Two Words to Warm the Heart in Troubled Times

Today was a tough day at work. The two weeks that started Monday are my busiest two weeks of the year. I've got a lot of demanding suppliers to keep happy, difficult targets to achieve, and everything is happening so quickly I barely keep up with my routine paperwork. Still, through it all I have remained calm. I have maintained an inner stillness, evident to all,through this tough period. It's source can be expressed in two words that I now hold close to my heart: 'Bishop's Cleeve.'

Ah, Bishop's Cleeve! Until lunchtime two days ago I had never given the Gloucestershire village much thought. I may not have heard of it at all. But thanks to the fortuitous movements of some ping pong balls at Sloane Square, I have been studying a road atlas of the Cotswolds since Monday afternoon. Many, hopefully hundreds, of of fellow City supporters and I will be making a pilgrimage there to witness City's FA Cup Third Qualifying Round match, full of hope for another performance similar to the one we saw Saturday against Welling Rovers.

Bishop's Cleeve FC are in the Southern League Division 1 South & West. In layman's terms, they are situated two leagues below City (as opposed to Willand's place three leagues below). The club is the new home of former City favourite Steve Jones (who is doing his best to give Ryan Giggs a run for his money in the late-career fitness stakes). Bihsop's Cleeve have also just knocked off fellow Conference South club Weymouth to earn their place in the Third Qualifying Round. Considering the way City exited the cup so unsatisfactorily last season against a lower league team they would be foolish to approach the clash with anything but full respect for their opponents.

And yet.....seeing the fixture on the FA website filled me with joy. The City players cannot take for granted a victory over any opponent in this tournement, but if Adie Britton had been allowed to chose his own opponent one would think Bishop's Cleeve would have been on the shortlist. As well, their victory over Weymouth is not as impressive as might appear at first sight. Described as 'the Afghanistan of Non-League Football,' by a departing executive last season, Weymouth are still searching for a team other than Worcester City they can defeat. They are a club in free fall and an early exit to Bishop's Cleeve is just a staging post on their long decent. If Bath City can play with half as much determination as they showed against Willand they should do all right.

A victory would mean £7,500 in much needed prize-money. A victory would mean passage to the 4th Qualifying Round with more prize money and a potential ticket to the big show (the First Round Proper) for the winner. A victory would mean that City was engaged in a full-blown cup run, which could potentially boost attendances in all competitions. In a nutshell, a victory would be very good.

Hence the reason that I have been calming myself with my new mantra: 'Bishop's Cleeve.' If the City players play their normal game they should be able to beat Bishop's Cleeve handily. Substantial cup runs require substantial amounts of luck and City have gotten a second helping. Nothing is guaranteed but it is as much of a boost from Lady Luck as any of us could have hoped for.

Questions remain, though. As an American I feel I must ask, 'What is a Cleeve?' and 'Why do Bishop's have them?' So far the web is not forthcoming with any satisfactory answers. All the more reason to make my own investigations in person on a crisp, Autumn afternoon in ten days time.

Would You Mind Awfully If We Played You on a Weekly Basis?

The village of Willand, home of Bath City's FA Cup 2nd Qualifying Round opponent Willand Rovers, is exactly two hours south-west of my home. This was deemed too long a journey for Little Nedved Junior to go on, but Big Nedved Junior, age 7, was allowed to claim his seat in the Nedvedmobile. Things started off well. I opened the sunroof to enjoy the Indian summer, and my travelling companion was in good form (partly brought on by the promise of an ice-lolly en route if he behaved well). The only blight on the otherwise perfect afternoon was that I had left without studying my road atlas properly. In other words, I wasn't really sure where I was going. I tried, and failed, to find Willand on the map during stops in traffic. Because I wasn't sure where I was going I was worried I hadn't left enough time. Because I was worried I hadn't left enough time I did not want to stop to look at the map. I followed signs for Taunton and hoped for the best.

By the time we reached Taunton Services for the promised ice-lolly I had finally found Willand tucked neatly into a slight bend on the fat blue line representing the M5. Despite my worries we found the ground with just under an hour to spare. After parking in an absurdly tidy looking side street we found ourselves queueing with a group of fellow Bath City fans who had just disembarked from the supporters' coach. I was charged £6 for admission and £1 for a program. When I asked if I should not be charged £3 for Big Nedved Junior, as the tariff indicated, the attendant took a look at him and waved me away. Westcountry hospitality at its best!

The 'Stan Robinson Stadium,' as it grandly styled itself, was like Willand itself: small, clean, and inviting. There was a small covered seating area that could hold about fifty, but the only accommodation for spectators around most of the ground was a whitewashed metal rail to lean against. The Bath City players were playing 'keep away' on the far side of the pitch, and we made our way to the other side of the ground to have a closer look.

Non-league football is intimate, but the Rovers' ground was even more intimate than I was used to. The railing we settled against was only about two feet from the touch line, which meant many of the players were no more than three feet away. After a few minutes I began to worry it was a bit too intimate, especially when I was asked, 'Daddy, why did Matt Coupe use the F word?'

This was a delicate situation. It is important to me that Big Nedved Junior believe that City players can do no wrong, and especially that City hero Matt Coupe can do no wrong. At the same time I could foresee how this could go really, really wrong if he gave too detailed an account of the day to his mother. After failing to come up with a anything better, I explained that he was just really excited and trying to get his teammates to play better. This I hoped, being essentially a true statement, would put the matter to rest.

'Is he going to get in trouble?'

'Ummm....'

Luckily before I had to answer this we were joined by Bath City manager Adie Britton. He patted Big Nedved Junior on the head (specifically on his Bath City cap) and asked if he was looking forward to the game. As is usual around any grownup he is unfamiliar with, Big Nedved Junior immediately clammed up. I tried to make up for my son's verbal reticence, but unfortunately I did not do much better. As someone relatively new to non-league football I am still unsure how to behave around people I read about in the sports pages (okay, its the Bath Chronicle, but it is still weird for me). This was my big chance to ask a probing, insightful question that I could share with you, my readers, but instead I just came out with the very bland, 'How do you think we'll do today?'

Faced with such an ordinary question I am happy to report that Adie gave a better than average answer. He confirmed how important a win would be for the club financially and how at lower league grounds the pitches made results unpredictable. Nothing earth shattering, but a real answer. Not just a 'we'll see, we'll see.' He wandered off after our brief exchange (perhaps to find some supporters with a bit more personality). A few minutes later a ball from the practicing Bath City players nearly hit Big Nedved Junior, so we wandered off too. Out of earshot, anyway.

The match began in a quiet, low-key fashion. This was good because, like most City fans, I was secretly nervous. I had seen City play a team at this level before and they had struggled to a 3-2 victory thanks to an own-goal by their opponents. A loss to Willand would be a financial disaster for the club. Seeds of doubt began to germinate in my mind when in the first five minutes the Willand Rovers players failed to immediately capitulate.

After the first five minutes, though, they did begin to capitulate. City made its first advance into Willand territory and began to dominate the procedings. Whereas City have recently struggled against physical sides that try to shut down their passing game, the Willand players allowed them the space they craved and City took full advantage. As the pressure increased Willand's ability to clear the ball deserted them and it became obvious to everyone in the ground that a goal for City was just a matter of time.

In these early stages there were two players who stood out. One was City's new Romanian signing, Florin Pelecaci, who was playing as an attacking midfielder on the right. It was my first time to watch him in action, and I was delighted to see him move the ball around the Willand defenders with such ease. The other prominent player was the Willand keeper, Brian Cann. He wore a lemon-yellow shirt with 'CANNY' written on the back, and, in a desperate attempt to avoid the inevitable, spent most of the first half shouting orders at his team like an angry drill sergeant.

Eventually the stalemate was broken by Pelecaci. Being new to England and the non-league scene, he obviously has not realised that perfect diagonal crosses are not normally a prominent feature of the game at this level. Hopefully no one will explain this to him any time soon. At fourteen minutes in he made such a cross, and it was in my opinion the best pass of the City season so far. The ball reached the forehead of Darren Edwards who was able to nudge it past Cann and into the netting. It was a superb goal at any level of competition and it suddenly dawned on the assembled Bath City fans that there was more than one reason the players had nicknamed Mr. Pelecaci 'Pele.'

Although no one saw it, Edwards apparently made some contact with Cann's nose in their brief exchange. After the goal the keeper remained flat on the pitch with his arms extended. I honestly thought he was just laying there in embarrassment. Big Nedved Junior asked me why he was playing dead. Eventually a medic did come out and patted his face with a magic sponge. There was no visible blood, but for some reason Cann required a change of shirt. The new one produced from the dugout, also labelled 'CANNY,' was an especially vivid pink. After he slipped it on he tucked it in by pulling his shorts down (giving half the assembled crowd of 442 a clear view of his blue underpants). It was one of the oddest injury breaks I have ever witnessed. Cann may have looked and sounded like a drill sergeant, but he strutted his stage more like Elton John.

Undaunted by Willand's day-glow keeper, City immediately pressed for another goal. As before, it only seemed a matter of time before the lead was extended. At thirty-five minutes 'Pele' cemented his new favoured status with the City faithful by launching a shot at twenty-five yards that screamed into the corner of the Willand net. It was the sort of attempt at goal you see several times a match in non-league, but always flying ten to fifteen yards over the bar. It appeared to have been as unexpected for Willand as much as it was for me because Cann and the back line stayed rooted to the ground as they watched helplessly. Our new hero capped this off with by doing two somersaults for a goal celebration.

Three minutes later Kaid Mohamed joined the fun with an excellent goal that reminded you that City had made more than one quality signing recently. He slipped the ball past Cann at a narrow angle when it looked to me like he had waited too long. Moments later Mohamed fed a short ball to Edwards who scored his second, and a few minutes before half time Mohamed struck again by earning a penalty and getting Willand defender Ben Mammola sent off. Edwards took the penalty which he scored confidently, giving him a rare first-half hat-trick.

City fans were all smiles at half time. God was in his heaven and all was right with the world, as far as I was concerned. I got a cup of tea for me and a Mars bar for Big Nedved Junior, and as I sipped it I decided I liked Willand a lot. It seemed a nice place full of nice people. How could anyone not like Willand on such a glorious day? The fact that a man drove a green Reliant Robin through the crowd was not a problem. I decided this must be the sort of quaint thing people in Devon do. Big Nedved Junior and I settled in near on a grassy bank on the opposite side of the pitch overlooked by a cottage with a thatched roof. There was a fruit-laden apple tree nearby. I just needed a bluebird to rest on my shoulder and the image would have been complete.

The second half began with Cann having changed into a complete pink ensemble and me entertaining fantasies of a 10-0 victory. After five goals in the first half it seemed logical anyway. City did continue its dominance right up until the closing few minutes, but frustratingly, never got a sixth goal. Willand deserves some credit for this, especially being a man down, but they also received tremendous help from the linesman's offside calls. At least four clear-cut chances were called back. Although I was not in a good position to judge them properly I have nonetheless decided that each of these calls were at best marginal. Since we were already leading by five goals I magnanimously refrained from complaining too much.

I was not the only City fan being magnanimous during the match. Despite making up at least a third of the assembled crowd there was no concerted effort to ridicule the Willand players or fans. No one sang, 'Can We Play You Every Week?' Perhaps we were just relieved to have an easy victory, but I think it was more that the people of Willand seemed like nice friendly people and no one wanted to be churlish. Their club had won three matches before they drew City and it was hardly their fault that we decided to put on our best performance of the season. I would no more have taunted them than I would have tracked mud into one of their lovely thatched cottages. It would have been mean.

The referee blew his whistle just as it appeared that Mike Perrott was about to score goal number six. Cann said goodbye politely to the City fans behind his goal (I noted that no one asked to trade shirts with him). Big Nedved Junior and I filed out and I chatted to a Willand supporter as we made the short walk to the car. He commented on how big the difference in standard was between the two teams. I made a few bland remarks and tried hard not to refer to the complete shellacking his team had just received.

The ride home was the easiest two-hour drive I have ever made in my life. Big Nedved Junior got to have his choice of ice-creams at Taunton services again. I was in the sort of mood that he could have stung me for a lot more. It was the sort of perfect day that reminded you why you are a football fan. Hopefully there are a few other clubs that are as nice, friendly and beatable in the next round. Another pink keeper wouldn't go amiss either.

Nedved Juniors and the Temple of Doom

This post is about my two boys, however there is a bit of a problem. Due to new British legislation I am not actually allowed to reveal the names of my children to anyone who has not had a Criminal Records Bureau check. Okay, that's not actually true (although it might soon be). Still, it seems prudent not to give their real names, not so much for security reasons, but to give them the option of denying anything I write as they grow older.

My solution is to give them some cumbersome nicknames. After my first child was born one of my work colleagues referred to him only as 'Nedved Junior,' so it seems appropriate for purposes of this blog to call them 'Big Nedved Junior' and 'Little Nedved Junior.' A bit awkward, but it will do.

Big Nedved Junior is seven years old. He is somewhat shy and has an artistic temperament. He also has a somewhat obsessive tendency to remember statistics and facts about his interests (if you ever meet him just ask him to explain his Gormiti figure collection). In twenty years he will probably make an excellent football program editor.

Little Nedved Junior is both the family stoic and the family comic. In his first year of school a fellow pupil threw a bucket of water on him forcing him to change into his P.E. kit for the day. Mrs Nedved asked him if this made him upset. He said, 'No, it made me wet.' His favourite jokes usually involve farting and for some reason most days he tries to dress every morning without wearing pants (forcing Mrs Nedved and I to pull back his trousers for inspection before the school run). He is five.

When the boys were first born I didn't have any real interest in football. I was following cricket mostly, but as time went on I realised I was exposing myself to some real danger. Football totally dominates the sporting scene in the UK. I knew I could try to get both boys interested in cricket too, but I knew the chances were good that I would fail. What's more, I realised that if I did not introduce the boys to a football club of my choice the chances were that they would fall in love with a club of their own choosing - and that choice could be decidedly inconvenient. Young boys adopt teams for a variety of reasons that seldom rely on geographical proximity. They might like the white horse on the Ipswich Town badge. They might fall for the black and amber stripes of Hull City. Or, disastrously, they might drift into fandom of a 'big four' club in a bout of infantile glory-hunting.

Alarm bells began to ring when two years ago Big Nedved Junior asked me if I was a Manchester United supporter. He was perplexed when I said no. 'Why wouldn't you want to support a team that wins everything?' he asked. It was a clarion call that demanded action.

Within a couple weeks Big Nedved Junior was bundled into the car and frogmarched into Twerton Park to see Bath City take on Havant & Waterlooville for a Good Friday bank holiday match. Although I enjoyed the game, he was miserable, cold and bored. I tried to perk him up at halftime by buying him a portion of chips and a bottle of Coke. What I did not realise was for a six year-old, being given a bottle of Coke of your own is like winning the lottery, and that he would burst into the door at home and announce to his horrified mother and jealous little brother that he had been given 'A WHOLE BOTTLE OF COKE JUST FOR ME!' Despite this amazing bonanza, though, he would not return for love or money for many months. He associated Bath City with being cold. And he still didn't understand why I would support a team that didn't win everything.

Little Nedved Junior went to last season's home opener against Welling United for his first ever match. Being August there was no chance of cold, but being only four years old there was even less chance of him enjoying it properly. As it turned out practically no one enjoyed the match as City ended up at the wrong end of a 4-0 pummelling. We stayed till the bitter end, but only with the aid of lollies and crisps from the tea bar to keep him happy.

So far I had managed to alienate both of my children from my newly adopted team. They were not impressed when I put up a team photo in their room above a Spider-Man poster, and they were not interested in my accounts of the matches I went to. Things were looking pretty bleak, until one day Bath City defender Gethin Jones stepped in.

That November Jones scored in the FA Trophy match against East Thurrock. It was a fluke goal -- a misdirected cross that ended up in the net. When I told the boys about the accidental goal they were enraptured. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. A few minutes later Big Nedved Junior went up to his mother, interrupted her, and said, 'Do you want to hear something really funny?' Both of them learned Gethin Jones' name (although Little Nedved Junior invariably referred to him as Indiana Jones). When I finally got them back to a match the following January they both wanted me to point out who their new hero was. They cheered whenever Gethin got the ball. Success!

A lot of progress has been made since then. They both have replica kits and Little Nedved Junior sleeps with his Bath City scarf. In the warm-up before the match against Lewes Big Nedved Junior was able to correctly identify Sekani Simpson, Jim Rollo (well, he got the 'Rollo' part), Matt Coupe, Lewis Hogg, Kaid Mohamed, and, of course Gethin Jones. I was especially pleased that he recognised Mohamed because before that match he had only seen him on the YouTube clips we had watched together.

My work is not complete yet. Although they are usually attentive for the entire first half, they still get restless not long after the interval. Overall, though, my project to brainwash, errr, I mean share my passion for Bath City with them has been a success. There is no danger of my being begged to take them to Ipswich or Hull. And if you ask them, Gethin 'Indiana' Jones, is still their favourite player.

Better To Have Travelled And Lost Than Not to Have Travelled At All

Bath City were away to Dover yesterday, where they lost 2-1 in heartbreaking fashion. I was not there to see it, due to two main reasons: the Dover Athletic fixture is the farthest away of the season, and Mrs Nedved had an important work event over this weekend. Bringing both boys with me on a nine and a half hour round trip wasn't feasible (although this did not stop the supporter club chairman, Powell, from trying to convince Little Nedved Junior to 'ask Daddy to take him to the seaside on the supporters coach' during half time at the Lewes match).

As a result I had to follow the match online through a combination of Sean's 'City Update' site and posts on the Bath City forum. Sitting in front of a computer screen for two hours waiting for brief bits of text to either send me into rapture or despair has always seemed a very antisocial sort of activity. In normal society this sort of behaviour is a sign that someone has become a bit too involved in some Internet community, and perhaps it is time for concerned family members to stage an 'intervention.' For non-league fans it is just the normal routine of away matches, and, as far as we are concerned, perhaps it is time for concerned family members to stop bugging us and go do something else quietly in a far away place!

I'm not really that bad (yet). Because I am a kind and gracious sort of person I offered to let Big Nedved Junior play computer games on one window of the computer with the understanding that every so often Daddy is allowed to check the City score in the other window. This is amicably agreed to and is probably healthier for me as well. Despite the odd bit of pacing I did managed to go several minutes once without worrying about the score.

A good match summary of what happened, written by Kelston Kopite, can be found here. In a nutshell, my two hours went like this: worry because of the unusual lineup brought on by the injury crisis, slight hope after City managed to keep Dover from scoring in the first half, a mad dash to the church hall during halftime to pick up Little Nedved Junior from yet another birthday party, an inevitable seeming sense of disappointment after Dover did manage a goal at 51 minutes, absolute elation when the news came through that Edwards had chipped in a goal in the 91st minute, and then confusion, frustration and unfocused anger after the message from Sean came in saying Dover had won the match in the last few seconds.

Before the match hardly anyone thought that City's chances were good. Dover were top of the league and City were in the grip of an unrelenting run of injuries. The only thing that gave City fans any real hope at all was the scrappy determination City's players have demonstrated over the last few seasons when playing good teams away from home. By all accounts the City players did deliver in this respect. Actually taking a point from this match had been beyond my wildest dreams. Needless to say, Edwards' goal had me dancing around the sitting room. Losing from that position made the pain a lot worse than it would have been. There had not even been enough time between the good news and the bad news for Big Nedved Junior to roll his eyes and say, 'Daddy, please!'

After losing the match so dramatically, a long coach journey home faced both players and fans. There would have been more than enough time to work though the shock, denial, and acceptance they all must have been feeling. I suppose I should have been grateful that I did not have to endure this myself. I should have been grateful that I had not expended precious brownie points on an away match that ended in heartbreak. But, surprisingly, even to myself, that is not how I feel.

Losing away does hurt, but missing a match entirely is its own form of loss. Let's face it, non-league fans are not in it for the glory. Glory, or what passes for it, can be obtained quickly, easily, and cheaply for the price of a replica Man U shirt and an afternoon pint of lager at a pub with a Sky Sports subscription. Being a non-league fan is about an experience. It is an experience with at least as much disappointment as exhilaration. It is not meant to be easy and it certainly is not always enjoyable (why we are crazy enough to engage in such an unpromising activity is another question - but for now we will just accept that we do).

Not being there means not having seen Lewis Hogg have a great performance out of his natural position. It means not having seen Florin Pelecaci play his first game in a Bath City shirt. It means not having watched Darren Edwards cock his ear at the Dover fans after he brought his team within sight of a precious away point. It means not watching the City players devastated by the unexpected defeat, and mostly it means not having shared this experience with them.

All seasons have highs and lows. This match has made me realise how much I want to experience both. Even when (maybe especially when) it hurts.

Pelecaci Bomba Gólja!!

My lurking on the Diósgyőri VTK forum has payed off. Someone has posted a comment on our new midfielder, Florin Pelecaci, and a YouTube clip of one of the more spectacular goals you are likely to see for some time. The title translates from the Hungarian as 'Pelecaci's Bomb Goal.'

Warning: be aware the sound on this is a bit harsh. You might want to turn your speakers down a bit before you play it. Secondly, this clip appears to start after the goal, showing Florin's reaction and then the instant replay on the live televised match.



All I can say is, eat your heart out Beckham!

The comment that came with it betrays the struggle Pelacaci seems to have had in the higher leagues. This is from one 'Pirospont,' who appears to be one of the more active contributors on their forum: '

this was the only score from him in the two season of championships - but it was brilliant.

in supporters opinion he was a short, weak, often injured player.
he has good skills, but he didn't able to do the center-midfielder position.

on the whole we don't cry after him...'

Bath City are not going to pick up a player with Pelecaci's experience unless he's had a bit of a rough patch. Let's hope this will be a new beginning for him. And if he can put in a few goals half as good as this one, I'll cry after him!

Sido has 289 Friends and One of Them Is Our New Signing

If ever I needed a demonstration of why being a non-league fan is so great, I think I've just had it.

Earlier today it emerged that Bath City have signed a new player named Florin Pelecaci. He is a mid-fielder from Romania and has played top-flight football in both his home country and recently in Hungary. When I heard the news I was a bit shocked. Why are we signing another mid-fielder, and how did we get one who had played at such a high level in countries with decent football leagues?

We can only speculate on both answers. First of all, City are in the midst of a serious injury crisis at almost every position. So far there have been at least eleven healthy players in each match, but hardly more that than for the last three. Although the supporters have been calling for another striker for some time, the club needs people at every position. The second question is harder to answer. It would appear that Florin has suffered from repeated injuries. I say 'appears' because it is hard to find much out about him online. The only detailed profile of him I have found revealed the following: 'Szerződés lejárta: nincs megadva.' My Hungarian has grown a bit rusty over the years so I'm still working on that one.

His Wikipedia entry is lacking any detail on his career, but it does list the clubs he's played for, appearances, and goals scored. Since 1999 he's played for six clubs (Gloria Bistriţa twice), made 110 appearances and scored 8 goals. With a record like that it would appear he has a problem with injuries. On the plus side, he made 20 appearances last season alone with Diósgyőri VTK of Hungary, so perhaps he is on the mend.

Clubs at City's level do not routinely sign foreign players. When they do they are normally Welsh (yes, they count as foreign in the football world) or have already play for other non-league clubs (as was the case with Sido Jombati who played for Dorchester last year). Neither of these apply in this case. This is more of a 'friends and family' type signing. Florin is a friend of the said Sido Jombati and has, according to the Bath Chronicle, been training with the Bath City squad for some time. Evidently both parties are satisfied enough with what they've seen to give it a go.

As I said, I've been scouring the Internet trying to find out more about our new signing, without much success. I am the newest member of Diósgyőri VTK's fan forum, but despite an appeal for information, no one has been forthcoming. I was facing trying to write a blog entry with absolutely no new information to add to the story. A depressing prospect.

But no! I have a quote from Sido Jombati himself about his friend. How did I get it? I sent him a message on Facebook. I've never spoken to Sido before. I introduced myself as a City supporter and asked him for a quote. Here's what he said:

"Thank you yes I thing is going to do well is a experience player is play for eufa cup end 1 divisions on romenia en Hungary I thing is gonna take time because of the different style of football but is gonna make a difference soon"

If Sido rates him, that's good enough for me. Florin is hoped to have gotten his international clearance for Saturday's match against Dover Athletic. I hope it is the beginning of a long run of successful, injury-free play for him. If he's trying to make it back to top flight football I'm more than happy for him to start his journey with City.

But how cool is it that I got a response at all from Sido Jombati! I bet no one playing for Man U ever replied to a Facebook message from a total stranger. Sido is obviously a stand-up guy, and I obviously support the world's greatest non-league club. Welcome aboard Mr Pelecaci!

The Beat is Back!

Although I am enjoying the breast beating and hair-shirt wearing that the Bath City community is engaged in at the moment, my status as a native Atlantan has given me some cheerier football news to report to you today.

Just over an hour ago Women's Pro Soccer (WPS) has announced the results of their first ever expansion draft, and as a result the first six members of the new Atlanta Beat roster have been revealed. They are: Leigh Ann Robinson (formerly FC Gold Pride - pictured right), Amanda Cinalli and Sara Larsson (from St Louis Athletica), Katie Larkin and Sharolta Nonen (now leaving Los Angeles Sol), and Noelle Keselica (who is packing her bags to leave Sky Blue FC). Prominent among these draft picks is Sharlota Nonen (pictured left), a Canadian international and a former member of the original Atlanta Beat that played in the old Women's United Soccer Association from 2001-04. The number one pick, Leigh Ann Robinson is a respected centre half and shows that the Beat are going to try to build their new club around a solid defence.

Okay, okay. I admit it. I don't really know what I'm talking about here. But I am going to try. I've never followed women's football before, either here or back home, so I will have to learn as I go. I am definitely going to try and be an active supporter, though. At least I will be as active as you can be on this side of the Atlantic, anyway. This is my home town club now, especially as Atlanta has no top flight men's team on the horizon.

I had better explain just what has happened to my British readers because that second paragraph probably makes no sense whatsoever. As I have discussed previously (at length), American sporting leagues do not employ relegation or promotion. New teams appear when the league decides to expand. Rather than just cobble together the best twenty women's clubs in the country, the WPS started life last season with seven brand new clubs funded by local businessmen. After a first (apparently successful) season, the league is now adding two teams to its ranks: the Atlanta Beat and the Philadelphia Independence. Rather than make these new clubs start from scratch, the league has set up an 'expansion draft' to try and ease their way into next season. Hold onto your hats now - this is going to seem a little strange!

Each club in the WPS has had to choose six players from their roster to put into the draft. Atlanta and Philadelphia then took turns choosing players from this pool of forty-two. Once an established club has lost one of its six players to one of the new teams it is allowed to remove two of its remaining five from the draft. No team could lose two players until every other team has lost at least one. Each of the expansion teams was going to be allowed to select nine players each, but in the end Philadelphia took seven and Atlanta only took six. Both teams will get to participate in special draft of international players as well as have early picks in the general WPS draft in January.

How weird is that? Can you imagine Alex Ferguson being told he has to name six players, of whom he could lose up to three to Burnley, Birmingham City or Wolves so that they could have an easier time in the Premiership this season? Exactly what shad of puce do you think he would turn? It boggles the imagination.

Despite the way we Americans like to champion the free market and talk about the survival of the fittest, we can be genuine pinko socialists when it comes to our professional sports leagues. Every sport has its ways of trying to keep 'parity' in its league: salary caps, income distribution and high draft picks for weaker teams. This is based on the belief that having the same old teams win every year is kind of boring (ahem). So really, the charge of 'socialism' isn't appropriate. The league as a whole has a commercial interest in competitive matches so that it can compete with other sports. The creation of the Premiership seventeen years ago was a partial step in this direction, but it is hard to believe that the English football giants will ever relinquish enough autonomy to create an American style league. Oh well, we might as well vive le difference, I suppose.

Back to the Beat: I don't really know if the draft was a success or not. The Beat's general manager, Shawn McGee, seems pretty happy with the results. Soon after the results were announced he tweeted, 'Had a great draft plan and it played well.' So far most of the excitement is centred on the number one pick, Leigh Ann Robinson. Head Coach Gareth O'Sullivan says, 'She works hard and has a positive attitude. We were very fortunate to come away with her.' Leigh Ann herself is putting a pretty brave face on things. The team website quotes her saying, 'I feel like I have so many emotions right now. I am excited to join the Atlanta Beat and anxious to be out there. This morning I was a little nervous because I wasn't sure if I would get a call or not. Now that I am with the Beat, I am excited to help get this team started.' I hope she is still as excited when she experiences her first Atlanta summer!

Well everyone, I am excited! Look out for me in the Atlanta Beat tee shirt in the Bath City terraces (as soon as they print some)!

Bring On Willand Rovers!

During a break at work this afternoon I took a brief moment to check on the Football Association website and see if the draw for the Second Qualifying Round had been announced. It had, and there before me was a list of eighty fixtures to be played in just under two weeks. One of them would be a fixture for Bath City. The identity of their opponent could make or break the club's short term financial outlook.

Anxiously my eyes scanned down the list, trying to go slowly enough so as not to miss 'Bath City' in the eight-point type, but not really succeeding. In my nervousness I tried to somehow read the entire list at once, which, or course, is totally impossible. It just made me panicky. Eventually my attention fixed on match number 70: Willand Rovers v. Bath City. My reaction went like this: Willand Rovers? Who the heck are Willand Rovers? Perfect!

The perfect draw for any club is an opponent so far down the league tables you have never heard of them. As I have never even heard of Willand, let alone a football club from there, I knew instantly that City had had a good draw. A bit of digging on the Internet turned up the following: Willand Rovers are a small club who currently sit fourteenth in the Premier Division of the Toolstation Western. For those of you who do not read the fine print of the Non-League Paper each week, this means that Willand play three leagues below City. That's good! The mid-Devon village of Willand is nine miles north of Exeter, and at the last census it registered 3,750 souls. On average 62 of these show up to watch their local football club each week. This is the sort of team City should be able to defeat easily, even in the midst of an injury crisis. City should beat them even if they have a big night out the night before and end up sleeping on someone's floor under some pizza boxes. It should be a cinch.

'Should' is a really dangerous word in football. After all, City should have easily beaten Lewes on Saturday but could only eke out a meagre draw. No City fan or player will be assuming a victory against Willand is a sure thing. It is too important a match to approach any opponent without a healthy dose of respect.

It is a curious thing, though, why City fans should be so pleased by a draw against a team most of us had never heard of. The reason is, of course, money. The prize money in the early rounds of the FA cup dwarfs the match day revenue. Even though the amounts are modest by Football League standards, to advance a few rounds, even a few qualifying rounds, can transform a non-league club's short term budget. If City do defeat Willand then they will pocket an invaluable £4,500. What's more they will go into the draw for the Third Qualifying Round, the winner of which will net £7,500. If I was of a less sober disposition I might even be thinking ahead to the Fourth (and final) Qualifying Round and its prize money of £12,500. A berth in the First Round Proper and its £18,000 prize is too fantastical to even think about, so I won't. Well, I won't admit it, anyway.

£4,500 will look pretty good to Willand too. Just to have come this far is a pretty big achievement for them. To reach the Second Qualifying Round they would have needed to dispatch three opponents already. They will be playing to win. If they are anything like the lower league teams I've seen City play so far they will put all eleven players behind the ball and try and deny City any space to operate in their half. If they manage to keep City from scoring long enough their confidence will begin to increase and then, with some luck, they might score a goal on a break. It doesn't sound likely, but it didn't sound likely when Aylesbury United tried the same strategy against City in last year's FA Cup and won. I still have nightmares about that match and would like to make the trip to Devon and, hopefully, see that ghost exorcised.

There is a lot to say for a day trip to Willand in two weeks time. The seventy-five mile journey is through some of the most beautiful countryside in England. Willand is also home to a small theme park called, 'Diggerland.' I'm not sure how yet, but evidently children as young as five are somehow able to drive full sized JCB tractors at this place without injuring anyone. This would be my children's' idea of heaven (heck, it might be my idea of heaven come to think of it). It could be a really good family day out. It could be, but it really only will be if City come away with a victory and the chance for another good draw in the next round. Anything else would be too awful to think about. Anything else will mean a long drive home through that beautiful countryside with my kids asking their mother, 'Why is Daddy so upset?' repeatedly. That's the downside of drawing a team from three leagues below - if you lose it hurts a lot more.

I'm not going to think about that, though. I'm going to think how pleased I am that City have had such a fortunate draw. I'm going to think about how good it will be for the club to win this round. I'm going to think how much worse it would have been to draw Newport County. I'm going to absolutely not think about the possibility that City could lose. Really. Not for a second.

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.