Timeline: 16.50 hours,
Saturday 3rd May 2014
Scoreline: NEWCASTLE 3 V 0 CCFC
High above the Tenby North Beach I sit on the coffee house veranda absent-mindedly
staring into my lukewarm melancholic cappacino, half-heartedly listening to the
portentous syncopated crackling radio commentary, daring it to damn all hope
and let the teary indulgence begin, readying an impotent rage at the shabby
injustice of this oh so cruel denouement. Our Season In the Sun is over. Did we
have joy? Did we have fun? Did we hell.
Before the season began, back when
we could all afford to be generous, fans were able to reign in any fanciful
notion that we might be a force in the Premier league and realistically limit
their ambitions to survival, comforted by the knowledge that if it all went
wrong 'at least we'll have had one season'. After a lifetime surviving on
meagre rations we would willingly make do with these crumbs of comfort.
It's not the fact of failure that
hurts so much but the manner in which it was achieved. And the frustration of
knowing that it could and should have been so very different.
A campaign that began with frayed
nerves, high excitement but low expectations had by the end of September and creditable
home performances against Man City, Everton and Spurs plus a first away victory
against Fulham, been elevated into one laced with genuine hope.
There was every reason to believe
that we had the squad, the tactics and the right man at the helm to guide us
through the troubled waters to come. We were not to know of the seismic shift taking
place under the surface as Asian and Celtic tectonic plates were moving away
from each other, forming a deep rift from which a tsunami would emerge,
creating the perfect storm to drown our hopes and dreams.
For the protagonists there seems
to have been a resolution of sorts based on cloak and dagger compromises and face-saving;
for the muted fans, cheated and defeated there is only loss and resignation.
In the book 'I Am the Secret
Footballer' the writer (Danny Murphy? Dave Kitson? Kevin Davies? - there are
whole websites dedicated to outing him) writes about offending the chairman of
his club by introducing him as the owner. 'I
am not the owner; I am the custodian' he says, later explaining 'The football club belongs to the people of
the town. I am simply looking after it in the best way I can and hope to hand
it over to the next custodian in much better shape than when it was handed over
to me'. Read that again and weep.
Of course it may be as
disingenuous as Barclays #youarefootball campaign
(yes we are, and we don't need a
bunch of complete bankers to tell us. Patronising gits) but, if only our
'custodian' might even hint at such a sensibility - quiet, understated, humble,
perceptive, intuitive, self-aware Vincent Tan is certainly not.
And this goes to the root of the
problem - a fundamental clash of cultures, of values. We've got your number Mr
Tan; we know what motivates you, we don't resent your personal success and
great wealth and are happy that you're prepared to share it with us in a common
purpose. But a business model designed for a burger franchise, gambling or
property investment isn't fit for our purpose here. A football club is a
partnership between its temporary custodian, transient staff and the one
constant, its fans. We're entrusting you with our club. You need our consent to
make a success of it.
I've heard myself say in recent
days that Malky would have kept us up. Really? We know that he was capable of setting
up his team to do a job against the better teams. Unfortunately we reserved our
worst performances against less fancied opposition - the Sunderland late show
and the West Ham no-show were particularly damaging - but we had a solid base
to work from; a group of players who knew what was being asked of them and were
generally capable of putting it into practice.
Ole never stood a chance. As Spring
approached we were playing pre-season football. Team selection was
inconsistent, substitutions were counter-intuitive and we were tactically
naive. The basics of a solid back four and a holding midfield were discarded in
the flawed belief that playing 'positive, attractive' football would save us.
Out of his depth, Ole looked like the promising kid at school pushed by a
well-meaning teacher against his better judgement to take his GCSE's a year
early. His time may come. It's not now.
And so to the players in all
their maddening inconsistency. If I don't mention them by name it's because
they didn't get a game or were anonymous when they did.
Number One in every sense,
Scotland's finest keeper, statistically the busiest, our Player of the Season
and the only reason we were still in with a shout in the final months, take a
bow David Marshall. We don't deserve him. We won't keep him.
There were others who looked
comfortable at this level to begin with but whose influence faded under the
cloud of tactical confusion in the latter stages. 'El Pitbull' Gary Medal and
his pedigree chum Steven Caulker were two Malky masterstrokes whose form dipped
to the level of those around them. Their bright futures lie elsewhere.
Up front Frazer Campbell, whose
tireless but mostly unproductive running will always be appreciated will prosper
in the role as foil to a 20 goal a season centre forward. Unfortunately we
didn't have one of those (Cornelius? Jones? Dear God!) and Frazer wasn't able
to carry the burden.
There were others who showed
glimpses - Craig Noone began as a fringe player but grabbed his chance when it
came and we looked a far more potent force when he was on the pitch. If we can
keep him he'll be a vital part of the new campaign. Daehli is the probably the
most naturally gifted player in the squad with a low centre of gravity and
quick feet reminiscent of Lionel Messi. Unfortunately the necessary sideways
passing and the headless chicken impressions as he searched for a colleague on
the same wavelength served to disabuse us of any Camp Nou conceit. Mutch
strolled around with a nonchalant detached air but fluffed his lines in front
of goal too often and Zaha tried too hard to impress.
At the back Fabio arrived clearly
some way short of match fitness but adapted well after a less than convincing
start. His natural Brazilian urge to get forward means that he can't play in
the same team as Declan John or Cala who display similar impulses that need to
be reined in. None of these have the temperament or the discipline required to
form a cohesive impenetrable defence and if you add Theophile-Catherine,
Turner, Taylor and McNaughton to the mix there is no conceivable combination
that would see Tony Pulis nodding sagely.
And that leaves the fans. Well
where does that leave the fans?
Disappointed at the turn of events on the field and totally disillusioned by
affairs off it. Are we culpable in any way? I can't see how. The sight and sound
of a full CCS was outstanding and finally laid to rest the notion that the
patch of prime real estate across Sloper Road was still our spiritual home.
From a fan's perspective the
season can be divided into two halves with their own distinctive colours. When
the season began the dominant colour was a blushing shamefaced reluctant red;
post Malky the crowd turned as blue as the core of a match flame. The raising
aloft of the scarves at 19.27 minutes gladdened the heart and tingled the spine.
Proud and defiant, we were magnificent. The point was made; the point was lost.
What price dignity and self respect Mr Tan?
So what's next? As a wise man once
declared 'The only thing we know about
the future is that it will be different'. So embrace it. With your picks
and shovels make sure you'll be there.
