City Beat the Ottoman Empire of Non-League Football

Bath City beat Weymouth 2-0 Tuesday night. Weymouth is the sick man of the Conference South this season, so City fans would really have been hoping for a more emphatic victory. Last Spring, however, City lost 0-1 to last season's sick man of the Conference South, Fisher Athletic. This occurred at a key moment in the season and may have cost City a playoff spot. Scarred from this experience, most City fans will be grateful for the three points, however they came. It also means the club's winning streak is extended to four matches.

Here is a quick synopsis of the game: the first half was scoreless, and if anything Weymouth played slightly better. In the second half Weymouth defender David Obaze was sent off for his second yellow card. His height had been thwarting City in the air all evening, and his absence tipped the balance City's way very promptly. A free-kick from Lewis Hogg reached Chris 'Dutch' Holland, who easily put the ball in the net without Obaze in place to stop him. Fifteen minutes later City doubled their lead with a combination of passes from Hogg, Adam Connolly and Mike Perrott, who reached Darren Edwards for the five-yard finish. By all accounts neither team played very well (for a more thorough match synopsis click here).

For City, not playing very well is slightly disappointing. The team's attention is understandably focused on the FA Cup fixture with League 2 Grimsby Town in ten days time, but it is important that they continue to improve their form in the league. For Weymouth, though, not playing very well is a triumph! For almost a year now Weymouth have been one of the worst teams in all of football. Merely playing 'not very well,' as opposed to abysmally, or tragi-comically, is a big improvement. This was the Terras third game in a row playing 'not very well.' Their fans must be hoping that soon they will turn the corner and just be playing 'indifferently.'

Weymouth had better turn that corner very soon, however, or they may not get the chance. The day after City's victory the following message appeared on its official website:

Weymouth Football Club regrets to announce that Notice of Intention to Appoint Administrators was filed at The Courts of Justice, London earlier today. The Board is now working with the proposed firm of Administrators and the Terras Supporters Tust [sic] to try to find a way to enable the Football Club to remain in existence.

The Club is now losing money on a week-to-week basis and without financial support from outside the Club it is unlikely the Administrators will be prepared to enable the Club to continue to trade in order to avoid increasing losses to creditors.

Anyone interested in assisting the Club or acquiring the Club out of administration is encouraged to make contact with the proposed administrators : Benedict Mackenzie 62 Wilson Street London EC2A 2BU without delay.

Basically, the club have two weeks to come up with a lot of money or go into administration. The club have so frequently tried to tap funds from the local business community one would think there won't be any more forthcoming. Once they go into administration the administrators could possibly sell off the club's only asset: Wessex Stadium. This would make the Terras homeless and effectively kill off the club in its current form. Things are looking pretty bleak.

The decision to take the club full-time in 2006 while still a non-league club, a choice very few non-league clubs have made and not regretted, appears to be the origin of the club's financial difficulties. The club's front office really began to fall apart in January of this year, however, when chairman Malcolm Curtis stepped down. He described Weymouth as the 'Afghanistan of non-league football' at the time. I'm not sure what that means, but it doesn't sound good. Since then the Terras have had all their players walk after non-payment of wages, lost a match 9-0 to Rushden & Diamonds after fielding a team consisting of youth players, and tried to cash a fake cheque from a fantasist who claimed he was going to bail out the club's finances. It looked like things could not get any worse, but in the last few days Malcolm Curtis has decided to call in a £240,000 loan to the club from his time as chairman. This action has forced the club to seek administration as outlined above. Apparantly Curtis wants Weymouth to be the 'Iceland of non-league football' as well.

I will admit that I feel quite torn on how to react to Weymouth's plight. It is a straightforward case of a club spending beyond its means. Paying full-time salaries to players before it is absolutely necessary is a foolish gamble, and it is satisfying to see foolish gamblers fail. What's more, it is hard to be sympathetic to such an inept group of administrators (although, to be fair, the ineptness partly stems from there being too many changes in administration). Natural justice requires that Weymouth FC be forced to shut up shop.

There will be innocent victims, however, and this is what makes me hope that natural justice does not prevail. I mean, of course, the fans. There are some that would say they are just as culpable as the club's board. They enjoyed the fruits of false prosperity as the Terras jostled for position in the Conference National standings. I do not believe this is fair. Supporters revel in their club's success, but they are, ultimately, spectators. They do not make the decisions that trade short-term glory for long-term disaster. The more alert fans may suspect that finances are being over-extended, but they have no way to act on this suspicion. The sporting happiness of all supporters depends utterly on the financial competence of a club's directors. Whatever the cause, the Weymouth board has let their fans down. Despite several fan-led attempts to save the club, ultimately they have no choice but to watch helplessly from the sidelines.

It is tempting for Bath City fans to be smug as we watch our old rivals flounder. City supporters are lucky because we follow a club that is not beholden to any 'sugar daddy,' nor living beyond its means (at least we hope so!). Is this, though, because City fans are somehow superior to our counterparts in Weymouth? If City started down the path to financial disaster would we recognise it? Would we somehow find the means to stop it?

Spare a thought for my fellow blogger, Jimmy the Cukoo, who has been chronicling the entire saga on his Terras Blog. After months of frustration he posted the following statement last week:

This should have been a bit of fun, a website poking fun at Dorch and Yeovil but there is no fun in being connected with this club anymore and I wonder for my own sanity and that of my close friends and family whether the time is right to say "no more".

If Weymouth do shut up shop in two weeks time I won't be celebrating. I'll be thanking my lucky stars that I've never had to contemplate making a post like that.

It's Grimsby Up North!

We have a fairly idyllic life at the Nedved homestead, especially on Sundays. This past Sunday morning was spent dossing around, eating breakfast in front of the telly, and revelling in the extra hour of sleep from daylight savings' introduction. All the while, though, I was keeping one eye on the clock. At 1 pm ITV was going to broadcast the draw for the First Round Proper of the FA Cup. The idea that something involving Bath City was going to be played out on National television was still hard to believe. The idea that City might end up with a fixture that got television coverage, and with it enough revenue to double the club's budget was hard to even contemplate. The whole morning passed with me feeling like a child on Christmas waiting for the presents to be opened.

After church Mrs Nedved prepared a delicious roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings. She is an excellent cook even in routine situations. Sunday afternoons, however, are a tour de force in comfort food not to be missed. This is good, because if it was left to me Sunday dinner would usually be comprised of beans on toast. Possibly tinned spaghetti, but certainly not anything of Mrs Nedved's calibre.

Our plates were groaning with vegetables, chicken, a homemade Yorkshire pudding, and topped with gravy at 12:45. I didn't want to miss the draw, but there are some things in life more important than football. It turned out that I had more time than I realised anyway. Although ITV's coverage of the draw began at 1pm, the first fifteen minutes of their broadcast was filled with the sort of airy nothingness that ITV Sport specialises in.

The Nedved Juniors and I cleaned our plates at a leisurely rate and settled in together in an armchair in front of the sitting room telly. I had a copy of that day's Non-League Paper with the list of teams in the draw. Big Nedved Junior had a dog-eared copy of Match from which he was going to tick off the League clubs as their names were announced. Just to make sure everyone was aware, I repeated several times that Bath City's ball was number 77!

There is nothing like the FA Cup draw in American sports that I know of. Although there are some large tournaments in American sports, none of them use a random draw for each round. There are usually seeds, and even when they are not teams progress from one round to the next on a chart like a sideways family tree. Before you play any match you know that you can only play only one of two teams in the next round. Having each round set up completely randomly makes the FA Cup draw very exciting. Bath City could draw any of the remaining thirty-two non-league sides or any of the forty-four League 1 & 2 sides. Depending on who Bath City was paired with they could either play the next round in the glare of the national media, or in relative obscurity. A lot depended on this draw.

For reasons I do not understand, the FA selected former Charlton Athletic player Chris Powell and England cricketer James Anderson to make the draw itself. I watched the first three balls being pulled from the large plastic basin with baited breath. Bath City, in my experience, are usually one of the last teams drawn. I was really surprised when James Anderson drew ball number 77 on only his second turn. On the screen below him was the team Chris Powell had already drawn to host us in the next round: Grimsby Town!

Grimsby Town? I had not been expecting Grimsby Town. I had been hoping for either a big club like Leeds or Charlton Athletic, or one of the few remaining clubs lower down the leagues than City (like our friends Paulton Rovers). Being neither one nor the other I couldn't help but feel a keen sense of disappointment. Meaning no disrespect to the good people of North-East Lincolnshire, it was not the sort of glamour fixture I had been dreaming of. The fact that the television announcer referred to Bath City's 'terrific cup pedigree' did not take the edge off of it.

The rest of the draw went by in a bit of a haze. I can remember Big Nedved Junior asking me after nearly every one of the remaining teams were drawn, 'are they good, Daddy?' I can remember trying to mentally calculate the distance to Grimsby from Bath. I can remember trying to mentally calculate how Mrs Nedved would react to my desire to travel to Grimsby and back on the same day in two weeks time. Once the draw was over I went to the car to get a road atlas and I sat and studied it silently for several minutes. I kept up a cheerful facade for the family's benefit, but inside I was not happy with the result.

As the day wore on, however, I began to feel differently about things. Despite living in the UK for ten years I've never been anywhere near Lincolnshire. I am always excited by going somewhere new. Also, the more I learned about Grimsby Town FC the more I thought Bath City might be in with a chance. They are next to last at the bottom of League 2. Last year they only survived relegation from the League because of Luton Town's thirty-five point deduction for financial mismanagement. So far they have only won one home game, and they have just fired their manager. That dangerous thing called hope began to kindle inside me once more.

A bit of time on the Grimsby Town forum gave me more reason to be happy with the draw. Despite the awfulness of watching their once proud team decline, the fans appear to have managed to remain a relatively cheerful lot. It is certainly a situation that would make most supporters become bitter, or rather more likely, stay away. After announcing my presence with a post I got the following message:

Welcome to the Grimsby site! We are mainly a self-deprecating group on here at the moment, with the loss of our manager, Mike Newell, a week ago today and a quick fire sale of young starlet defender Ryan Bennett to Peterboro for something approaching (allegedly) 500k.

They sound like a nice bunch, actually. It must be awful watching your club suffer so much. You almost hate for them to lose (well, that may be taking it a bit far, actually).

There is a bit of history as well. It turns out that this fixture will be the return match of an FA Cup meeting between the teams in 1951. Food is also a plus for this fixture. The Grimsby fans are quite convinced that their town hosts several of the very best Fish & Chips shops in the land. They have recommended several for us to try. The fact that their ground is only a short hop from the seaside, and that their club badge shows a trawler catching fish, makes me inclined to believe them.

If City can manage an away win to League opposition, pocket the £18,000 prize money, make the draw for the second round where the chances of drawing a big club are even better, it could turn out to be an excellent draw. If all this happens and I get to have some of the best fish and chips in the country at the same time..... well, it sounds perfect!

Our friends, Paulton Rovers, drew a plum fixture with Norwich City at home. Being the lowest ranked club left in the competition, and a first time entrant to the First Round Proper, they have become media darlings. The match is going to be televised by ITV1. It couldn't have happened to a nicer club (except us, of course). Well done Paulton!

Here's the draw in full if you want to relive the moment Bath City is mentioned on national television!

City Win Again, No Sweat!

City beat AFC Totton yesterday 3-2 in the FA Cup Fourth Qualifying Round. It was an exciting game with an exciting (£12,500) pot of prize money for the winner. There was lots of exciting play and definitely an exciting finish. For reasons of my own the second half and the hour following the match were especially exciting. Basically, the whole thing was like a giant shot of caffeine.

I arrived at the ground feeling jittery and full of contradictory thoughts. Bath City had needed the prize money from the Second and Third Qualifying Rounds in order to avoid cuts to the squad. Now that those cheques are safely pocketed I should have felt relaxed and cheerful, but I didn't. The Fourth Qualifying Round boasted almost double the prize money of the previous round, and it confered on the winner the chance to draw a League side in the next round. There is also a certain cache in being in the final thirty-two non-league clubs in the the competition. Just being in the draw for the First Round Proper is a real accomplishment. It is the sort of achievement that fans can point to with pride at the end of the season, regardless of what has happened in the league. Winning the Fourth Qualifying Round, therefore, had become supremely important. I told myself that if we could just win this round then I could relax. Yeah, right.

To ease the tension I went through my pre-match ritual: buy program that I will not read until I get home, buy a lottery ticket I will forget to take out of my pocket at half time, and buy a cup of tea that I will put down half-full and forget to finish. When I arrived at the popular side terrace there was also a lot of gossip to pick up on. City's first choice goalkeeper, Ryan Robinson, was going to make his debut appearance for City. It was great timing for him to recover from his injury because our third choice keeper was on holiday in America (our second choice keeper went to ground a long time ago after conceding four goals in a fifteen minute stretch of the season opener). There was also news of Totton's recent acquisition in the non-league transfer market. After a successful spell on loan, Totton had decided they liked the look of Nathan Jack enough to offer cross-town rivals Eastleigh a 'record transfer fee' (a record for Eastleigh, anyway) to make his stay permanent. I doubt the amounts involved were that earth-shattering, but it is just the sort of confident move that you don't want your opponents to make right before a crucial match.

So, apart from an unknown keeper who is far from match fit and the opposition team flashing lots of cash to strengthen its squad, everything was all right. Then I remembered that Totton were on a fourteen game unbeaten streak. No problem.

Once the game started it was evident to everyone in the ground why Totton were dominating the Zamaretto Division One South & West. They were fast and well organised on the break. Robinson was called into action after only four minutes to stop a decent shot. I tried not to admit it to myself, but City had drawn doormats for the previous two rounds. Now they were facing a team with some quality and ambition. Totton were different breed.

Totton's fans were a different breed, too. For the first time ever in my time at Twerton Park I saw away fans congregate around the goal their team was defending. It is traditional in non-league football for fans from either side to cheer their team from the goal it is attacking. Both sets of fans then switch sides at the interval, often engaging in a bit of good-natured banter along the way. Totton's supporters had established themselves in the Bristol end of the ground during the pre-game warm up, and like fans at a League match, they stayed there for the entire game. Perhaps this is a sign that, like the club they support, they too have ambitions for higher things.

Congregating around the goal your team is defending can be depressing, as the Totton faithful learned twenty-five minutes in. Totton's bright attacking form was not able to make up for what was clearly a shaky defence. After some of his trademark Brazilian-style footwork, Sekani Simpson delivered a looping cross parallel to the goal line that neatly met the outstretched foot of Richard Evans in front of the left-hand corner.

More misery was heaped on the Totton fans fifteen minutes later when Adam Connolly fancied a shot from twenty yards out and took the score to 2-0. This was a quality finish and it did Connolly's confidence a world of good. He spent the rest of the match terrifying the Totton defence from the same distance. I know I am not the only City fan who hopes this becomes a regular part of the team's arsenal.

Half-time came and I felt the warm, fuzzy glow that comes with your team is up by two goals to nil. Totton were a credit to step four of the non-league pyramid, but they were no match for the likes of City.

I was not totally relaxed, though. You never can be in football, and I had something extra on my mind as well. After humming and hawing for quite a while I had finally gotten enough nerve to ask a player to let me interview them for this blog. Since he had been very friendly previously I decided to start with defender Sido Jombati. Besides being one of the team's most popular players he is also from Portugal and I wanted to know what had brought him to Bath. Sido was also at the center of this season's biggest mystery - how had he arranged for his Romanian friend Florin Pelecaci to show up on City's doorstep six weeks previously? And how did he end up with a Romanian friend? To my surprise Sido agreed to let me speak to him after the match, and he arranged for Florin to come along as well. I was elated when I got the news. Now that the event was less than an hour away I began to doubt myself. Who am I to interview players? Will they figure out that I only recently stopped calling their sport 'soccer?' How badly could I screw this up? Could I screw it up so badly that I'd be to embarrassed to come to another City match for fear of running into them again? I decided I couldn't' screw it up that much. Maybe just enough to wear sunglasses for the rest of the season.

To the great relief of the City faithful the second half began as the first ended. Lewis Hogg's corner was deflected by the Totton keeper, Gareth Barfoot, directly onto Gethin Jones' forehead. City had a three goal lead and I was just about at the point where I felt I could relax.

I did not get the chance, though. A few minutes later I was jolted from my focus on the game when I heard my name being called over the tannoy. I was asked to come to the press box because of something 'urgent.' Figuring out why I was being called over the tannoy was easy enough: I had left my mobile at home in the charger. Figuring out who needed to speak to me urgently and about what, though, was harder. In the three to four minutes it took me to get to the press office I managed to think of about every scenario. Nervously I opened the press box door and was met by my friend Phil who handed me his mobile to use. 'It's something to do with work,' he said.

I breathed a sigh of relief that it was only work, but only for a second. In my line of work things rarely go wrong, but when they do they usually go very badly wrong and are expensive to fix. I dialed the number and quickly received the news that....actually nothing really serious was wrong at all. A customer had been overcharged in a credit card transaction and they needed my access code to arrange a refund. Now I let out a really big sigh of relief. It turned out that Phil had said over the tannoy quite clearly that it was 'not urgent,' but I had just missed the 'not' part. As I left the press office, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment at having left my mobile at home, City chairman Geoff Todd asked me if everything was okay (I bet Roman Abromovich has never asked a concerned fan if he is okay at Stamford Bridge).

Back on the popular side I settled in to watch what I was hoping would be a romp to a large-margin victory. The player that stood out at this point of the match was clearly our midfielder Lewis 'Hoggy' Hogg. After this match, though, calling Hoggy a midfielder may be inaccurate. In an interesting bit of tactics manager Adie Britton had left the talismanic Florin Pelecaci on the bench, moved Sekani Simpson to midfield, and, most surprisingly, put Lewis Hogg in as a forward to partner Darren Edwards. Hogg was a revelation. Totton had no idea how to handle him. He was less a striker than a saboteur operating behind enemy lines. It appeared to make no difference whether he won a header or not. The ball would soon become his and he would whip around whatever defender had tried to block him in seconds. The only thing that stopped the game being a route was the linesman's flag constantly being raised every time he fed the ball forward to Edwards.

With the game seeming secure Adie Britton made a series of sensible seeming substitutions. On came Mike Perrott, Marus Browning, and Pelecaci. Other than Browning taking a position in midfield instead of defence, nothing about those substitutions appeared out of order. Things began to go badly wrong anyway.

Nathan Jack, the 'record' signing, put Totton on the scoreboard with less than five minutes to play. The score became 3-2 in injury time when a City failed to clear a corner kick in time. All the old nervous feelings from the start of the match reappeared, but fortunately, Totton were not able to extend their unbeaten run to fifteen games. The ref blew his whistle and a mighty roar rose from the City fans. City would be in the hat for the First Round Draw, and no matter what else happened the club's budget problems would be eased significantly. All was right with the world. All I had to do now was to find two players I admire greatly, ask them lots of questions that hopefully they would want to answer, and somehow cobble it together into something readable and interesting. No sweat.

I am pleased to say, though, that I did find Sido and Florin in 'Charlie's' after the match. They were both kind and gracious and allowed me to stumble through my enquiries, and they gave thoughtful and interesting answers. I felt totally out of my depth but they put me at ease. You will be able to read what they said later this week. I can promise that you won't be disappointed.

Excuse Me, Are You From Uzbekistan?

With the recent conclusion of the World Cup qualifying matches I thought this an appropriate time to tell you about the one and only time I myself have attended one. This was a few years before I settled in England, back when I was not really settled anywhere except for whatever cheap hotel room I had stowed my backpack in for the night.

In the Spring of 1997 while travelling around the Horn of Africa I met a group of British university students in a restaurant in Gondor, Ethiopia. They were all on a study abroad program in nearby Yemen where they were learning Arabic. They had flown over to Ethiopia during a break in their studies. They were all very nice, and as finding fellow English-speakers was a rare treat in that part of the world, I spent several hours with them. They told me about Yemen and I told them what I knew about Ethiopia. Unfortunately there was one important thing I forgot to mention, which was that Ethiopian spaghetti sauce is equal parts onion and chili cooked down to an orange paste (one of the students named Eddie found this out the hard way while we were all talking). Despite this lapse, Eddie and I got along well and we went to explore the famous Debre Berhan Selassie Church the next morning. The following night, the eve of their departure, Eddie gave me his address and phone number in Sana'a and invited me to come stay in their student accommodation if and when I made it to Yemen.

I did make it to Yemen about a month later. After about a week travelling up from Aden through Ta'iz I finally made it to Sana'a. I somehow managed to work a Yemeni payphone well enough to reach Eddit. He came out to the street to direct me to the students' house where I was welcomed and given a mattress on their roof to call my home.

Sana'a was a fascinating city, and I was a bit weary from several months of hard travelling, so I did take advantage of their hospitality a bit more than I really should have. In total I spent almost two weeks with them. It was a fantastic time, though, and I have hundreds of memories from my experiences there: shopping in the the old town, eating saltah (a savoury Yemeni soup) in subterranean restaurants with no women allowed, walking through the forest of mud-brick skyscrapers in the city centre, and chewing the mildly-narcotic qat leaf over tea in the afternoon heat. Perhaps my strangest experience, though, was the day we went to see Yemen take on Uzbekistan in the Group 5 Asia Qualifying match for the 1998 World Cup.

Several of my student friends had decided to go to the match and they asked me along. I didn't know a lot about football at that point in my life - my home town of Atlanta had not had a professional outdoor team for fifteen years - but I went along anyway because I am generally up for anything unusual. Watching Yemen play Uzbekistan seemed unusual enough.

Of course, as a group of westerners we would seem pretty unusual to the Yemeni supporters. We always took care to wear modest clothing when out and about but didn't stand a chance of blending in. For the guys this only resulted in a lot of staring. For western girls, however, it could result in some serious harassment. In a desperate attempt to be anonymous some even tried wearing the head-to-toe black coverings. This did not work because Yemenis were able to identify western girls by the way they walk. The best that could be done was for guys to wear long trousers and the girls generally wore a black shawl around their shoulders covering their arms and neck. Since there was no chance of being inconspicuous, and we were going to a football match, several of the guys wore replica football kits. Steve, one of the more flamboyant students, wore a yellow Brazil top.

The match was to be held at Althawra Sports City Stadium, which was a bowl shaped structure with an athletics track around the pitch and enough rows of concrete to fit up to 30,000 football fans.
View Larger MapAs we arrived in a couple local taxis it was obvious that the stadium was going to be close to full. There was some confusion as we entered - the gate we were supposed to go through was locked and a crowd of people began to press against us. Eventually we found a safe way in on the other side of the stadium. We passed through a tunnel and onto the concourse that ringed the seating area.

Within moments of our emergence from the tunnel, a huge roar rose from the crowd situated above us. Several thousand Yemeni men (and it was only men) were shouting with all their might, and jumping up and down. Some were waiving flags, but many more were shaking enormous photographs of Yemen's president, Ali Abdullah Saleh. To us this appeared a curious way to demonstrate one's patriotism, but effective nonetheless. Anyone who has spent any time with Yemenis can tell you that they are a proud people, so the fact that they wanted to demonstrate their support for the national team in front of a group of westerners was hardly surprising (even if it was a little bit intimidating).

Because there were three women in our group we were required to sit in the family stand. This turned out to be on the exact opposite side of the stadium from where we had entered. As we made our way along the concourse more and more fans rose to their seat to jump and shout and wave pictures of their president. We were like a walking Mexican wave.

The family stand, which was the only part of the stadium that did not appear to be dangerously overcrowded, was a largely empty area behind the opposition bench. There were no more than ten other people in the stand, including a man who had come with his two wives who sat on the same row as me a few feet away. Considering how hard it can be to interest any wife or girlfriend in the beautiful game, getting both wives to come to a match was a considerable acheivement I suppose.

As we watched the two teams warm up Eddie and I discussed who we thought most likely to win. The general consensus was that the Yemeni team lacked height and would struggle. Their one possible advantage was elevation. At 2,200 meters Sana'a is two thirds as far above sea level as La Paz, home of the world's greatest home pitch advantage. Still, the Uzbek team looked large and menacing. Since it had only been independent for a few years at this point, I wasn't really sure what the Uzbek people looked like. However they looked, most of their national team, consisted of tough looking ethnic Russians. There was an Asiatic-looking man and his wife wandering around with a camera taking pictures of the Uzbek players. My guess was that they were ethnic Uzbeks, and from all appearances, were the only travelling fans that day.

The western contingent sitting in the family stand was definitely four-square behind the Yemeni team. Having been in the country nearly a month at this point I had developed a deep affection for Yemen and its people, whose hospitality seems to know no bounds. Unfortunately for us, and for the hoards of presidential picture wavers, the game started badly. The Uzbeks superior size helped them to dominate and at twenty-seven minutes their bearded striker, Numon Khasanov put them a goal ahead.

The crowd, which had previously been much wilder than I had ever experienced before, appeared to verge on a riot. What's more, many of the Yemeni fans were shouting and pointing at the family stand. We all sat silently hoping that Yemen would level the score soon and settle everyone down.

Yemen did not score again and in fact struggled to even create chances. The altitude must have begun to affect the Uzbeks though, because the game devolved into a midfield stalemate. In the second half Yemen finally had some luck when Khasanov, the scorer, was sent off for his second yellow card. I hoped that this would give Yemen the boost they needed to finally penetrate the Uzbek defence.

Because the facilities at Althawra were pretty basic Khasanov simply took his seat with the rest of the Uzbek team after receiving his marching orders. A few minutes later the Jordanian fourth official came over to reprimand him and force him to leave the bench. Khasanov was not happy, but eventually he gave in. Because there was no where else to go, he grabbed a water bottle and walked up into the stands. Since the only area with any space was the family stand, and because this was situated right behind the Uzbek bench anyway, Khasanov plonked himself down two rows in front of me and my fellow westerners.

Despite being a man down the Uzbek defence held. The Yemeni fans became more and more agitated. A few minutes after Khasanov's arrival the man with two wives leaned over to me and said, 'Excuse me, are you from Uzbekistan?'

It was perhaps the most unexpected question I have ever been asked. I was so taken aback that despite the answer being an obvious one it took me several moments to answer him.

'You see, all of these people think you and your friends are from Uzbekistan. No one knows what anyone from Uzbekistan looks like,' he explained.

Suddenly a lot of things I had not understood made sense. The crowds had not gone berserk when we had entered the stadium because they wanted to show the western guests how patriotic they were - they thought we were supporters of the opposing team. The hostile gestures that we assumed were directed at the Uzbek bench (but just not in quite the right direction) had been directed at us. To be fair, it made sense. We were sat right behind the Uzbek team and I was sat a few feet away from their best player. And I didn't know what real Uzbeks looked like any more than the Yemenis did (except that they did not look like me!).

'Guys, this guy says the crowd think we are Uzbeks!'

We didn't really know what to do. We had not thought to bring any pictures of President Seleh to wave around. We tried cheering even harder for any good run of play by the Yemeni footballers, but they weren't giving us much material to work with. Steve gestured frantically at his Brazillian top. The level of noise and agitation kept ratcheting up, however. Suddenly getting out of the ground and back to our accommodation without injury didn't seem like a given. Yemenis had been kind and considerate to a fault in my experience up to that point, but we were facing 30,000 seriously pissed-off Yemenis and that was a different matter.

The good news was that while the average Yemeni is kind and considerate he is also heavily armed. Yemen is perhaps the only country in the world to rival America for rifles per capita. Having grown up in Georgia and recently having lived in Montana, it didn't bother me to see firearms every time I ventured outside. Spectators had not been allowed weapons in the ground, of course, but there were a large contingent of Yemeni soldiers wearing blue urban camouflage and sporting AK-47s. As the game reached the closing stages they headed our way and began to form a perimeter around us.

We should have been terrified, I suppose. I must have been on some level. I think the whole situation was so unbelievable, though, that we didn't fully realise the danger we were in. The soldiers were very professional and disciplined and no one got anywhere near us. I don't think, in truth, anyone really did want to hurt us. I think it was more important to everyone to look like they might hurt us than to actually do anything.

The final whistle blew, and predictably, the crowd bayed angrily in our direction. There was a lot of jabbed fingers and chanting in Arabic. We stayed put, of course, and the soldiers kept their ring around us intact until there were only a handful of other supporters in the ground. Finally they waved to us that we were clear to leave. We stumbled out through the tunnel and into the evening sunshine not really sure if what we had just experienced had been real.

The next day one of the students named Chris asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a shop in the old town bazaar. He wanted to buy a jambiya, which is a curved, ornamental dagger that most Yemeni men wear on the front of their belts. 'This shop's got some really old ones,' Chris told me.

When we arrived the shopkeeper invited us in and sat us down for a cup of tea. Like most men at this hour he had been chewing qat leaves and had a wad of them lodged into his cheek like a half-eaten tennis ball. As we drank the tea he handed Chris jambiyas from their hooks on the wall to admire.

'You were at the football match yesterday, weren't you,' he asked.

We said that yes, we had been.

'I saw you on the television.'

I hadn't realised the match had been televised. I had a vision of a shot of us and a graphic underneath reading, 'Visiting Fans From Uzbekistan.' Would there be more trouble?

This turned out to be an unwarranted worry. I left Yemen four days later without any incident whatsoever. Once the heat of the moment had passed I was not likely to have any trouble anyway. A traveller in Yemen may worry about getting caught up in a civil war, getting kidnapped, or, as I found out, almost sparking a riot at a football match. The most common experience, however, is to encouter a hospitable Yemeni who will greet you with a warm smile and an offer of a cup of tea. Now, if only they could find a physically imposing striker...

City Jump for Joy!

There are times when being a football supporter is a thoroughly dreadful experience. There are times when it feels like fate has ripped your heart out of your chest, stomped on it, and then done a little dance on it. These times are called losing. If you are lucky these times only occur a bit less than half of the time.

This was how I felt on Saturday afternoon at about half past three. Basingstoke Town's Jahson Downes had just scored his second goal of the day against City. It was a wonderful goal: a powerful shot into the top right corner of the net. It would make any club's season highlight reel. It was so good it got more than a smattering of applause from the City fans. It was heartbreaking.

Saturday's game was City's first home match in five weeks. Although the intervening matches had included two away league defeats, these had been close run things against the two teams at the top of the table. There had also been two convincing FA Cup victories, and with them the sense that City's season was gaining a bit of momentum. A win at Twerton Park, which so far this season has been the scene of several mediocre performances, would be a huge boost for the players and the fans. After just one win in their last five matches, Basingstoke should have been vulnerable. Someone forgot to tell Baskingstoke this, though. They played the first half like seasoned champions.

As I contemplated another league loss and a further slip down the table Little Nedved Junior told me he was hungry. Little Nedved Junior spends most matches telling me he is hungry, even when he isn't. At five years old, he still sees football matches as an opportunity to hit me up for as much sweets and crisps as he can. I think he believes I will buy him just about anything to keep him from pestering me during a match. He is, of course, totally correct. Sometimes though, when I'm feeling particularly glum, his demands are a welcome distraction. As there were only a few minutes left until half time I offered to take him and his brother over to the snack bar to buy him chips before the queue got long.

As luck would have it, City's play began to improve once we began our journey. As I awkwardly tried to watch the match, avoid tripping on the Bath end terraces, and not lose either child, Gethin Jones missed a pomising looking header. Basingstoke were unable to clear the ball, though, and moments later Richard Evans served the ball up to Gethin again. This time he made it count. City had gotten a goal back!

I have a feeling that that goal may be the turning point of Bath City's season. It has been a season of brilliant performances that often fall just short, or are undermined by defensive errors. It has also been a season, however, of determined effort in adverse situations. I had seen City fight back in matches this campaign they would have crumpled in last year. All the despair and upset I had been feeling in the first half hour lifted the moment Gethin's goal went in. I had a feeling City could win this. And what's more, I knew if they could win against Basingstoke from two nil down they could beat anyone. As the halftime whistle blew I was as elated as I had been depressed only minutes before. I didn't even mind the grumpy snackbar service (I swear if they ever smile at me I will fall over from shock)!

My elation was evidently not shared by Bath City manager Adie Britton, however. He is quoted in the Bath Chronicle as going 'ballistic with the players.' It is hard to imagine someone as affable seeming as Adie Britton going ballistic. It must be like getting a dressing down from Rolf Harris. Whatever he said, though, worked a treat. City began the second half as they had finished the first. Basingstoke may not have realised it yet, but they were in trouble.

After getting our chips the kids and I had moved to the 'family stand.' We did this partly because we usually rest there for some part of the second half, and parlty because it was, for once, actually full of families. About a hundred school children and parents had shown up on the back of some excellent organising by the City marketing team. It was not just wonderful for boosting the attendance figures (685). The children had spent much of the first half cheering on their newly adopted club. Being down two goals had not phased them. I hope they keep coming.

Sitting among the children was not quite as pleasing experience as listening to them earlier had been. A gang of children frolicking in an Autumnal afternoon is pleasant from a distance, but not the best environment for watching a football match from. It felt a bit like we were sitting in the middle of a school playground.

I was not so distracted, however, so as to miss City's equaliser. Not only was this City's first home match in five weeks, but it was also Florin Pelecaci's first match in front of the home crowd. After the almost constant hype that has surrounded him (of which this blog has contributed) the Twerton faithful would be expecting a world-class performance. He had so far produced some good crosses in the first half, but nothing with the sort of wow-factor everone was hoping for. Within minutes of play resuming this changed. Aftere receiving a well-placed pass from the ever present Richard Evans, Pelecaci penetrated the Basingstoke defense like a hot knife in butter. The only problem was he failed to find another City player to help him out. Just when it looked like his run was going to fizzle out the ball rolled into the net off of Basingstoke's Sean Hankin. Technically it was an own goal, but anyone to anyone watching it was clearly a goal that Pelecaci had created. He certainly did not hold back with his goal celebrations as he treated the Popular Side terrace with a tripple summersault!

After the kiddies had finished their chips (and after I had removed copious amounts of ketchup from Big Nedved Junior's replica kit) we moved over to the Bristol End terrace. City were dominating play now and I wanted a clear view.

As we all know, the diet of the typical football supporter is largely comprised of hope. This is especially true for those of us who are blessed with the chance to follow a non-league side. Hope will keep you going in adversity, but has the unfortunate side-effect of needing a lot of adversity to flourish in. Hope is great when it is fulfilled, but, although we hate to admit it, hope will as often as not let you down. Hope is sometimes a burden.

As I stood there on the terrace watching City take apart the Basingstoke defence I began to feel something different from hope. I felt belief. When Chris Holland had a third goal disallowed by a dubious linesman's call I was not phased. I knew City could win anyway. I believed they would. When Basingstoke captain Sean Hankin was sent off for his second questionable yellow card, I was pleased, but not ecstatic. City would win whether or not their opponents were a man down. When Gethin Jones did score the go-ahead goal it just seemed like the inevitable had occurred.

I don't think I was blessed with any superior intuition. By any rational standard I was just being delusional. I think I was picking up a sense of belief from the players, however. City were playing like a team that knew it could win, and their belief was strong enough that it could be felt in the terraces. Basingstoke didn't have a chance.

At this point both Nedved Juniors needed to go to the loo. I don't like leaving a match for even a few moments because I am convinced something momentous will happen while I'm gone. Sure enough, upon my return, I find out that Basingstoke had scored an equaliser from yet another defensive lapse. Strangely, I didn't feel worried. It was slightly annoying that City were going to have to score another goal now, but they clearly would be able to do so. Perhap's I was just deluding myself, but it felt like it was just going to happen. It's a good thing I don't gamble.

Two mintues into injury time, Basingstoke midfielder Tom Williamson handled the ball outside his own penalty box. This was the moment that was meant to happen. The free kick was taken by Adam Connolly, flicked by Chris Holland, and slotted into the net by substitute Mike Perrott. Everyone in the stands (except the dozen or so visiting fans) went nuts. I think it was at this point that I lost my voice.

As we filed out of the terrace I felt happy but spent. I counted the children several times to make sure I had not lost one. I was thinking that when I got home it would be nice to lie in a dark room with a damp flannell on my forehead. Belief is exhausting!

Cup Really Kafkaesque!

Here is more of my ongoing investigation into why the Somerset Premier Cup continues to be played even though no one wants to play in it (If you have not you would probably be best off reading my previous posts entitled Cup Kafkaesque and The Blue Blazers Speak first).

After Somerset FA Chief Executive Jonathan Pike's surprising response where he implied that the Somerset FA puts on the Somerset Premier Cup only because they are forced to by the FA, I sent him another email just to definitely make sure this is what he meant. Here was his response:

Nedved

I am sorry if I gave the impression that we only run the competition because we have to. While I would readily admit that some clubs, fans do not particularly like the competition or see its relevance, there are a number of people who do like the competition and look forward to it. Although some attendances can be poor, we also have matches where attendances match or even exceed average home gates, I believe there were a couple of hundred at Bridgwater on Tuesday evening, while in the past we have had large gates, for instance 2 season ago Frome had over 700 for their home tie against Yeovil. We also tend to see larger crowds in the later rounds, the final last season between Paulton and Frome attracted almost 600 people, which was probably one of the larger crowd either side played in front of last season. So I think there is an appetite for the competition, although as mentioned yesterday I certainly don’t think it is universal. I also believe that, certainly in the final, the teams want to win, and the last two beaten finalist have not shown the attitude that it was only another game and seemed genuinely disappointed to have lost, what is after all a final and have runners up instead of winners medals.

While the competition is mandatory for FA Cup/Vase entry, this is not the reason why SFA run it. We do value it as a competition and do not foresee discontinuing the competition in the future.

Regards

Jon Pike

Chief Executive

Okay, so potentially the Somerset Premier Cup has some value to someone, although saying that the teams in the final played to win is hardly strong proof that any clubs value the overall tournament. Give a trophyless club the chance at some silverware at the close of a season and there will be few that don't put in the effort. The inconvenience and bother of the cup is really demonstrated in the earlier rounds when managers treat the games as unwanted friendlies. I cannot fault Mr Pike for his responsiveness, however, so I wrote him back again.

Hi again Mr Pike,

Thanks for replying again. I can see now that I misunderstood your first email, but I still don't understand your position. I suppose it is possible that some clubs do value the Somerset Premier Cup, but as you readily admit many clubs and fans see it as a burden and an inconvenience. For those that do value the Cup it must be really annoying if many of the entrants are participating half-heartedly and against their will. Surely this can't be a situation that you approve of.

Why not make it optional? I know that this is an FA issue and is not within your remit, but would you support a movement to make county cups something clubs could chose to decline without jeopardising their entrance into the national FA competitions? I think this would be the best outcome for everyone involved.

Thanks,

Nedved

A response to this arrived in my inbox yesterday evening (he must be a pretty dutiful chap to be answering emails to the public at 7:20 pm!). Despite his dedication, though, I am now much more confused than when I started out.

As mentioned previously the position of the County FA is to support the premier cup, we value it as one of our competitions. Obviously clubs may propose rule changes, some of which are not supported by the county association, that is their right to do so and ultimately is subject to the will of the majority at the AGM where it would be debated

Jon Pike

Chief Executive

This has turned out to be even more Kafkaesque than I expected. As far as I can tell the Somerset FA's position on the Somerset Premier Cup is thus:

We want to keep it because we (the Somerset FA) value it. We value it even though we know most clubs don't like it because it is possible that some clubs might like it (at least if they are in with a chance to win it). Because some clubs like it, at least some of the time, we are willing to force all clubs in the county to participate even if they don't want to. If anyone tries to stop the competition we will not support them, and they will need to go through some serious bureaucratic hoops to do so.

That's just my synopsis of the three letters, but it is the sort of justification that any Whitehall mandarin would recognise as his own.

He does not say so explicitly, but I get the feeling Mr Pike would prefer me not to write to him a fourth time. He has been very indulgent so far, so I don't think I'll pester him any further. Instead I think I shall try the FA itself, since, according to Mr Pike, they are the ones who really decide whether or not county tournaments are held. Let's hope the folks at Soho Square are equally as forthcoming.

Kafkaesque: \käf-kə-esk\, adjective 1. of, relating to, or suggestive of Franz Kafka or his writings; 2. having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality

City Host a Stag Party!

Before the FA Cup draw for the Fourth (and final) Qualifying Round was announced yesterday I had a sinking feeling that we were going to draw Eastleigh. Bath City had had two fortunate draws in a row: Willand Rovers, who play three leagues below City, and Bishop's Cleeve, who play two below. It seemed unlikely that fate would smile on us for a third time. With Newport County having been eliminated by the lowly Paulton Rovers (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, oh stop it!), Eastleigh's goonish, elbow-happy giants seemed the most likely bogey team to be cast our way as payback for our recent good fortune. If not, then Dover Athletic, Hayes & Yeading or Hampton & Richmond could also provide equally unattractive opposition. After a nervous morning drinking too many cups of tea and checking the FA website every five minutes, the results of the draw finally appeared.

AFC Totton! At Home! I was thrilled. I went round the office punching the air. AFC Totton! I mentioned it to everyone. I mentioned it to my colleagues who hate football just so I could hear myself say it again. 'Did you know that City drew AFC Totton in the next round of the FA Cup?' They would just roll their eyes and nod vaguely (and of course they did know because I had just asked them the same question five minutes previously). AFC Totton!

I was so pleased, of course, because AFC Totton (the Stags) was one of the lowest ranked teams remaining in the competition. That should, in theory, make them easier to beat than a higher ranked team. I say 'in theory' because this is often not how it works out, as in the recent case of Newport County's loss to Paulton Rovers (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, mercy!). City will still go into the round as strong favourites, however, and you can't ask for more than that.

AFC Totton are in the same league as City's opponents in the last round, Bishop's Cleeve. The league's current name is the 'Zamaretto League Division 1 South & West.' This is a league City fans are becoming increasingly familiar with as we will now have played three of its teams inside a month. You may be wondering what a 'Zamaretto League' is when it is at home, so let's take a moment to explain.

The lower leagues of the non-league pyramid often forgo their traditional names in order to pick up a bit of sponsorship money. The 'Zamaretto League' is actually the Southern League, which has been playing since 1894 and which Bath City have been champions of three times (most recently in 2007, when it was known by the rather dreary title 'British Gas Business League'). Previous to this it was known as the Doc Martens League and the Beazer Homes League. None of these names are as wacky as the current one, though. Sensing that there was an untapped market for flavoured amaretto drinks (as in more than just the normal sweet almond flavour), InterContinental Brands (ICB) have released eight new flavoured concoctions spiked with day-glow food colouring. These are (and you might want to sit down to read this): Blue Raspberry, Banana, Cherry, Apple, Pear, Peach, Chocolate and Original. Sensing that Banana flavoured amaretto is just the sort of tipple the pie-and-chips-loving non-league football crowds would fancy, ICB took over the sponsorship deal as British Gas moved out. The people who came up with Dasani tap water and Crystal Pepsi had nothing on these guys.

The other odd thing about the Zamaretto League Division One South & West is that it isn't truthfully a 'division one.' The top level of the Zamaretto League is the Premier Division. Below that are Division One Midlands and Division One South & West. There is nothing below either of these (in other words, no division two). It is hard to think of what the point of having a division one is without a division two. Perhaps there were some clubs that were especially thin skinned and someone thought they would feel better if they were placed in 'Division One.' Despite their apparent sensitivity, however, three clubs from the Division One South & West remain in the FA Cup: AFC Totton, Mangotsfield United, and Paulton Rovers (who recently defeated Bath City's rivals Newport County - ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, oh lordy!).

Despite their league's silly name, City will need to take Totton seriously. As I write this the news of their eleventh victory on the trot has come in. And, surprisingly, Totten supporters have generally reacted to the news of the draw with as much jubilation as I did. I suppose it could have been worse for them. 'Dibden Stag' wrote on the AFC Totton forum:

This is a good draw and a game we can win, Bath's current form isn't too good, 3 wins 4 draws and 5 losses in the Conference South. They beat Bishops Cleeve away 4-1 in the last round, the same score we beat them by, so I think we have a good chance of making the first round.

The bad news for Dibden Stag, and the good news for City fans, is that City have been giving textbook lessons on how to defeat lower league teams in their first two appearances in the Cup. With £12,500 in prize money up for grabs manager Adie Britton will be pulling out all of the stops for a win in front of the Twerton Park faithful. He won't be making the same mistakes Dean Holdsworth recently made with his Newport County side in Saturday's loss to Paulton Rovers (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, oh, it hurts now!).

Well, I hope not, anyway.

Come on City!

The Most Perfect of Perfect Days!

If you are a Bath City fan then yesterday's meeting with Bishop's Cleeve was the most important match of the season. It was not actually the glory of a FA Cup Third Qualifying Round that made it so important, though. What really made it a must win was the prize money: £7,500 was up for grabs for the winner. Adie Britton made in clear in this week's Bath Chronicle that without this extra money players were going to be cut. After seeing the upheaval the club went through last year after an exit in the same round to Aylesbury United, the idea of a loss to Bishop's Cleeve was unthinkable.

It could have been a long, quiet hour-and-a-half drive north into Gloucestershire for my friend Mark and me as we contemplated just how devastating a loss could be. It could have been, but wasn't, thanks to the presence of both Nedved juniors in the back seat of the Nedvedmobile. Little Nedved Junior kept up a steady chorus of, 'are we nearly there yet?' and Big Nedved Junior gave Mark a detailed account of Four Four Two's top 100 football players of the year (which he had practically memorised the day before). It was distracting enough that we made a wrong turn in Cheltenham and got stuck in some seriously bad traffic. By the time we had gotten through it we were seriously worried we were going to miss the kick-off.

We had reason to worry as well because finding non-league grounds at the lower end of the pyramid is not something you can take for granted. Once clear of Cheltenham our directions took us to a suspiciously rural area at the foot of Cleeve Hill. There were no signs to indicate that you were approaching a football ground and I began to think we had made another wrong turn. Fortunately my doubts were misplaced. It turns out that instead of signs, Bishop's Cleeve employ a woman in a pink top to stand by the road and point to the match-day parking through a gap in the hedge. How she is able to tell who is coming for the match and who is just a random person driving down Kayte Lane I don't know, but she got it right with us. She peered intently at me though the windscreen, sized me up, and pointed with a determined thrust of her arm.

After paying our entrance fee (£7 adults, kids under 12 free!) and snagging a program (£1) the four of us entered the ground where Bath City's season would either continue in hope or crash in ignominy. The sun was shining disconcertingly brightly for a match of such sombre importance. The ground itself consisted of a clubhouse and snack bar fronted by an expansive patio. This led on to a well-maintained but uneven pitch which was surrounded by a stout brick wall. For the most part spectators perched against this to view the match. Little Nedved Junior had to perch on top of it , actually, as he was too small to see over it on his own. There were two small covered stands for those who wanted a bit more comfort.

As the two teams entered the pitch through an accordion style tunnel my stomach began to tie itself in knots. What if we lost? How would City supporters deal with a defeat? Could we not all gather together, hold hands and say a quick prayer before kick-off? Mercifully the match kicked off before I could think of any more questions.

Because both children were having trouble seeing the match the four of us spent the first ten minutes wandering the perimeter looking for a spare bit of wall that was not quite so high. This distraction was a good thing for my nerves because, as it turned out, Bishop's Cleeve began the game with a determined style and good organisation. Even better for my nerves was a header from Marcus Browning that ricocheted off the Bishop's Cleeve post. The Villagers were not phased by this, though, and immediately took the ball down the other end for a decent shot on goal. Arrrhhhhh!!!! Didn't these clubs in the lower Southern League know they were supposed to be pushovers!

As we skirted past one of the miniature stands we passed by City defender Chris 'Dutch' Holland. Dutch is one of the more imposing players you will ever come across in non-league - not just because of his size or his penchant for wearing black leather gloves like a Bond villain. No, he has that intangible sense of authority that you associate with policemen and the scarier sort of high-school principles. You don't mess with him, basically. He has missed the last few matches due to injury but I was pleased to notice that underneath his Bath City polo shirt he was wearing the high-performance long underwear he is fond of. Perhaps this indicated that he might have been prepared to sit on the bench if needed.

Our journey round the pitch was unsuccessful, so we ended up right back where we had started at the corner flag opposite the goal City were defending. Some ladies came round with a basket asking if I wanted to buy a ticket for the half-time draw. A supporter at Tuesday night's match against Bridgwater had told me to make sure I entered this draw. The Bishop's Cleeve manager is a butcher and supplies the prizes (first prize beef, second prize pork, and third prize chicken). After some reassurances about how big the portions were I gladly bought a £1 ticket.

About this time, though, I began to have a very bad premonition. It began to seem blatantly obvious to me that City were going to lose and that the whole season was going to unravel on the pitch before my eyes. I was sure of it. I decided not to tell Mark. There was no need to upset him before it was necessary.

It was a good thing I kept my mouth shut because my premonition, fortunately, turned out to be completely bogus. Former Bath City defender, Steve Jones, tripped Kaid Mohamed from behind and the referee pointed to the penalty spot. Because the Bath City crowd was spread out, and perhaps because we were all so tense, there was only a muffled cheer. Was this really happening? As I was trying to decide whether to pinch myself or not Darren Edwards lined up and took the shot. Despite making poor contact he somehow managed to get the ball in. City had the lead! City might win after all! The season might not be lost! The tension began to ease out of me like a balloon with a slow leak.

Little Nedved Junior tapped me on the leg. 'Daddy, I'm hungry. Can I have a hotdog.' Normally I hate queueing for anything during a match, but I was feeling giddy. 'Absolutely!' I said.

By the time we had circumvented the pitch again and navigated the excessively slow queue at the snack bar the first half was nearly over. We found a bit of unoccupied wall on the end City were attacking just in time to see the next goal. Jim Rollo launched a free kick into the left corner to reach Gethin Jones. He took the ball into the danger zone, and after a moment it landed for Mark Badman to slot it home. It was an excellent bit of play, and, I'm proud to say, not untypical for Bath City this campaign.

A third goal in injury time would have made it a perfect half. Like a genie granting three wishes, the City players complied! Florin Pelecaci, who had spent the half being quietly excellent in midfield, reached Badman with an excellent cross. After some hesitant defending from Bishop's Cleeve he was able to plant it into the net for his second goal of the match. The match was on the verge of turning into a romp. My premonition was turning out to be really wrong. I've decided not to listen to premonitions any more. Not until next Saturday, anyway.

The halftime break was notable for two things. Little Nedved Junior told me he was cold and took up my offer to put on my sweatshirt. It turned out that he was not cold at all but liked the idea of wearing something ten sizes too big for him. He bobbed and twirled as we moved around the ground which made him look like a giant grey jellyfish. Secondly, we found a section of the ground with a shorter wooden fence that meant both boys could have a clear view of the pitch. I mistakenly thought this would cause them to watch the second half quietly.

It didn't matter if the boys were a bit rowdy, though, because the rest of the match went by in a bit of a blur for me. I was so relieved that City appeared to be on their way to victory that I had trouble concentrating on the progress of the game. I do not think I was alone in this as most of the City fans around me chatted to one another amiably as if we were all just enjoying a jolly day out and not watching a season-defining match unfold before us. The tone got even more jovial when word was passed around that Newport County were losing to our friends Paulton Rovers 1-0. This was shaping up to be a perfect afternoon.

A touch of concern returned to our voices briefly, however, when Kevin Slack beat the City defenders to a long goal kick and easily beat City keeper Steve Perrin. Despite this goal, though, Bishop's Cleeve never again ruffled City's otherwise excellent defence. I knew I should have started worrying about the match after they scored but City were just too dominant. With seemingly inevitability, Edwards restored the three goal lead with a looping header off a Jombati cross with fifteen minutes left.

A few minutes from time a huge cheer rose from the City fans gathered around the Bishop's Cleeve goal. The person next to me said, 'That would be the Newport result. They must have lost.' A moment later he was able to confirm this on his mobile.

Full time was blown to a rousing cheer from the travelling City faithful. We were in the hat for Monday's draw. We had defeated a team that had beaten fellow Blue Square South side Weymouth. We had played with determination, passion, and flair. Most of all, though, we had secured £7,500 and would not have to release any players.

The drive home was peaceful and uneventful. Between the need to distract the children and the England commentary on the radio Mark and I did not have much opportunity for conversation. It did not matter, though, because it turned out we only had two things to say, which we said over and over again whenever there was a moment of quiet.

'We won 4-1!' one of us would start. The other one would immediately say, 'Yeah, and Newport lost!'

I was so wrapped up in these two facts that it was not until we reached the M4 that I realised I had not found out what the winning numbers were for the halftime draw. I had been hoping to bring home a half side of beef for Mrs Nedved!

Darn! It was still a perfect afternoon (but if anyone from Bishop's Cleeve reads this my ticket number was 111!).

City Wins Its Freedom Through Defeat

Considering what low esteem I have for the Somerset Premier Cup as a tournament, it might surprise people to know that I was desperate to attend Tuesday night's match against Brigdwater Town. It was a meaningless game in a meaningless competition, but it was precisely the absurdity of the match that appealed to me. Bath City are my team, and if they have to drag themselves down into the Mendips on a Tuesday evening to play a match they would rather not win, I want to be there to see it. I can't really explain it any more than that. Perhaps I am just stupid.

Perhaps stupid, but not as stupid as I had been the previous year when City were drawn against Street (yes, there is a town in Somerset called 'Street'). That match had been my first ever proper (well, sort of) match as an 'away' fan and I set out with plenty of time so that I could arrive early and soak up the atmosphere (well, I had thought there would be atmosphere). I arrived in Street at a quarter to seven, but then spent the next two hours driving around the town looking for the ground. I called the club office several times, only to get directions that made me even more lost. Finally I got so desperate that I swallowed my male pride and asked a local for directions. Again, this just sent me around the same roads I had already explored recently. After a last desperate call to the club office I finally found it, or rather I realised I had been driving past it all along. The club, in its wisdom, had decided to position their entrance sign so as to be in total darkness after dusk. Because I ended up arriving just before halftime the man at the turnstile took pity on me and offered to let me pay only half price. I, rather churlishly, told him I would pay full price if they would use the extra money to buy a light bulb for the entrance.

Bridgwater, it turns out, is a half hour farther away from Bath than Street. I was worried about having a similar experience. After bundling my colleagues out of our office a minute after closing time and gathering a sheaf of Google maps I had printed previously, I pointed the Nedvedmobile south and set off. I did drive past the Bridgwater ground on the first attempt, but eventually I got close. The fact that there was no visible entrance sign for the ground at night did not throw me this time. I tried every entrance in the vicinity of where the map said it should be. After a detour through a local college and a rugby ground I found the right place. I jumped out of my car and made it inside just before kickoff. Victory!

Just after passing through the turnstile I had a chance to buy what turned out to be a very entertaining program. At forty-eight pages it was a much heftier volume than one would normally expect for a meaningless cup match. The inside was not just a series of adverts, either. There are five full pages on Bath City (including a match report from the Newport County match last Saturday) full accounts of Bridgwater's league and FA Cup progress so far, two collumns written by a local fan named 'Walter,' and several pages of archive material from previous meetings of the two clubs. Bridgwater's program is obviously a labour of love for some devoted fan. Ironically, the effort and devotion needed to produce it Tuesday night would far outweigh the effort and devotion of the two clubs to win the match it was covering.

There was one odd thing about the program, though, and that is the cover. There are two photographs. One is of Bridgwater's joint manager Leigh Robinson in a shirt and tie looking like he has just caught the smell of something rather unpleasant. He also appears to be holding an imaginary pint glass in one hand. The second picture is topped by the FA's Respect logo and shows a Bridgwater player screaming and falling to the ground. His expression is so over the top I assume this is an illustration of 'simulation.' The only thing I can think of that would connect the two pictures is that they could both be good examples of the art of miming. Perhaps Marcel Marceau has fans in Bridgwater.

The ground itself was neat, tidy, and well designed. It had all of the amenities one would expect at a club in step four of the non-league pyramid, except everything looked newer and in better repair. The pitch looked well maintained and even. The floodlights pleasingly bright. It felt as if this was a houseproud (or rather, 'groundproud') club. I suspect they have ambitions for greater things than Division 1 South & West of the Zamaretto Southern League.

The only odd thing about the ground was that it was part of a string of sporting facilities. One end of the ground bordered a rugby ground that appeared to have much larger stands. On the other end there were a series of five-a-side football pitches, including one that was in use. Only a wire fence separated the their match from ours, which gave the proceedings a slightly surreal atmosphere. Those ten players could have watched the match that I had paid £7 to see for free, but instead they chose to ignore it an concentrate on their own game. It felt strangely insulting.

There were plenty of paying Bridgwater fans who were very attentive to the match, however. Most fans sported team scarves or baseball caps. Like the program and the ground, they seemed a little bit too well put together for a meaningless match at this level.

The match kicked off quietly and I realised I felt a bit conflicted about what I was watching. Adie Britton had obviously decided to field as weak a team as possible, or rather, field what was as much of a reserve side as possible. Of the starting eleven only Matt Coupe, Kaid Mohamed, Mike Perrott, and Richard Evans could be described as established, healthy members of the first team. The keeper was someone named Dunn I had never heard of. A fellow City fan told me he is a keeper we play only when we want to lose. Mark Badman was playing his first game after an injury. The rest of the squad included teenagers Jamie Taylor, Raif Gwinett, and Ashley Caldwell. Callum Hart who had just joined the team made his first start in defence. All of these players, except Dunn, are expected to feature in City's future, but at this point it was the sort of team one would select for a friendly. Sensing what Coach Britton's priorities were I was only mildly disquieted when Bridgwater scored on a break towards the end of the first half. Dunn blocked a shot into the path of an oncoming Bridgwater player. The rest of the first half was largely forgetable.

At half-time a Bridgwater fan came over to the small cluster of City fans I was with . He asked if this was really City's first team. We said no. As if to illustrate the point City stalwarts Lewis Hogg and Sido Jombati began to kick the ball around the pitch. They moved with the relaxed style of substitutes not expecting to be used - something unthinkable in a league match. We asked the Bridgwater fan if they were playing their best team. He said that thier three best players were on the bench. 'I don't want us to win this,' he confessed. Suddenly being a goal down didn't seem bad at all.

The second half started much more brightly. City began to zip the ball around midfield and launching crosses into the Bridgwater penalty area. I began to reflexively hope for an equaliser, even though I knew a victory could lead to an away match on a cold November evening against Portishead or Minehead and a clogged fixture list. I decided it is almost impossible to watch your team and not will them to victory. A few mintues into the second half a ball from the five-a-side match flew onto the pitch. Fortunately it was while the players were lining up for a free kick. It was a quinessential non-league moment.

City continued to dominate play for most of the second half, but Mohamed was not able to penetrate the Bridgwater defence playing alone up front. Eventually City's inexperienced defense was caught out again and Bridgwater took a 2-0 lead.

Faced with a two goal deficit with only half an hour left to play Adie Britton made a decisive substitution. He took off Mohamed, City's only recognised striker on the pitch, and replaced him with holding mid-fielder Jim Rollo. It was exactly the right move to make to make sure City didn't score. It confirmed to me that a loss would be a welcome outcome. When the scoreline went to 3-0 a few minutes before full time I didn't even wince.

Bridgwater's fans cheered mightily when the referee's whistle blew. They gathered around the entrance of the pitch and raised a loud cheer when the Bridgwater players passed by. They did this knowing that further rounds in the Somerset Cup was just an unwanted millstone for their club, a millstone Bath City was now free of. I can not blame them, though. If City had won I would have done the same. You must show appreciation for your team when they win. As I walked to the car park in silence, though, I was glad that in this instance, I did not have to.