Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville, Part 2

Part 1 of Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville can be read here.

We last left this story with Bath City's defence bravely trying to fend off a relentless Havant & Waterlooville attack. City had taken a 1-0 lead moments before, but up in the terraces there was a feeling that something was definitely wrong. No one had expected Havant to be a walkover, but being five points and five places below City, most City supporters expected them to be a average, fairly beatable team. There was nothing average about the Havant & Waterlooville team that had shown up, however. They attacked relentlessly. They shut down almost every foray City made into their territory. How City had managed to be the team first on the scoreboard was a total mystery. How Havant, who seemed to be able to alternate slick midfield passing with well-placed long balls, had managed to fall as low as thirteenth in the league table was equally mysterious.

As City were (in theory) attacking the Bath end goal on the other side of the pitch, the full-strength Ultras were in excellent position to see the full fury of the Havant attack. We were not in a very good position to see City almost double the lead at twenty-three minutes, again totally against the run of play. Gethin Jones managed to shake loose of the Havant midfield and head down the right of the pitch. His cross was headed by Darren Edwards, and we all screamed and shouted when we thought we saw the ball go into the net. The Havant keeper, Aaron Howe, had actually made a brilliant diving save that we could not see. This was disappointing, because rather than being a harbinger for a period of Bath City dominance, Havant returned to laying siege to the City goal within a few seconds. Although normally an optimist by nature, I couldn't see City maintaining the lead for much longer.

Oh, did I mention that Havant have a player named Joe McDonald who does a fairly good impression of Rory Delap from the sideline? Well they do. There were so many other facet's to Havant's attack that I did not notice how dangerous his throws were at first. I figured it out quickly, though, when he launched one into City's six yard box at the half hour mark. Unfortunately, it was not cleared properly. A mistimed header sent it looping up into the air . Annoyingly, the ball fell to earth in the vicinity of the fearsome Manny Williams. I should say 'fell towards earth,' actually, because Williams was able to strike the ball into the City net with a quick, compact bicycle kick before it got anywhere near the ground. At this point I was pretty sure there were going to be three to four more goals scored before the match ended. I wasn't feeling very confident that City would be scoring any of them.

Thankfully, halftime did come without any more goals conceded. I took a walk with my friend Mark round to the Snack Bar so he could get some chips. Unlike the cheerful, supporter run Tea Bar, the Snack Bar is run by an outside company. The food is passable, although expensive, but the customer service is of a vintage Soviet style. All that would really be necessary to complete the experience is someone standing alongside the queue with a truncheon. As we made our escape I almost bumped into a fellow customer, only to see that it was Lewis Hogg! LEWIS HOGG!!! In the queue for chips! Simultaneously suffering from an injury and serving a suspension had not robbed him of the desire to support his team mates. It was a heartening thing to see, although I feared that if he hung around the Snack Bar long he might be robbed of his desire to live.

Passing through the Bath End on our way back to the Popular Side, we passed by the lively gaggle of Havant supporters setting up shop for the second half. I stopped to chat with one who appeared to be a leader of some sort, and asked if I could take a picture of them for my blog (which they posed for very graciously). 'Are you Nedved?' he asked. I admitted I was, and we engaged in a discussion of the Dover supporters and their infamous drums. Although he had a better appreciation of their supporters' musical abilities than I did, he was generally about as keen on drumming at non-league football matches as I am. The Dover supporter's tactic of walking right up to you and drumming in your face doesn't make them many friends I suppose.

The second half began before long, and Havant immediately began to scare the living daylights out of me again. Twice in the first twenty minutes Robinson had to make spectacular saves to keep Manny Williams from scoring again. Things were not helped by the tendency of the City defenders, which grew as the game went on, to boot the ball forward to no one in particular. This was annoying for us fans to watch whenever a Havant attack was broken up. It may have been the most rational thing to do, though, considering how fruitless the City passing game had been for most of the match. I was sure that Williams had scored when he got a free header after Chris Holland failed to clear a corner kick. It looked like a sitter from where I was standing, but he somehow managed to head the ball wide to the left. Whew!

The one bright spot to the second half was the appearance with twenty minutes left of Bath City prodigal son, Dave Gilroy. He trotted out to replace Darren Edwards wearing his familiar black turtleneck. In a strange way it seemed a bit like he had never left. I am sure in his mind he was desperate to score a goal and snatch an undeserved victory for City. He did not do this, but he sure came close.

A Havant player passed the ball back to Aaron Howe on the far right of his goal. Gilroy was in the area, and his speed (always surprising for someone who could pass for a banker) caught Howe napping. With a twist and a jump, Gilroy blocked Howe's clearance with his backside, a la Andrejs Stolcers, and the ball looped tantalisingly towards the goal. Unlike Stolcers' wondergoal against Woking, though, the ball travelled slightly off target. Gilroy was after it like a flash, but even with his speed he was not able to get his foot around the ball.

This somewhat freaky chance at a goal was part of a more even final ten minutes of the match. Perhaps if football was played over two hours instead of ninety minutes City might have worn Havant down. When the final whistle blew I know I was not alone in feeling relieved that a point had been won (and no one could have seen this as two points dropped). Many questions filled my head. Is this a normal Havant & Waterlooville performance? If so, how the heck did they manage to lose so much ground in the standings during the middle of the season? After the match, several City supporters wrote on the forum that Havant had been the best team to play at Twerton Park all season. Were there enough games left for them to enter the already crowded play-off-chasing pack? At this point, it appears so. The good news is that, barring an appearance in the playoffs, City will not need to face them again. If there is a meeting in the playoffs, maybe this particular version of Havant & Waterlooville won't be the one to show up. One can only hope. Although City battled enough to keep from losing, they definitely left my nerves feeling ragged. Watching a match like that in the playoffs might kill me.

Little-Minded Drummer Boys

Bath City's match against Dover Athletic yesterday ended in a scoreless draw. It was not the prettiest display of football this year by City by any measure. You couldn't say it was a boring match - there were plenty of heart-in-mouth moments. And, if you were in need of more drama than was on display on the pitch, there was a fair amount in the terraces as well. Before I get into that, though, I'd better tell you a bit about my great-uncle Bill.

Uncle Bill fought in World War Two on the Italian front. Afterwards he settled down to raise a family. He made his living rearing sheep in the hills of South-West Virginia. He was, I'm sure, a fairly normal member of his generation during his prime.

But by the time I was old enough to know Uncle Bill his behaviour had gotten pretty odd. At a family reunion in New Westminster (population 58,000) he had removed the hubcaps from his car and had them laid out on the back seat when he drove up. He said coming to the 'big city' made him worried they'd get stolen. A few months later he showed up at my parents house for Thanksgiving. Much to my mother's shock he wore his clodhopper plowing shoes into her house (you'll have to trust me, this is a big no-no). He never removed them during the entire visit. We could ignore his shoes, but he did one thing we could not ignore, despite our best efforts. Every time there was a pause in the conversation Uncle Bill would break into a hymn. Very loudly. And not in tune. So, we'd be in the living room asking him politely about his sheep, or the price of wool, and as soon as we'd run out of questions he'd belt out, 'Bless Be The Tie That Binds,' or 'Onward Christian Soldiers.' There wasn't much you could do but wait for him to finish (usually just one verse). While he sang we did our best to pretend that this was normal and everthing was fine. It wasn't really fine: it started as awkward and moved onto annoying as the day wore on. Still, he was an old man who meant no harm. He had no idea how bizarre it seemed to everyone.

The supporters of Dover Athletic remind me a lot of my Uncle Bill. They probably mean well. They almost certainly think of themselves as very clever. In reality they were just being boorish and annoying, avoiding conflict only because of the decorum and forebearance of others (they are fellow non-league supporters after all). I suppose like an elderly relative, they deserved to be humoured during their visit. Politeness requires you to wait until they've left to sigh with relief (and have a laugh about them).

As Dover are newly promoted, they have not visited Twerton Park for many years. I missed the away fixture back in September, so I knew very little about the team or its supporters. About the only thing I knew was that their manager, Andy Hessenthaler, appears to revel in pig-ignorance about Dover's opposition. In a interview posted on the Dover site after the match in September he commented that City had obviously come with the intention of shutting up shop and playing a defensive game with eleven men behind the ball. Any casual City fan at the time, however, could have told you that City's injury crisis was so severe that manager Adie Britton could not even field eleven fit players. The starting lineup contained two midfielders playing as defenders (Lewis Hogg and Marcus Browning) and the debut of Florin Pelecaci (who no one had ever seen in a City shirt before). Adie Britton's only intention with his team selection was to be able to field a full compliment of players. If Hessenthaler had had access to even the most rudimentary scouting report he would have known this.

City fans were excited, if slightly anxious, before the match kicked off. Decisive victories over St Albans and Weston-super-Mare had brought City to within touching distance of a playoff spot. Dover were arriving in patchy form after their blistering start to the season. A win seemed possible, if far from likely. Would City finally break through the eighth-place barrier that has haunted them for the last two seasons?

The way the match started, it looked like breaking that barrier was going to be hard work. City's defence and midfield held their own, but had to resort to a scrappy style of play that was not typical in recent matches.

Something else that was going to be hard work made an appearance in the early minutes as well. The Dover supporters who gathered around the Bath End goal had brought drums. They began to play them with a relentless, unchanging rythym. I have only come across a drum once before in football, at Grimsby Town. This was a single, deep kettledrum-type that was usued occasionally to rally the support. Although the Dover fans included three drummers, and were carrying lighter, more versitile instruments, they lacked the musical ability to do anything else but a constant, dreary beat. It was kind of like listening to a leaking tap drip, except louder and less creative.

That was in the far distance, though, from where the City Ultras (including myself and Little Nedved Junior) were gathered beside our giant white ensign. As City were kicking towards the Bristol end, all the singers were gathered in one place and we were as loud as ever. With City Captain Jim Rollo's encouragement, we were determined to do our part to help lift the team.

I have my doubts, however, that anyone on the pitch was remotely aware of anything else than the furious pace of the match. This was not a match of ebb and flow. There was little chance for either team to create space or play with style. The ball seemed to get tied up in midfield for several minutes at a time in a sort of human pinball. In most matches this season City have been able to control midfield for long stretches. To me, it seemed after a frustrating start they gave up trying and began to settle for hoofing the ball forward. Both sides did have chances in the first half, although Dover had the best. Olly Shultz managed a powerful downward header on goal from a corner kick. City keeper Ryan Robinson was beaten, but Gethin Jones managed a dramatic clearance from the line. City's only real first-half chance was at thirty-five minutes. Kaid Mohamed broke through the Dover back line and had Darren Edwards free on his right for what appeared to be a sure-thing goal. His pass was slightly too far forward for Edwards to reach. It was frustrating to see the opportunity missed, but considering that neither striker is fully fit, it was a good effort.

At the interval I took Little Nedved Junior on our customary walk round the ground. On our way to the Bath End we passed the Dover supporters as they headed to the Bristol End. It is normal practice for non-league supporters to switch sides at halftime. This gives each group of fans the chance to watch their team from the goal it is attacking. A lot of City fans do this as well, although there are some in the newly-formed 'Bath City Ultras' who argue that it would be best for the most vocal supporters to stay in the same spot for the entirity of the match. The designated spot they like to congregate is next to the white ensign, which because of its size, can only hang on the Popular Side, towards the Bristol End.

As the second half kicked off I realised something very strange had happened. The drumming was back, but it was not coming from around the goal Dover was attacking, as it had previously. The drummers and some friends had decided to stand next to the City supporters near the flag. Because they were closer now I could hear that they were singing, but the City supporters were singing too. As you can imagine, it sounded like an unholy mess.

Josh, one of the City supporters who had remained by the flag, gave me his account of what happened:

Obviously the away fans had heard us singing and felt intimated or whatever that we might outsing them so they stood next to us. With their drums as well I think they were trying to drown us out. They came as close as they could to us. We weren't going to leave our spot with the flag there because you dont know what their plans were. They were standing next to us for a reason, but I'm not sure whether it was to provoke a reaction from us, or just to be annoying. Then they started having arguments with some of our lot. I thought it might have turned aggresive, but luckly it didn't.

This last point is important. The Dover supporter's actions were not physically agressive, but they were obnoxious in the extreme. At a lot of other grounds, with less restrained home supporters, and there would have been a fight. I was very proud watching my fellow Ultras stand their ground, engage in a bit of friendly banter, and generally give good account of themselves. I like to think that the City supporters were respecting the natural franternity that exists between fellow non-league supporters -- even if the Dover fans were intent on taking advantage of this good will. Like being trapped with a senile, eccentric old relative, sometimes the best thing to do is just endure it.

To be fair to the Dover fans, they did have more to sing about on the pitch than the City supporters. Although they were unable to manage an actual goal, Dover appeared to be on the verge of scoring for a long stretch of the second half. Or rather, I had a sinking feeling that City were going to allow one of those messy, half-accidental goals they tend to concede when the opposition has the ascendancy. Happily, they did not. I did not want to admit it to myself, but taking a point from this one looked more and more like a good outcome for City.

Little Nedved Junior and I spent the last twenty minutes of the match standing among the 'normal' Dover supporters. That was not in order to be disruptive - my son wanted to collect some of the Ash seeds (you know, the ones that fall like helicopters) that were scattered on the terrace there. He managed to stuff both pockets with them. This got me close enough to the drumming to see more of what was happening. The main drummer was a rather portly fellow who looked intent on trouble. He pulled down his trousers to expose his generous backside to the City supporters several times. I had another uncle that used to do that too, but they put him in a home.

With the relentless drumming annoying everyone in the ground, it was easy to overlook that the match had been blessed with a fairly annoying official. Wes Linden started the match off fairly anonymously (as in good), but then became more and more whistle-happy as the match went on. Both sides were frustrated by his apparantly random distribution of foul calls. He upset City supporters when he allowed Dover's Shaun Welford to get away with a vicious elbow at Gethin Jones early in the match. Welford was already on a yellow, so he appears to have lost the nerve to give him a second.

Despite this, however, as the clock began to wind down I'm sure most City supporters were happy with the single point. From listening to the muttering of several in the crowd, they were just as happy that they Dover supporters would now be leaving.

Although I would have liked to hang out in Charlie's, I took Little Nedved Junior to McDonald's as a reward for his good behaviour during the match. After he had consumed his allotted portion of grease and salt, we ambled back to our car. The Dover's supporters coach pulled out just as we reached Twerton Park. I caught the eye of a Dover supporter on board and we exchanged friendly waves. It felt like the right thing to do. I learned growing up that when you are confronted with rude, aggressive, or just crazy behaviour, it's always best to just smile and wave.

The Pointless Yeild Three Points

Bath City defeated Weston-super-Mare 2-0 today in a contest more one-sided than the score reflects. By all measures Weston failed to present any real challenge to City either in attack or defense. City could have notched up more goals, but with an important home match against Havant & Waterlooville in just two days, manager Adie Britton decided to rest key players in the second half. City were happy to sit back and soak up what feeble pressure Weston were able to mount.

Today's fixture was part of a non-league football tradition. All teams are paired up with a local rival to play on Boxing Day, followed by the return fixture six days later on New Year's Day. I'm not sure how this tradition started, but it makes sense as trains do not operate at all on Boxing Day so fans who want to follow their team on the road have no choice but to take to the road themselves. At thirty miles each way the journey to our Somerset rivals was close enough that roughly three hundred Bath City fans made the journey.

I was not one of them, unfortunately. This was due to some of the other traditions of Boxing Day- traditions that I fail to really grasp the importance of.

In America the 26th of December is known as 'the day after Christmas.' It is a day for sitting around the house with your family, eating leftovers from the day before, and watching holiday television (especially American football). It is not an actual holiday, so some people have to work. Although most people end up doing what I've just described it couldn't really be called a tradition. It is just what normally happens, and if you have to miss out on it then it is no big deal.

In Britain the 26th of December is known as 'Boxing Day.' It is a day for sitting around the house with your family, eating leftovers from the day before, and watching holiday television (especially association football). Unlike the 'day after Christmas' it is an official public holiday (or to give it its correct title, a 'bank holiday'). Although some people have to work to keep the country running, having to work Boxing Day is seen as a real hardship. Because it falls on a Saturday this year we will all be getting a bank holiday on Monday to make up for it, in fact. As I have learned, both at home in life in the UK generally, you mess with Boxing Day at your peril.

This was the first year I had expressed any interest in going to a football match on Boxing Day. It wasn't a popular idea. I will admit that if I had gone I would have felt very awkward leaving the wife and kids at home on the day. They were expecting me to be there to eat leftovers and watch telly with them. Even though I don't understand the emotional significance of Boxing Day, I respect it.

I could not go to a football match, but I was at least able to participate in one (of sorts). About the time that Bath City were lining up against Weston-super-Mare, I was involved in some desperate goalkeeping in a nearby park with the Nedved Juniors. Like Bath City, I was more than a match for my opponents (well, they are aged five and eight). Unlike Bath City, I allowed in a lot of goals. That's not because I was letting them beat me (I do suffer from 'competitive Dad' syndrome). My sons always bring two balls with them to the park, and they have realised their best chance to get one past me is to shoot both at once. If I stop fifty percent of them I feel pretty good.

It's a strategy that Weston-super-Mare maybe should have tried. They were outclassed by Bath City from the first whistle. City had several clear cut chances in the first half hour, but it was not until Lewis Hogg's free kick at thirty-two minutes that they were able to take the lead. Gethin Jones headed the free kick to an open Darren Edwards who put the ball in the net. Seven minutes later Weston's shaky defence allowed Edwards a free run at the goal. This ended with him slotting the ball past Weston's keeper, Kevin Sawyer, who was by all accounts having a shocker. City went into the half time break with a 2-0 lead.

The second half started with City again dominating play, although no further goals were scored. City manager Adie Britton had an eye on the home match against Havant & Waterlooville in two days time, so he brought Edwards off at the hour mark so he could rest. Weston made the odd effort on goal, but the game continued to play out with City dominating but not adding to the score. It was, in the end, a comfortable win for City against a weak opponent.

City have a habit of dominating Weston-super-Mare AFC. In the past hundred plus years the two clubs have met thirty-seven times. City have won all but five of those matches (and only lost two). Since City's promotion to the Blue Square South two seasons ago the clubs have met five times. Weston have not only lost all five matches, but have yet to even score against City. If our rivalry with Weston was a boxing match, it would have been stopped long ago.

Weston is a strange club. They barely have any fans. When they came to Twerton Park last season only five of them could be bothered to drive from North Somerset to North-East Somerset to see their team play. They have also avoided relegation twice in the last three years because of other teams folding or withdrawing. Although they are struggling, unsuccessfully, to stay out of the relegation zone again this season, it is still easily possible that they will survive again as long as they avoid the bankruptcy courts. In these tough economic times, if you can stay solvent it turns out it is almost impossible to be relegated.

Weston-super-Mare AFC is a curious phenomenon. Like Boxing Day, their purpose eludes me. And yet, they still remain. Maybe I'll figure them out on New Year's Day?

The Agony, the Rain, the Worry, and a little bit of Ecstasy

There are times in the life of the average non-league fan when he wonders if he is really and truly sane. I had such a moment Saturday as I watched Bath City defeat Chelmsford City 1-0. I was standing on the Bristol End terrace at Twerton Park in pelting rain and howling wind. I was cold and wet and tired. Next to me was my seven-year-old son (known for purposes of this blog as Big Nedved Junior) who must have also been cold and wet and tired. We were watching Bath City frantically try to keep Chelmsford at bay for half an hour with only ten men. Bath City defender Matt Coupe had been given a straight red at the hour mark for a studs-up tackle. With the man advantage, the stiff wind at their backs, and a Bath City team sitting back to defend their slender one goal advantage, Chelmsford kept up near-relentless pressure on the Bath End goal. Big Nedved Junior and I stood at the Bristol End, watching our heroes struggle in the distance, desperately hoping they would break free to score in front of us. It was not possible to really follow what was happening from that far away. It was only later that I learned that a shot from Chelmsford's Danny Hockton had struck one goal post, only for the rebound to be struck against the other post by Hockton's teammate Anthony Cook. From our distance we could only see a mass of bodies throwing themselves at the ball. We stood in the rain and waited for the inevitable-seeming bad news, and counted the minutes (literally) until we could stop worrying. After half and hour we were allowed to stop worrying and go somewhere dry and warm. Basically, I had paid £10 to stand in the rain with my son and chew my nails for half an hour. I had done this because this is what I consider 'fun.'

The entire afternoon had not been taken up with rain-soaked stress, however. Big Nedved Junior and I had arrived early at the ground to take in a meal at the club bar, 'Charlie's.' After pies, sausages and chips in front of a football match on a big-screen telly, we walked down the Twerton High street. We were looking for some 'Match Attax' cards to enhance Big Nedved Junior's playground cred. We failed to find any, but we did end up in the Co-op at the same time as my son's favourite player, Gethin Jones. We both felt too shy to talk to him so we loitered around the dairy products until he had left. Although we returned to Twerton Park empty handed, we soon had something even better...

Bath City Players Cards!! Thanks to a fantastic initiative by the Supporters Club, Big Nedved Junior could now collect cards of his non-league heroes alongside the Premiership primadonnas he is increasingly besotted with. We bought two packs, each containing three cards, for 50p each. I had worried our first packs would give us doubles of Marcus Browning, but it turned out we only got one of him (in away kit). In addition to Browning we got cards for Matt Coupe, Sido Jombati, Mark Badman, Richard Evans, and Kaid Mohamed. It was a good haul, we thought. To keep them dry Big Nedved Junior stored them in a special plastic pouch he had brought expressly for this purpose.

Not long after we were settled in the Popular Side terrace I was wishing he had brought a plastic pouch big enough for us to put ourselves in. The wind was whipping around enough that it was hard to find anywhere under cover that was truly dry. Once the match kicked off that wind began to play a pretty prominent role in the play on the pitch as well.

Bath City had been fortunate to win the toss and attack the Bath End of the ground. The wind blew fiercely but erratically. Anytime the ball cleared ten feet or so off the ground it was impossible to know which direction it would take. You almost had to pity Chelmsford keeper Craig Holloway, who is not the best of kickers in good conditions, as goal kick after goal kick failed to clear the halfway line. Neither team was able to do much more than hang around and hope for a lucky break from the wind. Thankfully the strength of the wind meant that Bath City got to do most of their hanging around in the Chelmsford half.

Chelmsford did manage some frightening runs at the Bath City goal on the occasional break. It was actually a Bath City counterattack, though, that brought the goal we had all been waiting for. Stuart Douglas received a neat pass from Sido Jombati close enough to onside to keep the linesman's flag down. With two Chelmsford players at his side and Holloway charging from the goal line, I thought Douglas had left it too late. He began to fall from what looked like a side tackle. It was a mistake I had seen Douglas commit before - taking one too many touches before trying to shoot. Somehow, though, while appearing to be totally off balance, Douglas managed to chip the ball over the Chelmsford keeper. It rolled gently into the corner of the net. I screamed and jumped up and down and silently promised never to doubt Stuart Douglas again!

This all happened with fifteen minutes to go before the half. Considering how poor the conditions were, and how Bath City would be playing against the wind in the next period, it seemed likely to me that a 1-0 victory was the only likely scoreline that would be good news. Kaid Mohamed almost proved me wrong a few minutes later with an excellent, on-target strike from outside the box. Despite this, and a couple close calls in the second half, most of the rest of the match was made up of midfield tackles and pressure on the Bath City goal.

And so my son and I stood on the exposed steps of the Bristol end terrace, forlornly hoping our heroes would score a second goal and deliver us from the worry. After Matt Coupe's sending off I called out the remaining minutes as they passed. I think this only made them pass more slowly. From our far-away vantage, every Chelmsford pass appeared to cross the mouth of the goal or need clearing off the line by a Bath City defender. It was a race between the clock and bad news. Which one would come first? Eventually the referee blew his whistle. I let out a cheer that was as much a sigh of relief as a cry of victory. As we scuttled back to the warmth of the car I wondered how many new grey hairs I had gained.

By any rational viewpoint, it was a miserable day. People only endure such discomfort for love from insanity. For football fans, especially for non-league football fans, I think it is a mixture of both. Despite the cold, the rain, the tension and the broken play, it was all worth it for the joy of seeing Douglas' goal and the relief I felt upon hearing the final whistle.

Now, time to plan our next match!

City Win Again, No Sweat!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

City Jump for Joy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.