After our cathartic victory against Watford on Bank Holiday Monday, we were given a stern examination by local rivals West Brom in a hastily arranged fixture to welcome home SBA sweeper ordinaire, Britney Silvester.
All present and correct for the day's tomfoolerous shenanigans were Pete in goal, defensive types Tim, David and Britney with detachable wing-back accessories of Banjo and John McCutch, an altitudinous midfield trio of myself (Danny Mac, who else would spend a decent Sunday morning writing this crap), Joe and Lanie. Up front, Karen and debutant Hugh comprised possibly the blondest striking duo we've ever fielded. Steve arrived shortly after kick-off and didn't have to wait too long for a piece of the action as it turned out...
We started the game promisingly, spending a fair bit of time in opposing territory, despite a headwind. Possibly the most aggravating of the early chances to go begging was when I rounded their keeper, only to give him the ball straight back with a wayward attempt to find Hugh in the middle.
West Brom weren't idle at our end, either: they hit the bar with a couple of efforts and a good break up the left forced a goal line clearance from Dave, with me and Peter flat on our backs. The resulting corner was partially cleared and a further attempt to boot the ball up the pitch left Banjo on the floor, evidently in some discomfort. A cursory examination revealed that he'd become siphilitic, which I can only imagine happened in some off-the-ball incident. A more reliable match report would say that he had a thigh strain, though. Steve came on and slotted into the back threesome, Tim filled the wing-back berth.
Toward the end of the first half, we lost our shape and discipline a bit and were probably lucky not to be going in a goal down after our early pressure had come to naught. After a full and frank exchange of views at the interval, we agreed that we had to force the tempo of the game a bit more in the second half.
The best laid plans, etc. After ten minutes or so of vastly improved football, the whole situation went to shit: an inoccuous ball forward from West Brom met with a bit of a defensive mix-up and tomfoolerousness ensued. The West Brom striker gleefully scooted forward and chipped the ball over Pete for a very cool finish.
The most important thing when having conceded a goal against the run of play is to try and keep playing as you were and retain your shape and discipline. We completely failed to do this, instead hastening our way up the field in as disorderly a fashion as possible, women and children can look after themselves and Devil take the hindmost. Despite the urgency of our approach, we failed to create any chances of note. Hugh thought he had a shout for a penalty when he was tackled from behind in the box, although I thought the challenge looked ok. Most referees wouldn't have given it, and seeing as we didn't have a referee anyway, there wasn't much chance of a penalty being given.
Meanwhile, West Brom developed some promising counter attacks and passed up one glorious opprtunity to seal our doom when both the striker and the ball ended up goalside of Pete. How Pete got his leg round to hook the ball into touch, I'll never know; the forward looked a bit baffled as well.
Nonetheless, the frantic pursuit had all but exhausted us and time was ticking away. We were well within the last five minutes when a long, diagonal ball by Steve from the right-back position somehow found its way through to John McCutch. The trustly left boot swung and the ball rifled into the bottom right-hand corner of the net, giving the keeper ne'er a chance. Our bacon was saved, right at the death.
That score pretty much rounded off proceedings: the game was played pretty well in the right spirit, which is always especially difficult when there isn't a referee. Although we probably weren't ecstatic with our own performance, West Brom must be wondering how they didn't win. In any case, it's always best to take the positives from a game: our unbeaten run has now been extended for at least the next two weeeks and we're up to second in the Premiership, or would be if the bureaucrats at Lancaster Gate hadn't black-balled our application to compete for the third year running...
Which only leaves us with Shooters and Rooterstm, our ever-popular weekly award where Pete randomly singles one of the team out for praise, whilst equally randomly castigates some other poor bugger. This week's shooter is Steve "The Enforcer" Moy, who took a long lunch hour from work to come and strut his stuff for us. Meanwhile, Banjo was nominated rooter because Pete's a worthless ingrate who wants to travel on the train from now on.