One Small Leap

This Saturday, weather as always permitting, we will be playing on February the 29^th. By definition not something that happens every year.  In fact, unless my extensive research (10 mins on Google) is mistaken, the first time a Poppy has kicked a ball in anger on this date since 1992. Northwich away. It was a game that had everything. Seven goals, a dramatic turnaround, and (according to one source) a near murder.

There was no hint of the potentially fatal consequences to come when the Travel Club coach pulled up at Rockingham Road to pick up a motley bunch to join those already on board.  As a rule you could gauge the likely entertainment to be had from a quick scan of the faces staring back through the windows. Among the passengers was one Patrick Swift. We’ll return to him later.

At this distance I can’t recall the exact details but the journey north would have included all of the following:

·        a slow crawl, in those pre A14 days, through Harborough and various villages to the M6 at Lutterworth

·        lewd ribaldry from DT on the back seat, sandwiched between whichever of the Inbred Village Idiot Faction (their words, not mine) were along for the ride

·        a 3 hour pub stop at Eccleshall or maybe Knutsford. Or was it Congleton? Magical names on the M6 corridor.

Eventually the bus arrived at the Drill Field, where there was still time for a quick half. Standing by the bar I remember talking with Gareth Price, God rest him. He was sitting this one out, much to our loss. Only a few weeks before he had shown his class at Ewood Park and cemented his place in Patgod’s hall of fame.  However since Blackburn results had fallen off a cliff and Peter Morris, never one to cultivate popularity, was starting to come under pressure, particularly after we were dumped out of the Trophy (a competition we still, comically, every year were aggrieved not to win) at Marine, who at the time were managed by Kenny Dalglish’s window cleaner. Or perhaps had their windows cleaned under the management of Kenny Dalglish.  Anyway, never mind the details we weren't happy.

It proved to be a game of two halves.  The first, good.  Putting their recent wobbles behind them the boys racked up a 3-0 lead. The second, not so good. 3-0 became 3-1 then 3-2 then 3-3 then 3-4. Paddy Swift had seen enough and decided it was time, in those pre-internet days, to provide some supporter feedback in person. Being Paddy, the pitchside wall wasn’t a massive deterrent.  A year or so earlier at Stafford, their keeper had at one point faced the double challenge of us breaking upfield, and Paddy staggering into the box offering to shake his hand. So he had a bit of previous. As we watched on, Paddy approached the dugout and there was some kind of an exchange of views before he was led away. 

Despite the state of the game it seemed quite funny, but we didn’t realise the gravity of the situation. Monday’s ET was headlined, ‘If he had a knife, I could have been dead’. Just to be clear, this wasn’t Paddy describing his encounter with Peter Morris. PM obviously wasn’t amused and you can understand why. But really, would anyone trust Paddy with sharp objects?

It did at least give us something else to talk about on the journey home. Obviously including a 2 hour pub stop to take on fresh water and boost the takings of another Midlands hostelry. The general mood was gloomy about a team on the slide. However, just a short while later a saviour rode into town, called Mark English. We could rejoice.  Our troubles were over!         

   

PM scans the horizon for danger