Connor Turns Terminator

After a dramatic, tension filled night at Latimer Park it’s certainly nice – and a great relief – to reflect on a performance that restored belief. Not to mention setting up an epic finale (we hope).

If there were home nerves before the game it was certainly understandable, as apart from one good win at Stourbridge we hadn’t really looked the part since Christmas. With nearly all the talent that took us to the heights still with the club it has been difficult to fathom the collective drop off. Discontent over wage demands?  Too much squad rotation?  New signings parachuted in?  Lavs and his touchline meltdowns?  The pizza van going missing for several crucial fixtures?  It all felt very ominous.  Many feared we were sitting ducks to be turned over by a brash and confident Harborough side.

But on the other hand, it was worth remembering that this was bloody Harborough Town, not PSG.  Yes they had a Brazilian, but a novelty version mostly there for media clicks. Over the course of the season they, like us, weren’t good enough to win automatic promotion. Liam Dolman wasn’t getting any younger, or less bulbous. And their fans, bless them, with their packet-fresh yellow scarves, were so new to all this they’d even made a sweet little banner that they tried to ripple overhead before folding it up and popping it in a nice quilted bag.

 Less tifo, more tea towel

Over the next two hours we saw a Kettering side seemingly revitalised, sweeping the ball to the wings, piling on the pressure and getting closer and closer without ever finding that killer finish. With just a normal conversion rate we’d have settled it long before the end, but thankfully our back five were also up to anything Harborough had to offer... with the odd scare. Lewis White’s phenomenal tackle close to the end literally kept our season alive.

And so to penalties. For us, the last thing we wanted. For Harborough, mission accomplished, judging by their efforts to eat up the clock and the hugs at the final whistle.

After 10 minutes to manage the fiendishly complicated business of two coin tosses, we were under way. Prayers were silently offered. Pints nervously sipped. Certain defeat was already being rationalised, to prepare for the blow. For those unable to bring themselves to watch, it went a little like this:

SAAAAVED

AAAAGH

SHIT!

NOOOO

DOUBLE SHIT

THANK GOD

YES!!!

YES!!!!!!

BOLLOCKS

COME ON!!!

YES BLOODY YES

NOOOOOOOOO

BAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR

BAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR

Connor, what can you say.  It is of course inevitable that any home grown defender who carries on with a bloodstained head bandage is likened to Terry Butcher. But not only is Connor Johnson, despite his Kettering genes, far better looking than Terry Butcher, he topped anything Butcher ever managed by slamming home the winning pen with absolutely no hesitation.  In the process becoming both a genuine Poppies legend and an automatic pick for our 175^th anniversary game.

And now it’s time to rest, refocus, stitch up head wounds, find some spare parts for Wes, oil those tonsils and get ready to finish the job. 

Beat that Butcher