LDDLLLLLWLLWLWLWLLDWLDLLWWLLLWLLLWLL is an ancient Celtic settlement, an example of doubtful Brittonic, roughly translating as ‘The blighted citadel in the parish in the town by the sea where the sad men who should know better waste their lives in a hopeless pursuit of sporting dreams’. An alternative extended spelling adds a double ‘L’ which has the effect of emphasising the futility of the endeavour. To long-suffering Bluebirds it also represents the most demoralising apparently random combination of letters since TANSRIDATOSERIVINCENTTAN.
TWTSTW That Was The Season That Was.
So that would appear to be that. As we struggle with the near inevitability of crushing disappointment and bewilderment it might be time to ask, well, what exactly does a fan want from his/her team? What does she/he have a right to expect? We’re often told how important our role is in inspiring the team on the pitch but most of us will have felt impotent and frustrated that our apparently unrealistic demands and expectations are not met, our ambitions not shared by those bound to realise them. The rational fan (possibly the minority…) will accept its teams limitations but has every right to expect ambition and enterprise in pursuit of unlikely triumphs; to hold out the prospect of brighter days. We want to be in a position where we’re stirred by events, where everything is rising - hope, despair, ambition, fear, success and the prospect of failure followed by a swift redemption.
Neil Warnock’s regime has generally succeeded in meeting these criteria, gifting us the opportunity to see our team compete against the very best. Warnock is affectionately described as ‘old school’, someone whose expertise is in stabilising a club by deploying disciplined ‘back-to-basics’ methods combined with a tenacity that demands full commitment from all. Grateful fans, starved of success have bought into his philosophy and relished the experiences that have come our way. And yet.
The limited resources at his disposal have perhaps forced his hand, and Warnock has candidly admitted that he’s been trying in vain to turn a squad of Championship-level players into Premier League contenders, but our chances have been hampered rather than helped by his acceptance of our limitations. He’s too often displayed a wilful acquiescence, talking down our chances at press conferences, and on the pitch granting the opposition 75% possession. His conservative approach has ensured that however well we’ve been able to set up at the back - and few would deny that a solid defence is fundamental - his distrust of any natural creative urges has contributed significantly to our downfall.
There have been countless opportunities to take the game to a weak opposition but a lack of initiative has seen us drop vital points. Early draws to Newcastle at home and against 10-man Huddersfield away were surely signs that a more expansive approach against the lesser teams would pay dividends. Unfortunately the manager stubbornly held to Plan A, seemingly unwilling or unable to adapt.
The ultimate indictment of this failed approach is without doubt last week’s absolutely-must-win game against Fulham when he inexplicably threw away our last realistic hope of survival in failing to take the game to an already doomed opposition with one of the worst ever defensive records in the PL who even we managed to trounce 4-2 back in October. It’s inexcusable that only after falling behind with ten minutes left did he make the necessary changes. As the clock ticked down we recorded 8 attempts at goal out of a total of 10 for the game, but to no avail.
It’s no coincidence that the master tactician at the second level has never succeeded in keeping any of his teams in the top tier. But the blame is not his alone. The obvious deficiencies that were overcome with such tenacity and perseverance in achieving promotion were brushed aside by a complacent penurious board seemingly content to rely on the manager’s happy knack of pulling rabbits out of hats. Unfortunately this year’s rabbit has turned out to be a bit of a Flopsy.
It’s true that we’ve suffered an extraordinary amount of misfortune both on and off the pitch. A number of big decisions in vital games have gone against us and the incomparable tragedy of Emiliano Sala’s death has cast a long dark shadow. But frustratingly it’s likely that we’ll fall short by just a couple of results over the season. At one time there were up to seven teams fighting to avoid the last relegation spot and each one has been able to pull away even though you’d struggle to argue that Brighton, Southampton or Burnley are better teams. Perhaps they were just better prepared.
So, our slim survival hopes rest on maximum returns both today and in the final game of the season away at Man Utd; and that’s assuming Brighton fail to get anything from their last two fixtures against Arsenal and Man City. A long shot indeed, but one which the people at BT Sport evidently believe is capable of capturing the imagination of the public as we’re pushed back to an inconvenient tea-time kick-off.
With former England manager Roy Hodgson sitting in the away dug-out, today’s match features the most experienced gaffers in the game, with a total of 82 years’ experience in management between them. The urbane Hodgson speaks fluent Norwegian, Swedish, German and Italian and can order a Long Macchiato in French, Danish and Finnish. Sheffield’s Warnock, a bluff Yorkshireman drinks ‘is proper bloody Yorkshire brew out of bloody big mug and speaks as ‘e finds; no fan of the EU, the stalwart of the West Riding Popular Front reckons ‘we’ll be far better out of the bloody thing…to hell with the rest of the world!’ Oh dear.
It was a good open game, both sides committed. But our need was greater than theirs and whereas our tenacity was born of desperation, theirs was rooted in innate ability and a desire to entertain. Wilfred Zaha, a former City loanee who failed to perform in his eleven games at the end of our last Premier league campaign, returned today the finished article, fleet of foot, mesmerising, against a willing but compliant flat-footed back four.
The partnership upfront with a revitalised Andros Townsend and the impressive Batshuyai who mystifyingly was sent out on loan by Chelsea and showed the full range of his prodigious ability, demonstrated that Palace have the ability to be a dominant force. They were cultured, confident, self-possessed, in control of events generally and assured in front of goal. We showed plenty of grit, determination and tried desperately to impress but were hesitant when presented with opportunities, lacking the experience and sophistication to convince.
It would be churlish to be too critical of any of our players who again played to the best of their abilities, but we were found wanting. Of course we were. It was a performance that epitomised our strengths and weaknesses and ultimately served to emphasise that this squad is not able to cut it at the top level. This much we already knew.
As the early evening sun slowly sank behind the Canton stand, leaving the visiting fans bathed in dusky contentment, the rest of us huddled against the evening chill, diminished, going gently into that good night, we were left to reflect on the end another great adventure, a hugely entertaining diversion that might have been so much more - a new beginning rather a point of departure.
So that’s me done; I doubt you’ll be hearing from me again. Best to keep my incoherent fixations to myself, no more washing my mud-splattered tear-stained shorts in public. I’m already signed up for the next campaign; don’t ask me why, I don’t have the answer but in mitigation I leave you with Nick Hornby’s vindication of fandom.
‘What else can we do when we're so weak? We invest hours each day, months each year, years each lifetime in something over which we have no control; it is any wonder then, that we are reduced to creating ingenious but bizarre liturgies designed to give us the illusion that we are powerful after all, just as every other primitive community has done when faced with a deep and apparently impenetrable mystery?”. Ta ra.
