Black-hole-ball

Black holes. Collapsed stars, defined by their gravitational prowess, these intergalactic spacetime hoovers are, like the Rapids at Waterworld, Festival Park, Hanley, unfathomably powerful and capable of dragging anything and everything into their deep dark unknowns. Resistance is futile, even for a composition of particles that goes by the name of James McClean. They emit no light, reflect no light and every type of particle that enters is torn apart, never to be seen again. For scientists around the world, they ask, How can this be? How can it be that information goes in, but no information, no-nothing — not even dirty old socks or farts — comes out? Befuddling. It’s reminiscent of the paradox that kept space enthusiast Nathen Jones up at night, biting his nails when trying to reconcile Stoke’s xG with its league position, ‘We’re bottom of the league, but really we are a top 6 side’. Hmmmm. Thankfully, for us, though, space explorer Micheal O’Neill intervened and pulled us clear of a League One black hole.

Meanwhile, back on planet earth, Covid-19 was proving to be the people’s black hole and all New Year’s day did was signal the start of our first ever bitter Covid-winter. On your masks, wash your hands, isolate. For the next three to four months, its gravitational pull strengthened and its death grip intensified. It sucked the life out of many and left others with a lost sense of smell, taste and life, as well as a baffling notion of time. Calendars merely provided the data output, confirming the days were actually real and that we weren’t re-living the same day every fucking day. Looking back, unsurprisingly, those months largely remain a blank. Perhaps time without memories, last minute winners and nut-megs is no time at all. Black hole time. Compounding this were people’s living conditions. Not only were people confined to their quarters, but many found themselves living in close proximity with people, whom they are generally either trying to escape from or fantasizing about murdering; yes, their families. My family, luckily, was spared my madness, because I had signed up for a different kind of sentence.

Casually known as a teacher training course, it also goes by the rather elaborate and pompous title, Post Graduate Certificate in Education combined with Qualified Teacher Status. On the UK Government’s website the marketing slogan says, Every lesson shapes a life. Cute. Four months in and I would say a more accurate slogan would be, Every lesson shapes a nervous breakdown, or Every lesson requires three hours of bureaucratic rigor. Death by filling out forms. Anyway, from writing lesson plans in line with the approved bureaucratic teaching marmalade-standards to constructing power-points on Macbeth’s madness, I shared my own to the backdrop of Joe Rogan & Louis Theroux podcasts as well as the welcoming darkness in the morning and happy go lucky darkness in the afternoon. Sunshine vibes. Still, at least I got my dose of footballing pleasure and pain, even if it was in-front of a screen. Sure, it wasn’t the raucous tub thumping fan fused football we all live for, but it was better than no football at all; which, incidentally, doesn’t even bare thinking about. If I do, then I’m immediately thinking about the potential number of bodies buried underneath garden patios.

You see, football, unlike a power-point, vegan-diet, teacher-meeting, or family dinner, provides many with meaning and grounding in their lives. Understandably, that may sound completely ridiculous and ludicrous, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Likewise, Donald Trump’s hair may well be ludicrous, but, again, it doesn’t make it any less true. Like it or not, football is what many folks build their routines, friendships and daily conversations around. Sure, it may not be everything, but for some it’s pretty close; and, we know this, because that’s what the first lockdown showed us. During March, April & May, we quickly discovered what we had lost; namely, getting together with pals to rejoice in our shared hatred of Boris Johnson, as well as telling dick jokes, getting shit-faced, moaning about the manager’s substitutions, vilifying our own players, taunting the opposition and telling referees to fuck off. During winter, it was no different; arguably worse given the extra cold and hours of darkness. Personally, stuck in student accommodation, teaching online to blank screens, football on a screen became more a relief than an escape. Black-hole-teaching. So here’s a quick thank you to the players, management and staff who hung on in there in their bubbles to see it through to the end of the season. Thank you. Oh, and while I’m on the subject of teaching, I’d just like to take a moment to salute all those teachers out there who fulfill a social role, which is both embarrassingly misunderstood and shamefully undervalued. It seems, unfortunately, the only stories about teachers, which are deemed newsworthy, are the ones where we have either been stabbed or exposed as a pedophile. If only we were held in similar esteem as the nurses and doctors of the NHS, eh… anyway, back to the football, and back to a bunch of twats no one in the league likes, Bournemouth. Sadly, though, the general pattern throughout this game would be one that we’d become quite familiar with throughout the season. Good at dominating the ball, but not so good at converting our chances; and like a generous host, we played our part in Bournemouth’s winning goal. Starting from the keeper, we moved the ball rather well, until the move broke down. The next thing we knew, the ball had been pinged over the top — our defense caught twiddling its thumbs — Bursik hesitated and Stanislas finished. That was one nil and that was the game. Meh.

Still, next up was the FA Cup, 3rd Round. The moment when the big boys enter the tournament, cup upsets are on the cards and there is a chance to be first on Match of The Day. To get the party started, I decided to rustle up a big fat fucking fry up set to a classic English football formation; Four Four Fucking Two: four sausages, four fucking stripes of bacon and two eggs, along with seven fried mushrooms to come off the bench and a full audience of baked beans. The tactics were simple; get the diabetic wide, get it in the mixer and look for the big man with the HP Sauce. Bing-Bang-Bosh. Back of the net. Brown-Rock’n-roll. Our guests for the day were Leicester City. A team that my good friend, Rob, looks at and repeatedly says to me with anger and gusto, ‘They’re no different to us and look where they are and where we are. Wank.’ I don’t disagree. Moreover, there were a few other narratives floating around this game. The obvious one was that both managers were representing Northern Ireland. Norn Iron Derby. The cheekier one, which I obviously preferred, was that it was the return of the man who had led Liverpool to that six goal tonking on Stevie Gerrard’s final day as a red, Brendan Rodgers. Going in at half time five nil up, Ryan Shawcross reminisced, ‘We all looked at one another and just burst out laughing!’ Safe to say, he wasn’t the only one laughing that day. Ha! Sadly, however, for today’s game there were no laughs; although, I’m sure Rodgers enjoyed a good chuckle. Who knows if that final-day drubbing scarred Rodgers, leading to some kind of life long vendetta against Stoke, but judging from this game, it may well have done. You see, Leicester didn’t just beat us, they tortured us, or in polite terms, gave us a footballing lesson. In the second half they made us run, chase and squirm. They toyed with us, exhausted us and made us wilt. Mean, like the sadistic PE teacher who makes you do cross country in your school shoes and Y fronts, because… well, just because they can. Anyway, out the FA Cup we went and on Leicester went, incidentally, to lift the trophy. Deserved winners.

Oh, wait, yes, it was also that time of the year again. The time when football agents and media platforms gets moist in their loins. Yes, the transfer window was now open. They say January is a notoriously bad time to trade; unless, of course, you are Stoke, when recently any time has been a bad time. Isn’t that right, Gary and Nathen? Oh, how their so-called transfer wizardry still haunts us like a criminal record, but like any trauma I think it’s best to talk about it and given the black hole lockdown, now is a good a time as any to re-imagine what happened; to reconstruct the disaster, a little like air crash investigation. Football-Transfer-Crash-Investigation. Our first episode focuses on Gary Rowett. A young manager who had built a solid reputation working with limited budgets. Nevertheless, what we didn’t know at the time, but we do now after our investigation, was that before going to bed, Gary would cut out pictures of footballers from Match magazine and glue them into his prized dreamboat-footballer sticker book. Every day he’d gloss over these players and dream of signing them — if only he had the money. Then one day, as if the footballing Gods had been listening in on Gary’s horny prayers, he got a call from Stoke City to offer him the manager’s job. Immediately, his eyes widened and his palms became sweaty, as he realized he would now have the budget to make his fantasy football wet dream come true. The following day, striding into work like an excited kid who’s just completed his Panini-sticker album, he handed over his wet-wank picture book of players to the recruitment team and told them to buy all the players he’d drawn hearts around. Sadly, for us, though, rather than waking up to a Gary wet dream, we woke up to find out that not only had Gary wet himself, but, he’d also shat the bed — our bed. Thanks Gary. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, wait until you see next week’s episode of Football-Transfer-Crash-Investigation, starring Nathen Jones.

It probably comes as no surprise to learn that Nathen does transfer windows like he’s on supermarket sweep. Unsure of what he actually needs, he just barrels around with his shopping trolley knocking over the biscuit-tin displays, grabbing whatever off the shelves — without ever reading the labels properly. It’s only when he’s back home emptying his shopping bags that he realizes, instead of the fruit and vegetables he was supposed to have brought, all he has are just two bags full of Haribo, Monster Munch & Dairylea cheese triangles. Diabetic transfer strategy. Consequently, thanks to Gary and Nathen, our debit card had been maxed out, and given our public announcement that we would be working in line with Financial Fair Play, we had to walk on past the glossy section, past the second hand shop, through the car boot sale, past the pound shop and wonder into the loan market. Available for rent were wingers, Rabbi Matondo & Jack Clarke and left back/wing-back, Norrington-Davies. All young, cheap and ready to run. Still, while passing through the supermarket, O’Neill did lighten the load by dumping Liam Lindsey, Tom Ince, Lee Gregory in the recycling bin, for Preston, Luton and Derby to pick up, respectively.

Now, while we’re in non-fiction story-telling mode, here’s another one. We’re often told goals decide games, but what we’re not always told is how the final scoreline isn’t the most reliable story-teller. We’ve all heard the one about how a nil-nil can just be as thrilling as a high scoring game, or how a one-nil should have been four or five-nil. It explains why other metrics like corners, possession, shots on target, off target etc… are used, along with everyone’s favorite today, xG. Obviously, with more data points, it’s supposed to help people understand better what is happening in the game, not to mention how that data may be used to project forward. Prophecy ball. This type of data is named the underlying numbers. The theory goes, it tells the story of a football game better than the final scoreline. It also begs the question, who needs poetry & prose to appreciate football now you have lines of data points? Literature-schmriterature. However, for all the data love-in, it still struggles with some of the more nuanced aspects of the game, like how does data measure James McClean taking a thunderous shot right in the chops on the goal-line to keep the score 1–1 against Huddersfield when we’re battling with only 10 men? Or when James Chester makes himself useful against Blackburn by getting himself sent off by taking out their striker when through on goal? Where’s the data set/column for that? Tricky. Sure, data may be all the rage and it has its place, but it is no substitute for the trained eye, which brings me to Rotherham v Stoke.

The final score was 3–3. Read the scoreline while slurping through your morning Coco Pops and you may believe it had been a football feast; a buffet of footballing wonder, skill and imagination. But as experience also teaches us, some games are better imagined than seen, and this was one of them. First things first, though, credit to Rotherham for how they pressed and worked, as well as their commentary team, who were tremendously amusing and chirpy throughout the game. As for ourselves, we struggled to play through their press and cope with the physicality of the second ball game — and not for the first or last time. Nevertheless, the game actually started well for us, after we took the lead when Powell released Norrington-Davies to hit a cross which took a deflection, looped over the keeper and ended up in the back of the net. Fortuitous. The next goal, though, was from a different dimension; namely, the one you enter by bashing your head against a brick wall. Playing out from the back, Danny Batth got pressed by the opposition. Receiving the ball on his weaker (left) foot, rather than turning away from the press, he turned straight into it. Dispossessed, the ball was crossed for Crooks to level. One-one and notably neither goal had been the product of football’s higher order thinking. Into the second half and Rotherham took the lead from a corner. Pinged to the edge of the box to be given the Paul Scholes treatment, it got given the Jamie Carragher waft. Laughably sliced, the ball gently floated like a frisbee into our six yard box. Nothing to worry about, you may think. Wrong. Rotherham’s Ihiekwe got his body into position and used his strength to hold off Obi Mikel to get first contact on the ball. Bouncing the ball off his head, sadly, neither Batth nor Bursik could react quick enough or get to the ball before Rotherham’s Smith took advantage and headed in. 2–1. Pathetic. Nevertheless, however frustrating Danny Batth may be, he has those prized redemptive qualities. While often responsible for his team hitting the canvas, he is often the one responsible for picking his team back up off it. After good work by Powell, Batth got us level from a header at the back post. 2–2. Or, if we are to calculate in a more accurate way, United Football by Missteps and Mistakes 4 FC Football by Ingenuity and Craft 0. And now for some stand up football-comedy. Rotherham won a free kick in their own half. Obviously, this was only going one way. Up. Launched towards our box like an up and under, it came down on the edge of our box and caused pandemonium. Firecracker football. Heads went up, feet went swinging and limbs jostled. Unable to get proper contact on the ball, it was Rotherham’s Crooks who seized on a half chance and twated the bouncing ball in off the underside of the bar. 3–2. Bloody-hell-fire. O’Neill turned to his bench and summoned Mr. McClean, who, thankfully, delivered immediately. Popping up on the right, he swung in a cross coated in honey and sugar. Mr. Powell got on his segway to get in front of the defenders and glanced the ball off the side of his candy floss head and into the far corner of the net. Sweet. Not for the first or last time, Powell was our man of the moment, delivering a finish to match, arguably, the only quality passage of football in the game. Final score, United Football by Missteps and Mistakes 5 FC Football by Ingenuity and Craft 1.

Now, everyone knows the games in the Championship come thick and fast and generally we were losing them thick and fast, as we learned thick and fast what happens when you lose key players and don’t have like for like replacements. The lack of squad depth was obvious and sadly the calibre of player coming into the team didn’t match what was going out. Sure, the loan signings were meant to respond to that, but for all of Norrintgon-Davies’ energy, Jack Clarke’s trickery, as well as Jacob Brown’s work-rate and Fletcher’s efforts at leading the line, neither carried Tyrese’s goal threat. Without Campbell we were a 99 Flake without the Cadbury’s chocolate. Plain. Consequently, our performances fell into a repetitive pattern. The retelling of a story we already knew; a steady team without much goal threat. The goalless draw at home against Reading reinforced this. Groundhog Stoke. And talking of things we already knew, leading to expected outcomes, enter Watford’s Ismaïla Sarr. The man with the quality to make the difference between two evenly matched teams. Something else we also knew was that Norwich were too good for everyone else in the league. For their first goal, the ball was effectively moonwalked all the way from their defense to the back of our net. And even though we did equalize, everyone knew they were likely to recover the lead, because in their team they had Emi Buendia and Teemu Pukki. And they did. Final score, 4–1. Still, one shiny new positive thing we were learning was that Harry Souttar was quite the player. A glorious, gangly gracious leaning tower of Pisa with twinkle toes. Delicious.

Then came the big news. It was announced that Captain Stoke City, Ryan Shawcross would be moving across the pond to help out Phil Neville at David Beckham’s new pink franchise football club, Inter Miami. For both Ryan and Stoke it was the end of an era and the end to quite the emotional ride. Fourteen years and 453 games played, he demonstrated himself to be a brilliant leader, player and role model for the club. Tony Pulis would often talk about building football clubs around players and Tony certainly chose well when he signed Ryan. Looking back, one wonders how it may have gone for both Ryan and Stoke if Tony Pulis hadn’t sweet talked Ryan into ditching Norwich and signing for us, initially, on loan. It was a classic sliding door moment. For the fatalists, they would perhaps say it was meant to be. Destiny. On the day his departure was announced, Pulis fondly reflected, describing him as a ‘big awkward giraffe’ when he first walked into the club. Awww. With time he would soon develop into quite the formidable giraffe, forming memorable partnerships with Leon Cort, Abdoulaye Faye, Robert Huth, Philipp Wollscheid and, to a lesser extent, Bruno Martins Indi. Each and every partnership came with its own personalized calling card, but the partnership with Robert Huth was perhaps the most memorable as it represented the pinnacle of Pulisball. The Bruise Brothers. My favorite, though, was when he lined up alongside Philipp Wollscheid, as it represented Mark Hughes’ decision to transition to a more possession based game. A move that would show Ryan had much more to his game than just thumping the ball — and sometimes the player — into the stands.

Notable Youtube highlights include his scampering goal line clearance against Man City, getting on the end of Rory Delap’s throw-ins, his battles with Diego Costa and then, of course, there was Arsenal. The Gooners’ Boogieman. It was always a pleasure to see Arsenal limp back to the capital with their curated hair cuts ruffled to the tune of the whining whinging moaning drain, Arsene Wenger. Personally, watching him week in week out, I loved seeing him come out on top in his one-on-one situations. Thall shall not pass. Gandalfcross. Then, of course, there was the promotion season, leading us out at Wembley to that incredible 5–0 victory over Bolton and then of course the FA Cup Final. Despite the defeat it took Ryan and the team on another journey, into Europe and into the knock out stages. There was also an England cap (there should have been many more), which sadly happened at the same time Zlatan Ibrahimovic was being Zlatan. Karate-chop-volley. Of course, many will associate Ryan with the trauma of Ramsey’s leg break, but accidents do happen. Lastly, the saddest part about Ryan leaving was, due to Covid, we weren’t able to say a proper goodbye, but, then again, Ryan has been such a huge part of the club, it was never going to be a final goodbye. For me, it was until we meet again. And talking of those who we would inevitably meet again; hello there, Nathen Jones.

My favorite part about this game was our third goal and it wasn’t because it sealed a comfortable three one home win. It brought joy to my heart because it was reminiscent of the calamities we had experienced under Jones, but, of course, this time around it wasn’t happening to us. Instead, it was happening to him. The left back, midfielder and defender all bamboozled one another with some gormless attempt to play out from the back, allowing Clucas to pick up the loose ball and have a clear run in on goal. He politely and unselfishly squared it for Fletcher to tap in for his well deserved goal. How nice it was to witness, but not have to suffer the indignity of it all. More importantly, though, it set us up nicely with back to back away days, which provided a chance to see if we were capable of a late charge for a play-off place.

On the night, we decided to play Barnsley at their own game, and lost. It was not for lack of effort, just lack of physicality and intensity in the second ball game. Again something we have tended to struggle with. So, with February coming to a close, you felt Stoke’s play off hopes come to a close, too. Defeat to Brentford felt awfully familiar to Barnsley and Rotherham. After taking advantage of a defensive mistake in the first minute of the game, we struggled with their direct game in the second half, and lost. Compounding this and making everything completely wank and fucking pointless was the following game against Swansea. In the last minute of the game, full back, Karl Naughton got into the box and flopped to the floor claiming he had been clipped by Jack Clarke. Penalty given. Penalty converted. O’Neill fuming. Me screaming. Anyway, as we all know, because we’ve experienced them before under Hughes, Rowett and Jones, dismal runs are never fun, so let’s get this over as quick as possible. For the next ten games we went draw (Cardiff), win (Derby), win (Bristol), lose (Millwall) lose (Birmingham) draw (Preston) lose (Coventry) draw (Forest) lose (QPR) win (Bournemouth). Hardly the end of season form that sees you push for a play-off place. Involved was the good, the memorable, the crap and the super league.

Let’s start with the good, which usually came in the form of Nick Powell. Powell being our talisman, provider (Brown’s goal against Derby) and scorer (against Bristol City). The memorable was Harry Souttar’s pass (perhaps the pass of the season) to send Brown clear against Bristol, who pulled the back for Powell to finish. Also, a quick shout out to Fletcher, who delivered a top class free kick. Two wins from three. A decent return. Time to get excited, perhaps. Well, not so fast, Sally. The next six games were best summed up by a hopelessly crap yet bizarre effort by Sam Vokes. Two one down against QPR, into injury time and the ball was whipped into the box. At the back post, Josh Tymon headed the ball back across goal for Vokes who, five yards out, left of centre, swiveled and swung his left leg at the ball, which, like a spinning top, spun right across the face of the goal and… wide… but not quite out of play. Instead, once it landed, it continued to spin along the goal-line and eventually all the way along the line and out for a throw in. Fuck me. And if that wasn’t enough, Premier League fans were suddenly losing their minds over the announcement of a European Super League. It transpired the owners of Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Arsenal, Chelsea and Tottenham had all been making late night phone calls from burner phones to chat about leaving their domestic leagues to tug one another off in a European Golden Shower. The main motivating factor was … obviously, money, and like the man from Del Monte they all said, ‘Yes!’ The fans, however, all said, ‘Hell, no! We want our cold wet nights in Stoke!’ Amusing. Still, for any football fan who knows a little football history, it felt a little hollow and odd, given how the whole thing felt awfully familiar to another breakaway league that was incentivised by money, power and greed… what was it called? Oh, the Premier League.

For our last remaining game of the season we headed on down to the retirement coastal village of Bournemouth. There was nothing riding on the game. Bournemouth were safe in the play offs and we were safe from both harm and glory. Still, you’re never going to turn down a win and another youth academy player, Will Forrester, getting the winning goal. Also, another clean sheet, which took our total to twenty one for the season. That saw us finish 14th with 60 points. A little underwhelming given how we had started the season, but understandable given the injuries. For O’Neill we were a top first half team, second half bottom half team. For me the squad depth just wasn’t there and even though we tried to keep the wheel steady after Tyrese Campbell’s injury (amongst others), in the end, we just ran out of fuel. Nevertheless, bigger issues remained and still needed correcting. The playing squad and wage bill needed another substantial hair cut. Finally, cut loose were Kevin Wimmer, Bruno Martins Indi, Mauritz Bauer, Liam Lindsey, Badou Ndiaye, Sam Vokes, Lee Gregory, Lasse Sorensen, Tibauld Verlinden, Ryan Woods and Jordan Cousins. Others banished on season long loans, Peter Etebo and Benik Afobe. Co-incidentally, and perhaps appropriately, from all the of departing players my fondest memory was of Mr. Badou Ndiaye who thundered into the backside of gremlin, Harry Arter, forcing him off with a dead bum. Karma. Now, to help us with some of the heavy lifting such as paying off contracts and dealing with Financial Fair Play, Nathen Collins was sold to Burnley. A promising central defender who displaced Tommy Smith at right back. He was also another whose season was cut short by injury. Replacing Collins was Ben Wilmot from Watford. Another exit was Obi Mikel, who decided to take the dangling golden carrot offered to him in Kuwait. Still, Stoke moved quickly to raise everyone’s spirits by signing Mario Vrancic. A wonderfully cultured ball playing centre midfield, who promised composure, vision and dead ball technique. Coming in for money from Bournemouth was striker Sam Surridge, and coming in for free was some bloke from Gillingham called Jack Bonham.

Looking at the pre-season friendlies the most enticing game on the schedule was the home game against Wolves, or should I say, the appearance of Adama Traore’s thighs and guns. With the relaxation of Covid restrictions, fans were now welcomed back into grounds and for me this was an opportunity not to be missed. There is something quite liberating and stirring about watching a player who combines the physique of a strongman, the sprinting power of an Olympian and the exhibitionist skills of an elite footballer. Most players crave one, yearn for two, but to have all three? Woof. Still, for the good of the game, football has largely remained a game for the little skinny guys just as much as it is for the thick thunder cats. Yes, we all appreciate that speed and/or power is necessary, but without skill? Well, that it’s just Theo Walcott, isn’t it. Not sufficient. So, watching Adama Traore on that hot summer’s day motor, zoom, hurdle and jink inside and out all over the pitch, leaving hordes of players in his wake, was thrilling, exquisite and poetic. To me there is nothing better than watching a player running with the ball, taking on and beating defenders. It is football in its most thrilling and purest form. Bliss. Anyway, once the showboating was done, it was down to business. Game day. Expectations amongst fans appeared reasonable. No was expecting a push for the top two, but a push for the top six didn’t seem unreasonable either. Michael O’Neil thought so, too. ‘Aim for the top ten and take it from there’ appeared to be the message. Still, even though we know the Championship is a slog, fans always like to get off to a good start. Winning the opening game doesn’t define your season, but it gets that feel good factor going amongst fans, and just like the previous season we started well, and in style. Our opening game against Reading turned out to be a classic Championship game. It forshadowed some of the glamour, but also some of the garbage we would pump out during the season. Thankfully, though, in this game we ran out winners with a goal worthy to win any game. It started with Bursik knocking the ball to Wilmot who then chipped it to Smith. He trundled down the right touchline like the dual carriage East Midlands rattler from Stoke station to Derby. Looking up, he squared the ball first time to Vrancic, who dummied, leaving it to Surridge to scoop the ball into the back of the net off a defender’s backside. Lovely. Scintillating. Wonderful. Nor was it a one off, because an upgraded version was to follow against Forest.

Again, it started with Bursik. Again, tempting, drawing the opposition in; exchanging passes with Souttar to Allen to Wilmot and back to Allen (I know, I can hear Tony Pulis, too… shouting and pointing ‘Launch it… Go on Jon…’). Seizing an opening, Allen split the press with a pass through to Clucas who pirouetted and helped the ball on for Smith, who, incidentally, had already anticipated the pass and was on his way down the touchline right on schedule like the East Midlands rattler. Timetable footballer. Looking up, Smith squared the ball for Brown, who dummied for Fletcher to flick the ball into Vrancic on the edge of the box. With Forest defensively exposed, Vrancic had time to flick through a list of options. On his outside, he spotted Josh Tymon steaming into the box like a runaway lawnmower. Pushing the ball into Tymon’s path, Vrancic said, ‘Go on, son, hit it!’ and hit he did, thumping the ball past the dive of Samba. Boom. One-nil. I stood and applauded. Opera-football. Even the Forest fans clapped. Their opportunity to celebrate actual football. A rare thing when your manager is the anti-football architect of trenchball, Chris Hughton. Still, for all the misery-ball they have had to endure under Hughton, at least they hadn’t lost their sense of humor, as they chanted, ‘How shit must you be, it’s only one nil!’ More comedy was to follow when Forest had won a free kick twenty five yards out. Step forward Philip Zinckernagel. He counted his steps as he backed away from the ball. Lining it up. Sensing it. Visualisation. The crowd hushed. Anxious. Afterall, we’d all been here before; dominating but conceding to the opposition’s only attempt on goal. Stepping up to the ball, Stoke fans squeezed their butt cheeks, but once Zinkernegal struck the ball, Stoke fans were able to relax, as they watched the ball sail over the wall, over the bar and into the arms of the away fans. The best part, though, came when the ball was rising into the away end, the tannoy announced, ‘Attention all Nottingham forest fans, all trains back to Nottingham have been cancelled’. Jeers and laughter rang around the ground. It says a lot when even the British train network is laughing at you. Obviously, for me, this was football and life at its best. Perfect harmony. Perfect synchrony. Glorious goals and glorious laughs, and strangely enough, it continued away at Swansea. A game we comprehensively dominated. The highlight again coming from Swansea’s favorite footballer, Sam Clucas, who scored and celebrated by holding up his shirt to the fans like a kid running to their mum to show her the picture they had just drawn. Child’s play. And on the day our possession play was so good, it triggered ‘O-lays’, which, incidentally, nearly ended in a goal. Also, a special mention must go to Josh Tymon and Jacob Brown. A reminder that good coaching and encouragement can make quite the difference to a player’s performance.

In between all this pleasant football, it was announced James McClean had emptied his locker and returned to Wigan Athletic. It was a rather flat ending to a Stoke career that had been quite carbonated. Playing over a 100 games, winding up thousands of supporters (home and away), incurring multiple social media-related sanctions and fines and winning fans’ player of the season, James packed quite a lot into his short time at the club. Fittingly, his exit was rooted in his International antics. If you hadn’t noticed, James is rather fond of playing for his country, the Republic of Ireland. Whether he is wearing the Shamrock green against Germany in a World Cup qualifier or against Gibraltar in a friendly, it all boils down to one thing; the pride of wearing the Irish shirt. Fairy muff. Now, going into the World Cup Qualifier against Luxembourg, followed by a friendly against Qatar, James had been carrying/recovering from a foot injury. There appeared to be a suggestion that James’ fitness wouldn’t be put at risk. James being James, though, ended up coming off the bench in the qualifier and starting the game (and scoring) in Qatar. Unfortunately, both figuratively and literally, James had put his foot in it, injuring it. That was McClean and his foot done for the season and once O’Neill said during pre-season that James would have to work very hard to get back into his plans, you knew his time was over. So, how will Mr. McClean be remembered? Signed to get us promoted, it transpired he proved pivotal in helping us avoid relegation. Such are the mysterious and self-amusing ways the footballing Gods operate. Knobheads. Unquestionably, his best football came under O’Neill, because O’Neill asked McClean to play like James McClean rather than play like Cruyff (Rowett) or Roberto Carlos (Jones). Commitment and desire is what McClean gave you every time he walked out onto the pitch and in essence that’s all that fans ask for. They’ll forgive you for everything else… well, unless, of course, that everything else is the Poppy. Yawn. Incidentally, on that issue, the British Legion did come out in support of McClean, reminding everyone that freedom of expression, thought and action was, incidentally, what we had fought for… amongst other things during our history *cough* *cough*. McClean, meanwhile, announced on social media that while he was disappointed to be moving on, he wasn’t bitter. Likewise, Stoke fans wished him all the best. Fair well, and ‘till next time, James.

Back on the pitch, certain things were happening that were initially irritating but then rapidly accelerated towards maddening to infuriating to combustible. My own personal footballing discombobulation generally occurs when we concede to footballers who haven’t scored since the Neolithic period. See Max Bird, Derby County, central midfielder. He hadn’t score for 70 odd games, scores. Irksome. Curtis Davies, Derby County, central defender. He hadn’t scored for four fucking years, scores. Foaming at the mouth. And before you think lightening doesn’t strike twice, remember, this is Stoke City. Away to Gary Rowett’s Millwall, on the bench was a striker named, Tom Bradshaw. The classic journeyman striker who plays now and then, but scores even less than now and then. He comes on as a substitute and scores not once, but fucking twice. Jesus Fucking Twice. Compounding this was we had gone ahead in the game; another recurring nightmare that would see many fans short circuit and turns against Michael O’Neill. The worst of all, though, was to come at Bramall Lane. This lad has worn the colours of Sheffield United, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Sheffield Wednesday, Coventry City, the Republic of Ireland and even Port Vale. He is a player who regularly hits single figures every season, and he’s a striker. He is the joke without the punchline, Ole without the wheel, Frank Lampard without the deflection, Ronaldo without the narcissism and Jose Mourinho without the misery. He is David McGoldrick. Every time I see him play, I say to myself… can’t score, laugh, won’t score, laugh, and every time he has proven me and my giggles right. Righteous laughter. Now, enter Stoke Charity. And let’s be clear who we’re talking about. This is a striker who puts the ball in the onion bag at the rate the elephant man gets his balls tickled on Tinder. Yet, not only does he score, but he scores the winner. Fuck my life. But it wasn’t just our welcoming arms to those who had gone cold in front of goal. We were not taking our own chances and we were not holding on to leads. Fundamentally, we had become the danger.

At Deepdale, we dominated on the deck, but took the lead from the skies, as Powell deftly dropped his header over the keeper and into the net. Preston, however, continued to look to dominate airily, but big Harry Soutter sorted that out. Boff. Further chances came our way, but we either didn’t take them or their keeper pulled off a top save. Then the predictable happened. A free kick on the edge of the box. Ball into the net. Equaliser. Welcome again to the Stoke-taking-the-lead-paradox zone. The place where the early bird doesn’t get the worm; it gets waterboarded and minced by a cat. Plenty more was to follow throughout the season, but none quite matched the apocalyptic self harming depths at home against Cardiff City. We all know one nil is never a secure scoreline. Likewise some say two nil is a dangerous scoreline, because sides can become complacent and get undone. Well, how about three nil, eh? Cardiff arrived in the Potteries off the back of a 9 game losing streak. I didn’t watch the game, but there I was enjoying the notifications coming in on my phone. One nil. Two nil. Three nil. Boom. Happy days. Feet up and let’s enjoy the weekend. Now enter Stoke-taking-the-lead-paradox. Notification. Cardiff score. Suddenly, I get a little twitchy. Then another notification. Stoke 3 Cardiff 2. Now I’m engulfed by anxiety and panic, and, so too, it seems, are the Stoke team. I expect to receive another notification to inform me of the equalizer anytime soon, and there it is. Stoke 3 Cardiff 3. Fiasco. I spend the whole day stomping my feet like an angry parrot asking myself, Where is the leadership? Where is the mental strength? Where is the sense? Where is the logic? What is the point of anything anymore?

Nevertheless, something else Micheal O’Neill’s side have consistently done is bounce back from the dismal depths of Satan’s butthole. I think of the misery down at Wigan Athletic post lockdown. After that defeat we went on a pleasing run that secured our Championship status. Similarly, following Cardiff we walked away with a pair of back to back wins. Atonement, of a sort. Blackpool was a hard fought win. Super Mario came off the bench to float a delicious cross for Souttar, who thundered his effort against the post. Fortunately, there was old daddy Fletcher to thigh in the rebound. Next up was away to Nathen Jones’ Luton, and, again, it was a pleasure to see us take a dump on his cabbage patch. It upset Nathan Jones so much he marched on to the pitch like an angry parent to tell off at Josh Tymon. It’s what God wills, Nathen. Also, a special mention for Romaine Sawyers. Deemed insufficient for Valérien Ismaël’s push and rush football, it was a pleasant surprise to see him allowed to join a rival for a season long loan. Easy on the eye, Sawyers turns football into a balearic art. He glides across the surface and plays passes with a combination of crisp assertiveness and tenderness, and like the magician who creates the illusion to produce magic, Sawyers does likewise. It was his little burst in behind and exquisite cross that left the Luton defense looking startled and stunned for Brown to score. Further good news arrived for Jacob Brown at the final whistle when he learned that he would be joining up with the Scotland squad for the International break. Well done, lad. So, back to back wins and both gritty, determined and full of character, which many fans had questioned.

Moreover, prior to taking on Nathen Jones, it marked two years at the club for Michael O’Neill. In the very immediate term, from the stink pit of Rowett to the quicksand of Jones, O’Neill somehow carved a team out of a block of butter that had been left out in the sun. Applause. In the medium to long term, he has since outlined a clear pathway for youngsters to progress from the Academy and claim a spot in the first team squad. Players who have risen to the occasion so far have been Harry Souttar, Tyrese Campbell, Nathen Collins (since sold), Will Forrester and Joe Bursik. Then there has been the rejuvenation of forgotten players like Josh Tymon, as well as the continued development of Jacob Brown. Any money that has been spent has been limited and on a profile of player that speaks youth, potential and ambition, rather than Sam Vokes, Benik Afobe or Tom Ince. Also, more importantly, we welcomed back Tyrese Campbell. Oh, how long it had been and how much his goal against Peterborough was a moment to celebrate, cherish and be thankful for. His direct running and jinx inside before rifling it into the roof of the net was the type of explosive excitement we have been missing out on for far too long. Also, he demonstrated he has a soft subtle side, too. In the away win against QPR, put through by Vrancic, he slotted home with precision and aplomb. Composure. However, in a cruel twist of fate, it was confirmed Harry Souttar would be out for the rest of the season after picking up a cruciate knee injury while on international duty. It was a real kick in the dick and it didn’t stop there, as more of our possession based players started to drop out of the side due to injury.

Also making an emphatic return was Covid. Now I have a new variant Ho-Ho-Ho. Named Omnicron, it was spreading through the population like a Pamela Anderson sex tape. Viral. Players testing positive had to be isolated and complete a lengthy quarantine. Consequently, clubs found themselves short of players and games were postponed. After a couple of weeks, even though we were back against ‘Boro we played like we were still in isolation. The climax coming in the 90th minute. We won a free kick. Tommy Smith stepped up to take it. The box was loaded. A last minute winner would be glorious. Afterall, we have been here before. Remember Sheffield Wednesday? No reason why we couldn’t grab the winner. Tommy Smith raised his arms and struck the ball. We watched as the ball sailed high and then dropped comfortably into the keeper’s arms. The crowd groaned and Michael O’Neill turned and booted the drinks carrier. God give me strength. Then it was announced that the games against Coventry and Barnsley were to be postponed. A Christmas without football, meaning a Festive Football Blackhole. Sigh. And considering we finished the year before without being able the see the football actually happening, here we were a year later unable to watch any football at all. Scroogeball. Still, we were able to salvage some football on the last day of the year. Here was our chance to finish the footballing calendar year on a high, but, instead, we chose to finish it on a low. Classic. Unable to play through Derby’s press, we couldn’t get any rhythm in our passing game going. We looked confused, absent and fatigued. Brainfogball. Derby, minus thirty points, deep in administration and without any players, won 2–1, completing the double over us. Welcome to Blackhole Stoke.