'Anybody who watches three games of football in a row should be
declared brain dead.'
Erma Bombeck
And so to the second part of the
Promotion Home Run Trilogy. Part one concluded unexpectedly with a sting in the
tale to match anything that Cardiff's own Roald Dahl could offer.
Today is our
chance to prove that we haven't lost the plot.
Looked at objectively (admittedly
an alien concept to any genuine fan) our exploits over the last few seasons
have provided enough drama to hold the attention of the casual viewer and there
are probably many followers of the game who would like to see a heart-warming
life-affirming cosy conclusion to our exploits.
But 'Cardiff City - The
Championship Years' is no schmaltzy sentimental soap opera. A hard-nosed
world-weary number-crunching cynic investigating our plight would look at the
bottom line and throw his hands up in horror.
Promotion to the Premier League
WILL provide a lifeline and should secure our future. But recent revelations
underline that promotion in not an aspiration. It's essential for our very
survival.
The Bottom Line.
(Or 5 Reasons Why Failure Is Not
An Option)
·
Cardiff City Football Club (Holdings) Ltd owes
creditors £83m, of which £52m is due to be repaid in the next 12 months.
·
£37.5m of the total debt is owed to Vincent Tan
who will turn this debt into shares if promotion is achieved.
·
The Langston debt has now risen to £19m and must
be repaid by 2016. (Before The Devil's Eyebrows were clipped he ensured that he
retained control over the naming rights to the stadium so that's another
potential £5m for the money-grabbing psychopath. Kerching!)
·
In the last financial year despite record
revenues the club made a loss of £13.5m. City accountant and Cardiff fan Keith
Morgan has concluded that this 'clearly shows that the club cannot operate at a
profit at Championship level'.
·
But more importantly, the unedifying sight of
grown men crying must be avoided.
Taking a positive view, when
promotion is confirmed all our money worries will soon be a distant memory. In
2011 Delloittes estimated that the prize was worth something in excess of £90m.
And that was before the new Premier League broadcasting rights were negotiated.
This will net us a share of £5.5 billion.
The deal with America's NBC will
allow more than 80 million homes in the U.S. the opportunity to panic over the
sight of 27,000 footie fundamentalists whacking themselves over the head in a
display of devotion to a mysterious Welsh Shi'ite cleric.
The greatest growth in popularity
however is in Asia and the Indian subcontinent. In China alone, 21 different TV
stations will be broadcasting our games via Super Sports. In Malaysia the U
Television Company is the second biggest pay TV station with 40 separate
channels. It is owned by a certain Tan Sri Dato Seri Vincent Tan Chee Yioun. And
Mr Tan's Premier Ship is coming in. Nothing less will do. We get promoted and
he gets a huge return on his investment; we fail and Year Zero looms.
So what's our role in this? How
do we influence events when essentially we're still the small boys in the park,
putting our jumpers down for goalposts, enjoying the moment for only as long as
it takes the authority figure to call us in for tea or one of the big boys
takes our ball away?
A footie philosopher recently
wrote: 'What is really hard for us to accept is that we are reduced to the role
of a passive observer who sits and watches what our fate will be...we engage in
frantic, obsessive activities just so we can be sure that we are doing
something. We make our individual contribution by shouting and jumping from our
seat, in the belief that this will somehow influence the game's outcome.'
In the words of our very own Ali
Yassine, PA Announcer and Philosopher, all we can do is 'Support the boys and. Make. Some. Nooooooooisssse!
The nooooooooooisse to day was
made by a stadium full to the rafters. Quite literally. And I don't mean 'quite
literally' in the Jamie Redknapp sense of 'He's quite literally left Ben Haim
for dead there'. The stadium was full. A record crowd for a special day.
The team lined up with one
change, Helguson coming in for Mason. It was a bright start against a very well
organised, physical Forest side who began with a swagger borne of a run of 10
games undefeated since reappointing manager Billy Davies. The football flowed,
the ball moving around between the wings, each patient build-up bringing with
it the promise of a breakthrough.
The late season blossoming of the
Kim - Mutch partnership continued with the South Korean confirming with each
passing game that his skills, work ethic and goal threat are destined for a
bigger stage. When he signed for us his stated aim was to be known as the best
Asian player in the Premier League. In the last few weeks that ambition has
seemed less fanciful.
After 25 minutes of being
contorted in all directions by the midfield maestro, the veteran Halford in the
Forest defence finally snapped, hacking Kim to the ground and earning himself a
booking. The resulting Bellamy free kick was angled across a panicked back four
who allowed Helguson the freedom to pop up and head in the opening goal. 1-0.
A frantic goalmouth scramble at
our end in which both Marshall and Barnett put their bodies on the line to keep
Forest out, resulted in claim and counter claim of blatant jiggery-pokery in
the box, leading to extended 'afters' between the players.
The mood was getting nasty and
within a minute former Millwall favourite Darius Henderson, clearly miffed at
missing out on the chance to cuff a few Latics at Wembley, took Helguson out
with an elbow. Silly boy. Cheerio.
A surprising half-time
substitution saw Gestede replacing Helguson. Malky the master tactician clearly
felt that the Forest defence was vulnerable to the high ball. Within a minute
Rudy was unsettling the visitors. Unfortunately the unlucky Halford stooped to enquire
of his right boot and the answer hit him right between the eyes. Silly boy. Off you go.
On the hour after one single
spurt by Kim had brought two bookings, Bellamy's 25 yard free kick hit the post
and rebounded out to Taylor whose cross was met by a powerful Gestede header
giving the keeper no chance. 2-0.
News was filtering through that
the only potential party-poopers Watford were now trailing 0-3 at Peterboro.
Any tension in the ground was giving way to relief which rapidly rose to
rapture as rampant Rudy rounded off the rout. 3-0. A tear fell.
From this point on we completely
controlled the game against a wholly dispirited and increasingly fractious
forest. All we had to do was sit back and marvel all misty-eyed. And ponder the
bright future that will be ours.
At a moment like this, pregnant
with pathos and poignancy, the words of a mere mortal, a humble and flawed fan
will never do justice to the occasion. So I turn again to the Good Book. Only
the blessed Hornby (may praise be upon him) can truly contextualise the moment:
“...So please, be tolerant of those who describe a sporting moment as
their best ever. We do not lack imagination, nor have we had sad and barren
lives; it is just that real life is paler, duller, and contains less potential
for unexpected delirium.”
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