several points stand out. First of all, if rampant cocaine use was occurring inside a football club I doubt there would be nearly as much media attention. The unacknowledged spice to this story is that it is happening in rugby. This is very odd. True, rugby was played only by amateurs until as late as 1995. Previous to this it was played, in theory, for the love of the game. Without the supposed corruption of money, rugby could pretend to be a sport with a higher calling played by morally superior sportsmen. Fifteen years later, though, it seems absurd to think that professional sportsmen in one sport would behave differently from any other sport, or from the population as a whole.

The other question is why is this not happening in football? Here the answer is much more interesting. There is no way of actually proving that there is no cocaine in the higher levels of professional football, but I think it is unlikely to be common. The reason, ironically, is money. Football does not try to hide the fact that money is its engine. The players play for money. The clubs succeed because of money. It can seem distasteful, but there is a strangely appealing honesty to football's culture. Football players are assets. Cristiano Ronaldo was just sold by Manchester United to Real Madrid for £80 million. I think the likelihood that Ronaldo could have been taking cocaine without Alex Ferguson knowing about it is unlikely in the extreme. I doubt he could even eat junk food without someone being tipped off. He is too valuable to just guess about it. And, despite childish antics at the touchline from the managers, football clubs are much more slickly run than their counterparts in other sports. If a Premiership footballer is ever caught with a 'class A' drug it is inconceivable that a thorough investigation would not be launched across the entire organisation. Drawing a conclusion after looking at the team's performance in a few matches would not cut it.

So, what about the other sports team in Bath, Bath City FC? Six divisions down from Manchster United there isn't the money to spend analysing every chemical in a player's body they way Premiership clubs do. Cocaine is not likely to be part of City's locker room culture, though. This is not because City breed a higher class of sportsman. It is just unlikely they could afford it on part-time football wages. City players also appear to be perfectly normal people (perhaps even more normal than their supporters). Whatever they are doing in the privacy of their homes it is probably the same as what everyone else in town is doing in the privacy of their homes. We should not expect any differently.

Now that the club's reputation has been tarnished, will the hordes of Bath Rugby supporters defect to Twerton Park on Saturdays in disgust? I don't wish Bath Rugby any harm, but I do hope more people do start coming to City matches. At least a few will. I hope, though, that they do not come because Bath's footballers are thought to be more morally upright. I hope they come just to see some good football played by people not so different from themselves.

Three Points and Two Children

I was able to attend today's home match against Welling United for one reason only - I took both children. Oh sure, it is a bonding experience that some day I will look back on with a tear in my eye, et cetera, but really it was a chance for my wife to have some time on her own for the afternoon. Three weeks into the summer holidays and Mrs. Nedved needed a break. I was happy to oblige if it meant getting to see the City boys in action for the third match in a row.

My children have a sort of love/hate relationship with Twerton Park. Until the mid-point of last season I found it difficult to get them to come along. Then at the St. Albans match in January I got them to come along by promising to stuff them full of sweets and crisps from the tea bar. It worked, and they generally want to come now when asked. Unfortunately, they nearly spoil it each time by saying 'Mommy, mommy, we're going to Bath City and Daddy says we can have as many sweets as we like!' So, after yet another promise not to buy them any junk food (which I knew I would break but would try hard not to break very much), we donned all of our Bath City merchandise, loaded up the Nedvedmobile with cheese and pickle sandwiches for the ride home, and set off for sunny Twerton.

We made it with only minutes to spare. There was just enough time to get each of the boys a doughnut (okay, okay, but really that's all they are going to get) and settle down in the front of the popular side terrace.

My five year old went to his first match ever last year when we attended the home opener against Welling. City lost 0-4 in the most depressing display I have ever seen from a City side. The only source of levity was the way my son kept referring to Welling in their all-red kit as Liverpool (he insisted that City had played Liverpool up until a few weeks ago). After two spirited performances so far in league play this season, I know I was not the only supporter hoping for a little revenge from our guests today.

City did play positively, but not as attractively as they have in the previous two matches. Welling had come for a scrap, and although it never got dirty, and the City players remained calm, long passes in hope rather than with purpose became the order of the day. Overall, the balance of play was in City's favour. It looked like the scoring would be too when Mike Perrott, making his first start, made a neat pass to give Darren Edwards a one-on-one with the Welling keeper, Charlie Mitten. Four days previously he had finished such a chance neatly, but in this instance he appeared to be unsure of when to shoot and in the end sliced the ball wide to the left.

This was very frustrating, but fortunately a few minutes later a neat free kick from Adam Connolley was even more neatly headed into the back of the net by Gethin Jones. I jumped up and down and shouted and hugged both children. They needed me to explain what had happened because they had just previously been examining an interesting pebble they had found on the terrace. They were genuinely pleased, though, because for reasons I have not fully grasped yet they both say that Gethin Jones is their favourite player. I think my seven year old admires the way Gethin gels his hair. The fact that he is a very useful fullback who can on occasion penetrate opposition defences with his pace is also good.

My five year old began to complain of hunger, and I, being a responsible father, refused to buy him any more junk food. Not until half time at least. He began asking after every whistle if it was half time yet, so we had to rehearse what the half time whistle would sound like. 'Beep, Beep, Beeeeeeeep.' Finally it went, and we got in the back of a very long queue at the tea bar. My seven year old, desperate to show his maturity, said, 'Daddy, I think I might actually be having a good time, and I'm not actually begging for anything.' Progress!

Despite the lack of begging he was grateful for a packet of 'Ready Salted.' His younger brother settled on a lolly. I was a bit nervous going into the second half: Welling seemed more likely to score than the previous two oppositions (other than those fifteen minutes of horror), and neither boy has shown the ability to really pay attention to a match beyond the hour mark. I prepared for a session of scrapping both on and off the pitch. Welling did come back from the interval looking stronger, and true to form the boys began to squabble about who got to lean on a particular twelve inches of railing that was exactly the same as the other 300 feet of railing along that side of the pitch. Although I was able to fight a rearguard action consisting of scolding and separating, eventually I gave in and we left the popular side and headed for the nearly empty family stand on the other side of the pitch.

From the other side of the ground I was still able to get a good view of proceedings. The second half descended into more midfield ping-pong. City were able to mount the occasional co-ordinated attack, but controlling the ball into a meaningful position and converting these opportunities eluded them. I was also able to see the crowd on the popular side terrace well. While I had been part of it the terrace had felt fairly full. I could now see how sparsely it was populated. The announced crowd of 479 was a disappointment. Even though it was not the most attractive of games, the brave City boys deserved better.

With fifteen minutes to go disaster struck. Will Putty had made some excellent saves in the match thus far. Unlike in the Maidenhead match, Welling gave him several testing shots to handle. One looked so sharply hit I thought it might carry him with it into the net. His kicking had, again, been excellent. All this was all undone briefly, though, when a misjudged back pass caught him out of position and gifted a goal to Jake Hobbs of Welling. There has been some debate on the forum about how much of this was Putty's fault, but he did flounder helplessly as he tried to control the situation. I tried not to get angry, but I felt cheated and began privately to wonder if the season was going to be undone by such defensive lapses.

I did this, though, partly out of habits learned from matches last season. The collapse against Bishop's Stortford from 2-0 to 2-3 still haunts me. I was not giving City credit for the fact that although the last year's team is largely in tact, this year's squad has a new attitude and a new mental strength.

After two substitutions, new signing Kaid Mohamed penetrated down the right side to make a shot that was accurate, venomous, well placed, and unfortunately within reach of the reliable Charlie Mitten. It was an impressive piece of work nonetheless, and I know I won't be the only supporter hoping to see Mohamed start up front soon. Moments later City really showed its mettle. Midfield enforcer Lewis Hogg neatly set up a free kick for defender Chris Holland to reach the net with a deflecting header. After a minute of extra time (which lasted at least three minutes) City players and supporters rejoiced. Three valuable points had been banked.

I let out a cheer of relief. My seven year old, always the philosopher, asked, 'Why do you cheer louder when Bath City score than when they win?' A good question.

This was not City's best performance, but it is important that they have shown that they can without their best performance. I am convinced this is a better side than the one that placed eighth last year. It has more talent, more depth, and a stronger desire to win.

We were soon in the car and the boys were soon strapped in and tucking in to their sandwiches. I almost throttled them at a couple points this afternoon, but I know I will look back these experiences in years to come and smile. Well, as long as City keep winning, anyway.

Dads Army, part two

The first time I went into the clubhouse bar, Charlie's, I felt pretty intimidated. I don't drink, so anytime I'm in a bar ordering a coke I always feel slightly silly. It is sort of like hanging out in a steakhouse and asking for a veggieburger. Charlie's is also a very, very male environment that harks back to an era from before my arrival in the UK. There is a giant telly on the wall with Sky Sports News flashing its stats, and one of those pre-Thatcher carpets that will never show a stain no matter how bad the behaviour gets. When we walked in it was full of groups of men getting a prematch buzz going, so we siddled up to one end of the bar and did the same (except I had a Coke).

Whenever you bring someone new to a Bath City match you cannot help but feel insecure about what their reaction is going to be. When someone is used to the sanitised world of Premiership matches on the telly you wonder if Twerton Park is just a bit too gritty and earthy. As a result from the point of that pint until the second half I kept asking everyone what they thought, half expecting for them to laugh and say, 'This is so crap!'

But they didn't! After the pint I gathered everyone on the terraces on the 'popular side' of the ground and I talked through the various players and they all seemed interested. They asked questions and looked thoughtfully at the players as if they were sizing them up. I was feeling hopeful.

As the match started it was immediately obvious that the Bath City players had shown up to win. I don't know if it was as a result of the close loss at the Chelmsford match, or if manager Addie Britton had put something in their milk, but whatever it was there was an immediately noticeable and impressive collective will among the players to pummel Maidenhead United until they begged for mercy. It was thrilling to watch, and even though the quality of play was not of a Premiership standard, watching any team at any level wanting to win that badly is bound to be entertaining.

City's main worry so far this season has been the lack of fire power up front. This was an issue in the Maidenhead game, because although City dominated possession and made some great plays in mid-field, getting a playable ball into the penalty box eluded them for most of the first half. Controlling the ball was very important, though, because it kept City's loanee keeper, Will Puddy, from having to do much on the night. His lapse at Chelmsford where he let in four goals in fifteen minutes is the second biggest worry at City at the moment. I was finding it frustrating that City could not convert its possession into goals, but I was heartened when one of the dads said, 'It is clear we are the better team. I'm sure we will get a goal soon.' We? We!

Despite my fears everyone seemed to be having a genuinely good night out. The father who had been very upfront about not really liking football even said, 'I wonder if I should call my wife and tell her I'm having a good time at a football match. She might not believe me.' At halftime I asked another what he thought so far. I meant, what did he think of the experience of a non-league match, but he said, 'I think we'll get a goal soon and then hopefully that will relax them and a few more will follow.'

Another benefit of a night at Twerton became apparent during the halftime break. I went and got a cup of tea, but about half the guys went round to the snack bar for burgers and chips. No one asked, 'What did you have for lunch, then?' or 'Are you sure you need that much salt on those?' I'll say no more.

In the second half City kept hammering away at the Maidenhead defence. This time they let the Magpies get out of their half a few times, but despite this at 65 minutes Darren Edwards finally got the goal everyone had been waiting for. There was a tangible sense of relief in the stands.

Bizarrely, despite only having a one goal lead and having thrashed Maidenhead up to now, the City players changed to a defensive formation and began to play back. A sense of nervousness was evident to everyone and Will Putty almost lost his clean sheet in the closing minutes when a ball just overshot the far post. After six nerve-wracking minutes of injury time the whistle blew and I starting jumping up and down in triumph.

The players jumped up and down too. Matt Coupe and Chirs Holland began pumping the air in triumph. There was a group hug of players on the pitch. It was only a regular league match, but the reaction was more like getting into the first round of the FA Cup. City really had wanted to win. I hope that wherever this new attitude comes from they can keep it up for the rest of the season.

The dads were also in a buoyant mood. It had been a beautiful evening spent outdoors watching a very entertaining match with friends. What could be better? Everyone, to a man, said they wanted to come back. We agreed to keep in touch and do it again. The Eastleigh match on September 8th is looking good.

Dads Army, part one

Bachelors - watch out! Fatherhood has gone all modern and you will be expected to do things your father probably only had a vague understanding of: cleaning, cooking, childcare, the list goes on. You will still be required to work full time, and because you are not likely to be any good at cleaning or cooking you won't get full credit for your efforts there. As it turns out, spending enough time with your kids to know their names is a good thing. Still, all of this leaves precious little time for your own independent social life. To have one you will need a lot of organisation and planning, and if you are a normal guy you probably aren't really good at organising and planning in your free time. Make sure you have Sky. And don't worry, your wife will still organise the occasional social event for you to attend with her friends (and their husbands, of course).

This sad sounding pattern is what happened to me without me really realising, and has happened to most of the guys I know (for most of the guys I know please read 'the husbands of my wife's friends and fathers of the kids my kids are in school with). It sounds much worse than it is because home life as a father is probably the best thing in the world, even if you are expected to hoover. Before long, though, it is easy to find yourself not ever going out on your own unless it is a work event. What's a modern male to do to fix this? Me, I go to Bath City football matches.

There is a strange emotional chemistry in the minds of wives at play here that I do not begin to understand, but will still do my best to explain. Although wives are keen for their husbands to contribute more to all things domestic, they also have a very slight, low intensity guilt about the withering of their husband's social lives. Do not ask them directly about this - they will deny it. But in off-guard moments, talking amongst themselves, you can detect just a slight trace of concern about yet another night spent in front of the telly watching Masterchef. They think to themselves, 'maybe it would be best if he was out on his own from time to time.' This is the time to strike.

My friend Mark and I have a system. When I want to go to a match I say, 'you know, it would really be good for Mark I think if we went to the match together Tuesday night. He seemed a bit glum when I saw him last weekend.' He says to his wife, 'Ned wants to go to the match but is worried about going by himself. I really need to go with him.' It works!

The next step in the liberation of the fathers of the world was to try this on a larger scale. I set myself the goal of bringing twenty fellow dads to the home opener of the Bath City season against Maidenhead United this past Tuesday night. I called and emailed everyone in my older son's class whether I knew them or not. Although a bit surprised by the offer, most of my fellow fathers showed a lot of enthusiasm. There were two typical responses. If I got the husband on the phone he would say, 'I think that is okay. I'll just make sure my wife hasn't got plans for us that evening.' (!!!!) Or, if I got the wife on the phone she would say, 'How thoughtful of you to think of him. I'll try to make sure he comes. It sounds like a great idea for you all to go out together.' (!!!!!!!!!!) In total I had 16 positive responses, not counting four who wanted to come but were on holiday.

Okay, we are guys, and true to form several people dropped out at the last moment. In the end there were nine of us who gathered in front of my son's primary school (I had to choose somewhere we all knew the location of). All of us knew at least one other person in the group, but none of knew everyone. Four of us had been to City matches before (Mark and I being regulars and two had been once), but most had only vague ideas of what a non-league match would be like. One person was quite upfront about not really liking football and just coming along for the experience. We piled into our cars and set off for sunny Twerton.

Because everyone had unexpectedly arrived at our gathering point on time (what has happened to our manhood!), we arrived at the ground much earlier than I expected. Thinking on my feet, I suggested we all go in to Charlie's for a pint. There was a slight pause after I suggested this, like it was some sort of dare or something, but we all piled in and started getting pints of stout.

More on what happened next to follow tomorrow!

Just What the Doctor Ordered

Going into tonight's home opener against Maidenhead United, I had two items on my wish list: a goal for Darren Edwards, and a clean sheet for our embattled, third-choice keeper, Will Puddy. Wishing doesn't make it so, but it was so anyway tonight. I raised both hands in utter joy when the final whistle blew, knowing that Bath City had done what was required and done it in style.

More than this, though, the City squad played with passion, flair, and a real aggression. Maidenhead have a well organised defence. Last year they held City to a 0-0 draw in their first meeting. I think they will give some quality sides a bit of trouble this season. City were clearly the better team throughout the match in this instance, though. They pounded the Magpie defence relentlessly. It was clear to me that one more striker with good finishing skills and City could be challenging for promotion.

It was my fourth time to see new signing Sido Jombati play in a City shirt, but for many fans tonight it would have been the first time. It is already clear he is going to be a huge hit with the City faithful. He is both talented and entertaining to watch. His excellent pass to Edwards set up the match winner, but he also has a great work rate and surprised both the fans and the opposition with some of his footwork. The fact that he is such an unlikely looking footballer only strengthens his appeal.

Tonight was another important night as I was part of a party of nine fellow Dads from my kids' school, most of whom were making their first visit to Twerton Park. I'm going to tell more about this experience tomorrow, but have no doubt that a match this entertaining went over well with everyone.

Taking a Ride on the Big Pink Bus

At 9 am this past Saturday morning I kissed the wife and kids goodbye, started up the car, and headed off to nearby Corsham to wait at the National Express stop. It was a beautiful sunny day, one of the few we've had this summer, and I was going to spend most of it inside a coach making a three hundred mile round trip to watch a football club who most English football fans have never even heard of. Ah, bliss....

Although we hold our heads high and pretend everything is absolutely normal, there is an obsessive nerdiness that is an essential part of being a non-league fan in England. I felt slightly self-conscious as I sat on the wooden bench in my black and white striped replica kit looking at my watch every minute or so. It was the same sort of unease one might feel upon entering a Star Trek convention or parking a car underneath the flight path of a local airport ready to spot a few new planes. Normal people walked by being led by their dogs, or even more sensibly, remained inside in their beds. I was waiting alone at a bus stop and was on show as not normal. It was with great relief that three other City fans showed up about ten minutes before the coach was due. Nerdiness shared is nerdiness denied, I say.

This was my second time on what City fans call the 'First Pink Bus.' The origin of the name is not important, but in typical British fashion the name has remained even after the bus stopped being pink or hired from First buses. British people only change the names of things if they absolutely have to. The biggest magazine in the country for television listings is still called the Radio Times for goodness sake!

The first time I had travelled on the bus had been on a January visit to Eastleigh. I stepped onto the bus and right away was offered a choice of hot beverages: tea, coffee, or bovril. In ten years of living in the UK, this was the first time anyone had offered me a cup of bovril. Before this I didn't know that anyone actually drank beef tea. I knew I had stumbled upon something special.

This time, being the height of what passes for summer round here, there was no bovril. There was a welcoming presence on board, however, and I made my way towards the back and sat next to a fellow fan similarly attired in the familiar Bath City black and white stripes. Nearby was 'Powell,' the president of the Supporters Club, and one of the hardest selling salesmen I have ever come across. Once he gets the slightest hint that you might want to come to an away match he will ask you and ask you and ask you to book a place on the coach until you finally relent. It is done in a cheerful manner, but it can go slightly wrong. Last season there were two American exchange students who came to several matches upon my recommendation. Being young and female they did attract a lot of attention among the gruff and crusty Bath City faithful. Being asked repeatedly to 'ride on the pink bus' to Thurrock by Powell needed some explanation, needless to say.

The coach on Saturday contained a wide range of people from many walks of life. Teenagers, pensioners, fathers with grown sons by their side, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, single men enjoying a free pass from the missus (me). To an outsider it would have been difficult to figure out what commonality had brought such a disparate group of people together. The bus was very much a community rather than a series of cliques, though. We all enjoyed a quick and easy camaraderie, talking endlessly of how City would solve the striker problem (on the way up) and how City would solve the goalkeeper problem (on the way back), and how England had managed to blow the fourth Ashes test so completely (in both directions).

The mother hen that kept us all in line was the aforementioned Powell. He knew everyone on the coach by name, checked that we were all back on the coach after a stop at Clackett Lane Servies, made announcements, and organised a raffle half way up the M4.

In the last few rows of the coach there were several people I knew only from their user names on the forum. Two people I was very pleased to put names to faces for were Youngzack and Sean. Most City fans do not get to travel to away matches and the only way for them to follow the action is via SMS updates these two post from their mobiles on to websites. Many a Saturday afternoon has been spent by me in front of the computer, repeatedly refreshing the screen hoping for new information. I thanked them for all their work on behalf of City fans everywhere.

Other notable riders on the coach that day were: Seb, who will miss most of the games this season because he is off to grad school in Washington, DC; Bas, who is one of the main volunteers at the club and always has a sheaf of papers in one hand relating to one of the endless bits of club business he helps to organise; Stillmanjunior, who I did not really speak to but is our new program editor and despite his youth appears to know every fact about every match that Bath City have ever played. There was also one lady who's name I did not catch who had come with a friend just for an day out. She said she did not even like football. The fact that she was travelling across the country and back and that the only stop would be to watch this game she said she did not like did not seem to phase her.

It was, in fact, one of those experiences of life that should be more common than it is. Everyone was an equal. Everyone was looked after. Everyone's opinion on how to improve the team's play was listened to respectfully. A little socialist utopia on wheels for the day.

For me in particular this peculiar institution of 'away match travel' is something to cherish. I went to my first Atlanta Braves baseball game at age three. It is one of my earliest memories. I started watching most games on television from age seven (there are 162 regular season games a year) and started attending up to forty matches a year from age twelve. I was one of the very few subscribers to the wonky official magazine, the Braves Banner. I treasured autographs of obscure pitchers. I insisted my Sunday School include the Braves in the weekly prayers ahead of the 1982 National League playoffs against the Cardinals. And yet, I never went to an away game in twenty years of following the team. It never occurred to me, and I doubt it did to many other fans. The nearest team was 372 miles to the north and the farthest over three thousand miles west. It is one of the glories of Britain that such a diverse nation, with so many local passions and attitudes is conveniently packaged in an island small enough to reach most places in a few hours of driving. English sports is much richer because of it.

I stepped across the threshold at home at 9pm, almost exactly twelve hours after I had left. City had lost but it had been a great day.

One last thing: If you have read this far, Powell has asked me to see if you are interested in the Havant coach on 17 August. Please send him a private message on the forum if you are.