Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville, Part 1

Bath City and Havant & Waterlooville battled out a tough 1-1 draw last night at Twerton Park. I suppose that I should feel disappointed about this -- a victory would have finally pushed City up into the playoff spots. And a victory didn't seem too much to ask. After an strong start to the season, Havant had slid down to the nether regions of the Conference South table. Actually, once the match got underway, it became clear to everyone in the ground that even managing a single point was going to be tough.

I left work full of excitement. I had just read that all other Conference South matches had been postponed due to waterlogged pitches. This meant that a victory would guarantee City fourth place in the league standings. The teams in second through fifth play a two-round playoffs to see who gets the second promotion spot to the Conference National, and Adie Britton set a playoff appearance as the goal for this season. There are a lot of games left to play, but just finally getting into the right end of the table, however temporarily, would be a huge moral boost for players and fans alike. An outsider might have viewed the match as a rescheduled, mid-week fixture on a cold Tuesday night. I saw a chance for glory.

Dreaming about a 'chance for glory' is a lot of fun in the days leading up to a match. I also find the anticipation of an upcoming important fixture is extremely useful. I can sit through excruciatingly boring conference calls, argue patiently with suppliers who don't understand their own products, and smile beatifically in response to petty customer complaints when a big match is upcoming. It is like a shield that protects me from the drearier aspects of modern life. But then, in the minutes before the match kicks off - this match that I have been anticipating so keenly for days, any sense of pleasure from the experience deserts me and I begin to worry. I try not to let on to the people standing either side of me, but I usually find myself calculating just how awful I will feel if City lose. Yes, that's right. I pay £10 to stand in the cold of an evening and worry. I call this fun.

Last night I endured this transition from amiable pleasure to mild terror standing with about fifteen other 'Ultras' on the Bristol End side of the Popular Side, next to our enormous white ensign. Our ranks were somewhat depleted because of another match that was being shown on Sky (some former LA Galaxy player named David-something was doing some work experience to try and earn a spot on the England squad or something). The details of the televised match escape me, but it was enough of a media spectacle to reduce our numbers slightly, and reduce the overall match attendance to under 500. Things got worse for the Ultras when the coin-toss resulted in City attacking the Bath End. More than half of our number walked off to go stand behind the Bath End goal. This left a small rump of Ultras, no more than five in number. Despite some desperate shouts of, 'Hey, where do you think you're going!' they trotted off, oblivious to our desperate attempts to shame them into staying. Once they had left, the few of us remaining shifted awkwardly among our flags, unsure of what to do.

Now denuded of its noisiest element, the match kicked off in front of a relatively quiet crowd. To make things worse, Havant & Waterlooville unexpectedly put City on the defensive almost from the first kick. They had started the match in thirteenth place, but there was nothing about them that brought to mind the term 'mid-table.' The term that came into my mind, actually, was 'downright scary.' Most scary was their star striker, Manny Williams. He is reportedly one of the highest paid players in non-league football. His hairstyle, a dapper 'cornrows-style' braid, is certainly at least League-1 quality.

Back up in the terraces, I was struggling. Not only was I having to drastically readjust my expectations for the evening, but I was feeling embarrassed about our lack of singing as well. After all, I am supposed to be an 'Ultra.' It's supposed to be 'today, tomorrow, always,' not 'if enough of my mates are around so that I don't feel shy.' But shy I did feel. Several attempts to start up 'We are the Bath!' got inexplicably stuck in my throat. If I ever needed more proof that when it comes to terrace singing I am a follower and not a leader, this was it.

The leader we needed, taking a long drag on a fag as he rounded the Bristol End, appeared a few minutes later. Our unofficial chieftain, Paul, had gotten delayed and missed the beginning of the match. Suddenly, with his bolstering presence, the six of us turned into the hardy band of supporters we were meant to be. A typically expert save from City keeper Ryan Robinson gave us the inspiration for the first song of the night: 'Ryan Robinson, Ryan Robinson (which is sung very slowly and loudly to the tune of Daddy Cool)!'

This was just in the nick of time. Spurred on by the aggressive start by their team, the small band of travelling away Havant supporters began to put on a pretty decent performance to support their team. 'Come on Havant (which is just like Come on City, but with City instead of Havant)!' they chanted.

We retorted with, 'Come in a taxi, You must have come in a taxi!' This was fair enough, I think, because there really weren't that many Havant fans present. Certainly not as many as City usually take mid-week this side of London. Their response, though, was slightly better: 'Come on a skateboard, you must have come on a skateboard!' Considering that there were only six of us, huddled together, away from the main body of City supporters, this was fair enough. Where had the rest of our hearty band flitted off to?

Undeterred, we took up our first chorus of 'Oh When the Stripes Go Marching In,' and just as we got started, something amazing happened. Despite the hammering the City defence had been taking from Mr Williams and friends, Kaid Mohamed managed to break free and move the ball forward quickly. He got the ball to new signing Scott Bartlett, who crossed from the byline to reach the head of Darren Edwards in, what looked like to me, a very unpromising position. With the sort of wrenching movement that gives Chiropractors nightmares, and is as much down to sheer determination as skill, Edwards managed to force the ball into the net. It was so unexpected that at first I thought I had misunderstood what had happened. It was only when the players began to celebrate, and the ref pointed to the centre circle, that it sunk in. Despite being pinned back by one of the most aggressive openings I've seen from an opposition at Twerton Park, City had managed to take the lead at nine minutes. I was overjoyed.

But I was still worried. When play resumed, Havant's relentless attack resumed as well. Usually after an early goal I start feeling confident about a City victory, but this time my initial thoughts were much more conservative. I was thinking an early goal might help keep City from losing. So much for playing the thirteenth placed team!

And, in this instance, an early goal heralded the return of our errant Ultras. Perhaps it was our defiant singing, or maybe they felt they had seen the goalmouth action they had been hoping for. I didn't stop to ask any of them. I was just glad they were back. Encouraged by the one-goal lead, and now more or less at full strength, we sang for the first time 'Drink Up Thy Cider!'

It wasn't ideal, but given the circumstances I was happy to settle for 'Today, Tomorrow, and Once We Take an Unexpected Early Lead!'

Part 2 of Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville can be read here.