Phlegm and Bile at Sunny Twerton Park

Today began with a typical Saturday morning schedule: I dropped my younger son off at a birthday party at 11:30 and drove to the local supermarket to do the week's shopping. I am not a fast shopper. Although Mrs Nedved appreciates my efforts, she will only let me do the shopping when there is a sizable window of time. She thinks I am just naturally slow at it, but then she has never wandered through the frozen goods aisle trying to decipher one of her shopping lists (how she managed to make 'margarine' look like 'mayonnaise' today I'll never know). So it was no surprise to anyone when I made it home just in time to pick up my son from his party, bring the groceries into the house, wolf down a sandwich, and gather the kids together for our two o'clock departure time for Twerton Park.

Actually, although being late from the supermarket was not a surprise, the part about going to Twerton was. Not that I had not been planning to go: my friend Mark and I had been discussing this match for weeks. I was going to bring both my kids and he would bring his two as well, and for his kids it would be their first ever match. It was to be a momentous occasion, and anyway I never need an excuse to get excited about going to a Bath City match. For some reason, though, the normal pre-match exhilaration just did not kick in. Rather then having my mind on the upcoming match, I had actually been trying to figure out why Mrs Nedved wanted mayonnaise. The fact that it was match day, that I was going, and that I was running late did not register until about 1:30. As I slipped my replica home kit over my head, still not really thinking much about the upcoming match, I realised I was just going through the motions.

Don't worry - this is not a sign that my love for Bath City is waning. No, I think it is just one of those unfathomable quirks of the mind. If I was examined by a medieval doctor I'm sure they would say it was due to the excess build up of one of the four humours. Perhaps too much phlegm (which depresses emotions) or maybe an excess of black bile (which makes the sufferer despondent, sleepless, and irritable). I really did want to go to the match today, even if I did have to concentrate to remind myself that this was the case.

Trying to concentrate on a match with two small children in tow is not easy. Mark and I had a theory that with four children they would entertain each other once the boredom set it (usually towards the end of the fist half) leaving us free to enjoy the match in peace. Like a lot of theories this one turned out to be total bunk. Having four children means you are trying to watch the match in the middle of a small, impromptu playground. Unlike a real playground, though, this one moves around the ground making you move around with it. There must be only a handful of rows in the Twerton terraces I did not try out the view from this afternoon.

The variety of views did not spice up my enjoyment of the match, however. City played a dire match against and even more dire opposition. It is the sort of game that crushes the soul and squeezes out the remaining drops of hope from your spleen. Well, not really. In order to even be a non-league fan you have to suffer from an excess of delusional hope. Still, it was awful to watch. For once, when the children distracted me it wasn't always unwelcome.

City's opponents today were Lewes. Lewes won the Blue Square South two years ago. Despite the Lewes board claiming that they did not really want to get promoted, and despite their dire, low-budget performance in last year's Blue Square Premier division, the club has somehow managed to nearly bankrupt itself. It is having to pay Inland Revenue huge wodges of cash every few weeks and has had to fill its roster with castoffs from Brighton & Hove Albion's youth program. Of those castoffs, supposedly only nine were fit for today, meaning the balance of the squad would be made of random people chosen out of the Lewes phone book. Okay, it's not that bad for Lewes, but they don't have any business winning any points at all from the likes of City.

Sure, things were not great for City either. Due to the injury crisis City was starting its third match in a row with a threadbare squad. Several starters were carrying pretty serious knocks. An optimist would say that this was a good week for City to play the winless Lewes - gain some confidence from a win before a week's rest and a big away match against Dover Athletic. Hopefully none of these optimists were holding their breaths. Any who did so turned blue and shed their mortal coils this afternoon.

Perhaps the team were suffering from an excess of phlegm and black bile themselves, because City never looked like they were going to win today. Rather than the attacking, intelligent play I had seen every other match, today was a day of misdirected passes and uncoordinated attacks. Lewes' Junior Woodchucks managed to stifle any of City's attempts at goal, despite lacking the size, speed, or skill of previous opponents. I can barely remember the first half, except that each tackle seemed to lead to both players falling down and with their legs wrapped around the ball. There was a fair amount of falling over, in fact, even away from the ball. I think both sides would have preferred to have the day off and agreed to play another day if possible.

As the second half began our children's 'playground' had moved to the Bristol end. City switched to attacking this end, but they appeared to have given up trying to penetrate directly through Lewes' towering five foot eight defensive line. Instead the fleet footed Kaid Mohamed managed to get behind them on the run three times, scoring on the third. It was a good goal, but it was telling that City was unable to score without relying on a defensive lapse by Lewes.

Once this goal went in I began to feel fairly relaxed. Lewes had only scored six goals in previous matches and the reason became painfully obvious as the game progressed. It was not that they were unable to get the ball in good positions: they were. It was not that City's defense shut them down: it did not. It was because when the Lewes forwards took a shot they were more likely to hit a passing bird than to trouble City keeper Steve Perrin. It was the worst display of shooting I have seen in this league in my eighteen months of following City.

It was not so bad, though, as to allow City to keep its first clean sheet since the first home match. A corner led to a goalmouth scuffle which led to a sitter in front of the goalmouth that even a Lewes player could not miss. They got their seventh goal of the year and City were now on course for only two points in their last four home matches.

City made a few attempts to get back to a winning scoreline, and they nearly succeeded. As an observer, though, they did not look like they had their hearts in it. The sense of urgency from previous matches was not there. Way, way too much phlegm in their systems, I believe. There was a sense of mournful relief when the final whistle blew. The crowd mumbled frustrated curses and filed out. Because none of the kids had been paying attention for the last hour they were still their normal happy, go-lucky selves. Mark and I, however, were silent and struggled to look each other in the eye. The uncomfortable mood of this morning was still in place. I will need to snap out of it before the FA cup match. Anyone got any leeches?

Bath City vs Worcester City Highlights

Here is an excellent highlights film of Bath City's 1-1 draw with Worcester City on 31 August. If you are in a hurry, make sure you don't miss Mike Perrott's amazing goal at around eight minutes!

If You Can't Be Clever Be Tall And Have Sharp Elbows

Football is a cruel mistress. After City's 5-1 victory away to Bishop's Stortford I was really not in the mood to watch City lose to Eastleigh 0-2 last night. Before the match it looked so easy - Eastleigh have so far lost to Braintree, St. Albans, Thurrock and Dover. Not exactly the form of a team you would expect to be making another playoff run. Yes, the evidence clearly pointed to an easy win for City, especially if you ignored Eastleigh's 5-0 victory over Weymouth and their 6-1 victory over Bromley.

Unfortunately, although I paid my money to watch City take on the Eastleigh that had lost to Thurrock, the one that had stomped on Bromley showed up. I had been looking forward to seeing the 'Spitfires' struggle or lose their composure, but instead they put on the sort of unimaginative but forceful display that has made them strong contenders in recent seasons in the Blue Square South.

Manager Ian Baird has assembled a football team that is truly remarkable, at least in one particular way: they are very tall. Football is renowned for being a sport that people of any size can excel in, but at Silverlake Stadium they are only interested in one size - big. I would not be surprised if any trialists for the club have to pass a height test before they are allowed to touch the ball. Pele, at 5 foot 8 inches, would not have gotten a look in. The good news is that if basketball every overtakes football as the national sport of England, Eastleigh will be well positioned to make the transition.

It is not always pretty, but in non-league height can often trump the free and open play that fans really want to see. Creative passing, flair, and skill can overcome lumbering giants, but finding eleven players who can do this at this level is a difficult task. Any club that is able to do this probably won't stay non-league for very long.

Okay, here is something good. Despite Eastleigh's overpowering physical advantage, they only won last night because of City's defensive errors (this is good news if you are willing to look at it the right way--trust me). At seven minutes Gethin Jones fell down in front of the goal while marking Andy Forbes. Eleven minutes later someone left Tom Jordan unmarked on a free kick. Eastleigh were able to frustrate City's offensive efforts very effectively, but they needed a bit of luck to actually get a ball in the net themselves.

If Eastleigh do develop a more convincing attack up front they are going to be a tough contender for the playoffs. Unlike Hampton, who were content to sit back and kick anything moving until they could get some luck with a counterattack, Eastleigh did surge forward as a unit with a good formation. Because of their height they were able to advance the ball as much with their heads as their feet. In fact, whenever an Eastleigh midfielder got foot to ball his first instinct appeared to be to boot it as far forward as possible. I'm not going to be lining up to buy the Eastleigh season highlights DVD, but that doesn't mean it isn't effective.

I can't really fault Eastleigh for playing being tall or playing boring football. It is their right. I can, however, fault them for liberal use of elbows, shirt pulling, and I can fault Trevor Challis for punching Darren Edwards. Eastleigh probably would have won last night merely on the strength of their own physical advantages and City's defensive lapses, but why rely on just that when elbowing your opponent in the face is effective too?*

Eastleigh fans have a tough life. They have to watch boring football played in a ground with the ambiance of a light-industrial business park. They shouldn't have to be ashamed of their team's behaviour. It's not too much to ask.

*Please note: shirt pulling, punching, and elbowing your opponent's face should not be attempted unless you can do it covertly, or unless the match referee is Derek Eaton. **

**More about Mr Eaton tomorrow.

The Soccerball Years, part 2

Anyone who has ever stood near me for more than a few minutes will know I am full of excellent ideas on how to improve the Premiership, the FA, the Conference, Bath City FC, and the sport of football in general. People are so struck by the brilliance of my ideas, their freshness and their cogency, that they often ask me if I have even been involved in managing a professional team before. Okay, none of that is true, but I did work, briefly, in the head office of one of Atlanta's professional soccer clubs in late 1989: the Atlanta Attack.

When I arrived back home to Atlanta from university for my first Christmas holidays I resumed my previous summer job of delivering pizzas in the evenings. At some point during the first few days of my arrival I decided to call up the Atlanta Attack office, out of the blue, and ask if they would hire me for a few weeks as a day job. Looking back, I can't believe I was bold enough to do this. I would be too embarrassed to do this now. I think I had reached the point where I had shrugged off my childhood shyness, but not yet developed the caution of adulthood. Amazingly, without even so much as a interview or a CV, they said yes. The next morning I put on a coat and tie and reported to the Attack head office.

I imagined that a professional sports team's head office would be located in the arena where the team played and be a hive of frantic activity with players and coaches rushing in various directions, while middle-aged men in suits shouted into their telephones and gulped down stale coffee. Much to my surprise, the Attack head office was in a office high-rise in the well-to-do, but rather sleepy neighbourhood of Vinings. The office itself consisted of four or five rooms, housing a total of seven staff. As the receptionist was off sick, I was addressing envelopes and answering the phones within a few minutes of arriving. No one had had time to learn my name yet, or find out if I was even literate, but I was effectively controlling the office communication in this pre-Internet era. I loved it, and found taking messages and learning who was who as I went along a thrill.

One of the first calls I took was from a player wanting to speak to the Attack head coach, Ketih Tozer. I can't remember the players name, but he was young, English, and sounded miserable and desperate. He told me he was playing for 'Penn/Jersey FC.' This was one of the clubs in the struggling outdoor American Soccer League. I had been to a match to see the league's Washington club a few months earlier. It was a really dreadful experience. I felt sorry for him. I said, 'Do you mean the Penn/Jersey Eagles from the ASL?' 'Yeah,' he replied, genuinely shocked. 'How do you know that?!' Thinking that a thorough grounding in obscure soccer clubs was just the sort of skill that was going to make me invaluable at the Attack I said, 'Oh, I just know a lot about soccer.' I wrote out the message on a slip of paper for Coach Tozer, being careful to note the call came from a Penn/Jersey Eagles player.

Unless you are an indoor soccer fan you probably don't know the name Keith Tozer. If you are an indoor soccer fan you are probably getting goosebumps now. You are thinking, 'Wow, Nedved worked with Keith Tozer!' Okay, first of all, I didn't work with him. Like all great coaches, he had that sort of determined, tunnel-vision look in his eyes that made you know that if you were not involved in some way with him winning something, he wasn't interested. And there is no doubt about it, Keith Tozer is one of the greatest indoor soccer coaches ever. He has won five league titles (in three different leagues) and has held the record for career coaching wins ('winningest' as we say in America) for nearly twenty years. Since 1996 he has been the head coach of the US Futsal team ('futsal' is a European type of indoor soccer without walls that FIFA runs international tournaments in) and since 1992 he has done something no other indoor football manager has been able to do for long: keep a job. Indoor Soccer is so unstable that it is rare for franchises to last more than a few years, and entire leagues come and go with frustrating rapidity. Despite this Coach Tozer has been running the Milwaukee Wave for seventeen years (and the club is now an impressive twenty-five years old, and about to start play in their fourth league later this year!).

I didn't know any of this at the time, of course, because I was a young, stupid college kid.

There were two other notable people I took messages for. One was Jerry Wilson. I can't remember his exact title but he was the man running the club. He was very friendly in a loud sort of way. Even though he seemed to be going a mile a minute all of the time, I can remember several times when he took the time to thank me when I had been helpful.

The other person was Vice-President of Operations, Graham Tutt. At the time I was very impressed to be working with Graham Tutt. He was the one player I could name from the Atlanta Chiefs of my childhood (see the Soccerball Years, part 1). What I did not know is that Graham Tutt had started his career as the keeper for Charlton Athletic. He had been a goalkeeping phenom, getting his first start at age 17 in 1974. It was only after a horrific eye injury that he started playing overseas, settling in Atlanta after a stint in South Africa. He was by all accounts a brilliant goalkeeper. At their club's centenary in 2005, Charlton Athletic voted him Goalkeeper of the 70s despite his only making 78 first-team appearances. I only remembered him because he was English and had an unusual name, which is yet more evidence that I was just a young, stupid college kid.

Over the years I have begun to realise just how stupid I had been. There I was in a small office suite with someone who had played for one of the big London football clubs, who had overcome serious adversity, and who had played through some of the more interesting years in American soccer history, and I hardly spoke to him. And unlike Coach Tozer, Graham was all smiles and charm. He was friendly and approachable. But he was also somewhat famous and exotic (back then English people seemed exotic to me) and I lost my nerve.

The only person more exotic than Graham Tutt at the attack was the team star, Drago. Drago (his full name is Drago Dumbovic, but 'Drago' by itself was certainly more memorable) was from Yugoslavia and had a shaved head. Back in 1989 shaved heads were rare, and anyone from a communist country was even rarer. He scored lots of goals for the Attack, and he was easily the most well known player on the team (to be honest, the only player most of the public had ever heard of). He had come to the Attack recently from the Hershey Impact (you don't really need to know that, but I just wanted to point out that 'Impact' is perhaps the stupidest team name ever). Drago was one of the friendliest sports stars I've ever come across. It would be easy to scoff and say that indoor soccer players are not really 'stars,' and that would be a valid point. Most of the other players I came across, though, behaved as if they were famous sportsmen even if they were totally anonymous once they took their kit off. Drago was always smiling and even put a smiley face next to his name when he signed an autograph for me. He appeared to go out of his way wherever he went to be approachable.

On my first day one I took a call from him. 'This is Drago, can I speak to Coach Tozer?' He spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent, which went well with a name like 'Drago.' Coach Tozer wasn't there so I took a message. I didn't know why Drago was calling, of course, but I was going to find out a few days later. Storm clouds were brewing at the Attack, and I was about to get a front row seat.

To be continued in The Soccerball Years, part 3, coming soon.

Winning Away 5 Goals to 1 is Better than Crack!

Bath City beat Bishop's Stortford yesterday by five goals to one. Not at home, but playing away to Bishop's Stortford. I'll just repeat that for anyone who had not been listening the first time: BATH CITY BEAT BISHOP'S STORTFORD YESTERDAY BY FIVE GOALS TO ONE!

To those unfamiliar with the world's greatest non-league club, you might have a few questions. I will try to answer them.

Q: Why is that such a big deal?

A: What, are you nuts? Have you not heard the final score yet? FIVE TO ONE!

Q: Yeah, I got that, but that can't be that amazing. It's not like City have won the league or anything.

A: True, but you probably don't know how bad things were looking for City before the match. There have been a lot of injuries: Chris Holland (bad knee), Mark Badman (pulled hamstring), Stuart Douglas (neck injury), Ryan Robinson (strained back), Richard Evans (injured foot), Aaron Cornwall (pulled groin) and Marcus Browning (stupidity). That left only eleven senior players for manager Adie Britton to choose from.

Q: How can Marcus Browning have a stupidity injury?

A: A bit of poetic license. He got a straight red for headbutting against Hampton & Richmond a few matches ago. He did it right in front of the ref. He's serving a three match suspension.

Q: I thought he was supposed to be bringing leadership to the team, a sort of 'elder statesman.' He did something like that during an injury crisis?

A: Yep.

Q: You're right. Stupid. So, was there no bench at all?

A: Not exactly. Britton named two youth players (Ashley Caldwell and Raif Gwinnett). He did end up playing them in the end when City had a commanding lead, actually. The only other person on the bench was Richard Evans, who as I have said, is unfit.

Q: Okay, that sounds pretty impressive now. Scoring five goals when you are down to your last eleven players is pretty good. But what about this team, this Bishop's Shortbread. Is that a real team? It sounds like a pudding served at country pubs.

A: Please, please! It's Bishop's Stortford. Honestly. And you wonder why they laugh at Americans. Pay attention.

Q: Fine, but are they any good?

A: It's too early in the season to really know how good they are, but most City fans were thinking they would be a tough team to beat at home.This was their first home defeat and they signed a striker this year from Welling who is doing very well: Charlie Sherringham.

Q: Is he related to...?

A: Yes, his son. And he's the one who scored their goal.

Q: All right. That's an impressive win.

A: And it was an away match, don't forget that.

Q: You're right, a very impressive win. Hey, wait a minute!

A: What?

Q: Wasn't Bishop's Shortbread...

A: Stortford!

Q: Yeah, yeah, okay. Weren't they the team that beat City at home at the end of last season, that defeat that really upset you?

A: Yep.

Q: They came back after City had a 2-0 lead? And before that defeat you were still in the hunt for a playoff position?

A: Uh huh.

Q: You must be really pleased to win won back from that lot.

A: Oh yeah. I've been on a real high all day. If I could bottle this feeling and sell it I would be a millionaire. At least until the government banned it.

Q: That good, huh?

A: So good it feels almost as good as that defeat to Stortford last year felt bad. Almost.

Q: Makes you kind of wish you had been there I bet. It would have been even better if you'd been there to see it live and in person instead of just reading about it.

A: I wanted to go, but Bishop's Stortford is a long way. It's almost all the way to Stansted airport.

Q: Kind of takes the edge off it, though, doesn't it? Not seeing it yourself?

A: Yeah, okay.

Q: Wife wouldn't let you go?

A: I didn't even ask. It's almost as far away as Chelmsford and I know I was lucky to go to that one. Not exactly fair on her to take the kids for the whole day on the days I'm not at work.

Q: Fair enough. Where can I read about this amazing victory?

A: Here: The Marquess of Weston's match report on the forum, the Bath Chronicle match report, and Yuffie's news page on the Bath City website.

Q: Thanks.

A: And don't forget this interview with Adie Britton from the Bath Chronicle website either.

Q: Thanks again. Looking forward to Tuesday night against Eastleigh?

A: Bring 'em on!

The Best Program in Sports (Other Than the Title)

There are few things that the average British male enjoys more than settling down on the sofa on a Saturday evening to watch the BBC's Match of the Day. How this has become such a fixture of British life I'm not sure, because there are also few things the average British male enjoys more than settling down with a pint at his local pub at about the same time on a Saturday evening. Despite being mutually exclusive activities, both are institutions deeply ingrained in the national pop culture consciousness and will continue so for many years to come.

If you are American, like me, the title Match of the Day probably reminds you of ABC's classic Saturday afternoon baseball program, Game of the Week, which highlights a much anticipated, single match. You would probably think, 'Hey, this is a program that is going to show one really good match, the best one of the day!' You would think so, but you would be wrong. Match of the Day (or MotD) is actually a highlights program covering all Premiership matches played on a given day. You might think that this doesn't make sense, that the title of the program clearly indicates that there is a single match of the day that is going to be featured! Right?! I mean, am I wrong?! What happened to accuracy in broadcasting??! What is wrong with this country???!!!

Okay, I'm fine. I'm going to go lie down now.

I don't actually know why Match of the Day is called Match of the Day when it is really should be called Abridged Versions of All the Matches Played of the Day, but it is just one of those things you have to learn to accept. Besides, when the BBC covers England matches or FA Cup matches they call this Match of the Day as well, and on these occasions it is actually coverage for just the one single match (except it isn't highlights then, it is the complete game). Confused? Well, that's just the way it is here. There is an unspoken rule in the UK that as long as everybody understands what something actually is, the accuracy of its name is irrelevant.

By this point you might be thinking that MotD is a really rubbish show. I haven't really sold it so far. It is, in fact, totally brilliant. It is the best sports program I've ever seen. You may not believe me but let me explain it to you.

'Highlights' on American television are rarely more than a minute long and usually only show you a handful of key moments in a game. ESPN will regularly condense a two-and-a-half hour baseball game into a couple of double plays, a stolen base, a home run, the manager looking tense from the dugout, and a closer throwing the final pitch of the game. All the while the presenter uses the same cadence and tone of voice as the used car salesman. Baseball is a game of strategy, deception, concentration and skill, but if you only saw the ESPN highlights you might think it was a close relative of professional wrestling.

MotD is completely different. The most important difference is that MotD takes its time. It is usually about an hour and twenty minutes long and never covers more than seven matches. There is time to show a bit of context, and to show the full build up to the important moments. It is also edited very skilfully so that it is not obvious when a large section of play has been passed over. In fact, if you did not know the game well you would be forgiven for thinking that football matches were just five to ten minutes long. Another difference is the commentary. This is done by the regular match commentary team from Radio 5 Live. They cover the highlights as if they were a match in progress. They do not allude to the final score before it happens. They do not shout. They do not try to impress you with how clever they are. They treat you like an adult.

After the match highlights there are usually two or three dressing room interviews. These are rarely of any value, but that is not MotD's fault. British sportsmen suffer the same affection for pat cliches as their American counterparts. Usually the gist of it is either, 'we won because we scored more goals,' or, 'we lost because we scored fewer goals.' Thankfully the BBC put the match statistics on the screen while they are talking. The best strategy is to pay attention to the stats and ignore the interviews.

If you are still awake after the post-match interviews then you are in good shape because there is usually some very good analysis to come. This is led by the host, former England and Leicester City striker Gary Lineker. He is joined regularly by Alan Hansen (ex Liverpool), Lee Dixon (ex Arsenal), and Mark Lawrenson (also ex Liverpool). They all compete with each other to see who can strike the most relaxed pose possible on the studio furniture. They also, between them, usually managed to explain the key moments of a game in such a way that you know you will be able to speak credibly and knowledgeably with your colleagues at work the next morning. Lee Dixon, to my mind, is especially good at diagramming plays on the screen. All of this is done without shouting, sneering, or making overtly snide remarks, at least by American standards.

But the BEST thing about MotD is that the BBC is very careful not to reveal any results during the program before the highlights are shown. If you can manage to get through an entire Saturday without hearing any results (this is becoming increasingly difficult, but can be managed especially in some remote parts of Wales) then there is a real treat in store for you once the evening news is over. A whole day's Premiership action unfolds before you with as much intensity and excitement as if you had watched each match live as they happened.

In 2004 the BBC created a new program for Sunday evenings called Match of the Day 2 (right away we have another nomenclature problem, but I'm over that now so I'm going to pretend I haven't noticed). This show is even more relaxed than the Saturday version. This is because the show is hosted by the overexposed, but immensely likable Adrian Chiles. Although blessed with a face for radio, he manages to be amusing without bringing down the tone of the show. The best innovation of the show, however, is that rather than use just pundits there is usually a current player or manager sitting in on the panel. Listening to an active manager comment on other team's play is usually very enlightening. Amazingly, when they are not talking about their own performance they suddenly become thoughtful and interesting.

I know I am gushing a bit, but MotD is a wonderful institution. If you are reading this outside of the UK, make sure you find a way to see it soon. It is so wonderful, in fact, that it is no surprise the BBC have recently created another show to cover the lower divisions called The Football League Show.

Wait! Wait a minute! A show that covers the Football League (the lower three divisions of English football) called The Football League Show??!! Am I missing something, or has the BBC suddenly developed a liking for the straightforward and accurate?

Well, maybe. The truth is that The Football League Show is so dire I can't be bothered to get excited by the title. I'll tell you why soon.

Sing When You're Drawing!

Last week I posted a question on the Bath City forum: "how many points do we expect to get from the two upcoming bank-holiday weekend matches against Dorchester and Worcester City?" Twelve of the thirteen respondents predicted the full six points. As I rode with my friend Mark on the way to yesterday's match, though, City had already managed to drop two points away to Dorchester. Neither of us knew more than the score from that game. You would think that we would feel unqualified to make predictions about the second match without really knowing what happened in the first, but you would be wrong. After some discussion we determined that City should win, but that the attendance would be a disappointing sub-500 count.

One of the problems with following a team in the Blue Square South is that there is very little information about opposing teams. Unless you have seen a team play recently you can only guess how good they are. The non-league media, although much appreciated by its readership, doesn't have the financial muscle to follow many teams in depth. Until you reach the Blue Square Premier the only way most fans can size up the opposition is to look at the standings, read through a few forums, and take an educated guess.

As Worcester had yet to win any of their first six matches Mark and I came to the considered conclusion that City should thrash them soundly. That is, of course, unless they are one of those teams that has just had a bad start and are due for a win. Or unless they are one of those innumerable clubs that aren't actually any good but City still struggle to defeat anyway. In a nutshell, we didn't have a clue.

Once we arrived at sunny Twerton Park we settled into our match day routine: we bought programs from outside Charlie's Bar, I bought a '125 lottery' ticket, we paid our admission and squeezed through the claustrophobic, Victorian-era turnstiles, and moseyed over to the popular side for our pre-match cup of tea.

While sipping my tea I learned from a fellow fan that Mark Badman had been one of the scorers against Dorchester, but that he had also left the pitch with a groin strain. Chris 'Dutch' Holland and Richard Evans were still out with injuries as well. Add in the semi-permanent lack of a regular keeper, and City's squad was looking a bit threadbare. Because common sense takes a holiday when I enter Twerton Park, I took in this information and drew the exact opposite conclusion of what a sane person would. My reaction to the long list of walking wounded was that the team would receive a confidence boost from winning without so many key players. I suppose being realistic isn't what I come to football matches for, really.

The first half an hour yesterday's match will not make it into any end-of-season highlight reels. Neither team played with distinction. Although there was one incident that almost led to an own goal against City, Worcester never appeared on the verge of scoring on their own merit. City kept possession for long stretches of play and managed to keep the ball on the deck much of the time. Despite this, though, they somehow managed to play in a disjointed style. Perhaps it was the absence of the increasingly vital Mark Badman, but City appeared to be taking up the familiar role of the superior team that cant' score.

Midway through the half, though, something remarkable began to happen off the pitch. The City supporters opposite the Bristol end goal began to sing. I have heard the occasional chant in my time at Twerton, but it has never lasted more than a few seconds. This appeared to be different. This noise continued beyond brief passages of play. When a song finished sometimes a new song would be taken up. For the first time in my brief stint as a fan, Twerton Park sounded like the league grounds on television and radio.

I love almost everything about non-league football, but there is one thing where league supporters have us beaten cold. English football league crowd noise is one of my absolute favourite things to listen to. I often tune in to 5 Live football commentary even when I have no interest in the match at all - I just love hearing the atmosphere at the ground. It is one of the real jewels of British sport, and one that is mysteriously absent from most non-league matches. Some away fans sing (and City fans sing passionately when away), but the numbers are never large enough to have the desired impact. Perhaps it is the smaller crowds, or perhaps it is the sensibilities of the supporters (unlikely as we are hardly sensible), but I have yet to go to a non-league game with anything like a real league match atmosphere.....until yesterday!

As a relatively recent City fan, this was a great experience. I have heard that City matches in the past were always really noisy but that it had died off in the last few years. This happened, I'm told, after a group of the noisier fans called the 'bedsheet boys' had been given a lot of stick from other fans and stopped coming. I don't know why, but some of them had returned after a long absence. Personally, I don't think they could have returned too soon. It could have been a delusion on my part, but as the singing continued and grew more confident it appeared that the City players were responding and attacking the Worcester goal more aggressively.

Singing doesn't prevent defensive errors, we were to learn. A Worcester player managed to get control of the ball on the right side of the goal line and chip a looping cross over Steve Perrin to give another Worcester player the easiest of strikes. I don't mean to be unfair to Worcester, but it was a lucky goal. It is the sort of goal that City have been conceding regularly this season - against the run of play and preceded by awkward and hesitant defending.

That was depressing and you might think this dampened the crowd's spirits, but within moments of the goal going the impromptu choir began 'When the Stripes Go Marching In' for about the fifth time of the match. I won't lie and say that the singing made me feel okay about the goal - I felt pretty depressed. Still, there is nothing like a bit of defiant noise to take the edge off of emotional pain. At half time I found myself felling less glum than I might have otherwise. A bit anyway.

As I meandered around the terrace with Mark I decided that if I won the £100 prize from the '125' lottery half time draw I would still call it a good day. But I didn't, and I did not win the £25 second prize, or the bottle of wine either. Some day I'm bound to win it. I consoled myself with another cup of tea.

After the interval both City and the bedsheet boys switched sides, both concentrating their efforts on the Bath end. Typical to this season's form, the City players played with a passion and intensity, now that they were behind, that was marvelous to behold. Ironically, if you want an easy time against Bath City this season the last thing you want to do is take the lead. Once that happens all the players step up a gear and start playing for their lives. It is only after you concede the lead to City that their confidence really falters and the momentum shifts against them. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it could be worse.

You might wonder with all of my descriptions of aggressive, intelligent play how is it that City have not won every game? I ask myself this often, to be honest. Despite the welcome addition of Kaid Mohamed, City still appear to lack the ability to capitalise on their possession consistently. The mid-field is brilliant at getting the ball up to the penalty box, or deep into the opposition corners, but at that point the creativity usually falters. The fact that play has improved significantly but results are more or less the same as last season is a frustration to fans and players alike.

But the key thing here is that play has improved and City are a much more attractive team to watch, even when they are not playing their best. Early in the second half there was a good five minutes of play where Worcester were repeatedly unable to clear the ball out of their half. City got in position for cross after cross. The singing was at its most intense at this point as well - it felt like the crowd was pushing for the players to score and they were responding (again, this might be just what we like to think but its how it seemed). I really wanted to join in, but I was in a group of much quieter fans ten yards down from the noisier crowd. I couldn't quite manage the gumption to sing alone by myself, although I did manage a few bars of 'Come on City!' under my breath.

Worcester eventually did clear the ball, but only briefly. Sekani Simpson, one of the best ball control experts in the non-league game, snuck the ball deep into Worcester's right corner and around a defender. He managed a sharp, downward cross which was met equally sharply by Mike Perrotts extended right foot. It was one of the best volleys I've ever seen and the Worcester keeper, Ben Hinchliffe, had no chance whatsoever. The goal was so breathtaking I forgot for the first few minutes that City was no longer behind. Okay, it may not have been the most amazing goal in football history, but it was darn good and would have most league strikers envious. We were all happy, anyway.

Perrott nearly put us ahead a few minutes later. A well placed corner reached him in front of goal. He managed to head it on target and with a lot of power, but Hinchliffe managed a brilliant deflection over the bar. It is a good thing Hinchliffe can manage brilliant deflections, actually, because I've never seen a keeper so inept at kicking. I'm not exaggerating when I say most of his long kicks went straight out of bounds. Only two or three managed to reach a player on the pitch. With a foot like that you know he must be a pretty good shot blocker to earn his place.

City kept pressing ahead, but the mid-field began to falter. Both clubs settled in for a draw in the last five minutes (although I don't think City did this intentionally). Perrott hobbled off with a strained ankle a few minutes before time to a loud cheer from the crowd. Hopefully he won't be added to the growing list of walking wounded.

As the whistle blew full time I felt mixed emotions. It was good to see City battle hard for the point, but I also felt uneasy watching them struggle against a team who is at the bottom of the table. Considering the injuries, a draw may have been a good result. Having gone into the weekend expecting six points, though, a meagre two seemed cold comfort no matter what the circumstances were.

But the 'bedsheet boys' made up for much of my disappointment. That, and the higher than expected attendance of 620. We should be attracting closer to 800, to be honest, but City's gate has gone up every home match this season. I hope the trend continues. I also hope the singing will continue. I have determined, though, that there will, at least, be one more voice contributing at the next home match against Eastleigh on Tuesday.

Come on City!