Earlier this week I was facing the daunting prospect of root canal treatment. I approached this game with similar enthusiasm.
After last week’s 3-5 south coast implosion today’s hosts promoted alongside Bournemouth last season and spearheading the unfathomable challenge of the unfashionable and the unfancied in this season’s Championship, were always likely to prove a challenge and give succour to the City sceptics. And so it proved.
The line up gave reasonable grounds for optimism with Manga restored in central defence, Fabio at left back and Kadeem Harris making a much anticipated home debut. We exerted some early pressure, forcing two corners but it was immediately apparent that a young and fleet-footed opposition were going to cause problems for our flat-footed back-tracking midfield as they broke at pace.
The teams seemed reasonably evenly matched during the opening exchanges but after 10 minutes the City back four failed to close down the lively Pritchard, on loan from Spurs, as the ball fell to him on the edge of the box. His low strike gave Marshall no chance. 0-1.
Spurred on by a surprisingly well-stocked and impressively vocal away section, the Bees continued to take the game to a wooden unimaginative home team and it was no surprise when they doubled their lead 10 minutes later as Turner was caught out of position and beaten for pace by the free scoring Andre Gray who latched onto a through ball from Pritchard to cleverly chip the advancing Marshall. 0-2. We should have pulled one back immediately but Le Fondre continued to excel at what he does best by spurning an excellent opportunity from inside the 6 yard box.
Brentford were now swarming all over the home team, the Bluebirds taking flight as the Bees continued to pollenate their fans’ Premier League ambition. It was no surprise when they stung us with a match-defining third after 30 minutes. Spanish winger Jota took the ball in space on the edge of the box, cut back inside and sent a perfectly executed curler out of Marshall’s reach into the top corner. I didn’t know whether to applaud or sob. John, the laconic Scot who sits beside me rose from his seat and announced ‘I’m off for a pint’. At half time Matt, a septuagenerian and a City fan from the age of nine, left for home.
It seemed reasonable to judge Slade on his ability to make personnel changes at half time to counter the threat from the opposition’s 4-3-3 ascendancy. Perhaps bring on Adeyemi to provide some pace in midfield or Jones upfront to replace the failing Le Fondre or the meagre Macheda. Or give them both the order of the hook and push up Whittingham in the hole behind a lone striker. Anything to give the fans a reason to believe. In the event, and all too predictably, the same players trotted out to take their place in an unimaginative, flaccid Four. Four. Two.
The second 45 wasn’t quite the dispiriting morale sapper we had every right to expect. In fact we fought back well and might even have rescued a point. But an unmerited draw would achieved little more than papering over some significant cracks. More like chasms actually. We fielded the wrong team, playing in the wrong colour, selected by the wrong man, appointed by the wrong owner.
To my great relief my dentist decided that there were still signs of life in my manky molar and thought it might be saved, offering the possibility that it might even regenerate and thrive. As we slide into mid-table mediocrity the prognosis for Slade, Tan and the risible red is much less certain.
No comments:
Post a Comment