Fulham away to Cardiff: Classic 6 Pointer

You guys are beginning to sound like Malcolm Gladwell with all these anecdotal observations that are shoehorned into some grand, cliched narrative.

 

Nm.

 

Sidwell’s through ball to Richardson was slightly overhit. Rather than to give chase down the left touch line, he pulled up, turned back to Sidwell and they glowered at each other. Captain Hangeland remained solitary and 60m out of view. It was at this 80th minute, two goals down in a foreign land that Fulham Football Club accepted its fate.

The seeds of this discontented winter were sown long ago, in the sins committed or omitted in Boardroom meetings at indeterminate time where tea and biscuits were probably served, in the quiet snubs in changing rooms, bus journeys and mundanea that comprise small business office drama worldwide but compounded, turned palpable spirit to a demonstrative ennui. It came most notably in the failed Oranje revolution of Maarten Jol, a workman like ex-player who aspired to be liked rather than respected and whose libertine defensive approach traduced the shape of Fulham into something wanton and unrecognizable. It was his teams’ lack of Englishness in every sense that would prove his failing and now ours.

And yet, this day began brightly, with the faint heat of a Spring sun evoking thoughts of willow on horsehair, summoning daffodils from Mayfair’s flowerbeds, and as my train raced under the Glamorgan, upon clover leaf and pine of this other land. I arrived at Cardiff and searched for the small groups of middle aged men walking together. Ah yes, left to the football ground. Upon entering gate 7, they were our voices and faces, from Feltham, Ealing and Dorking, from Barnes and Richmond and Putney and Surbiton, and yes, from Wandsworth too. How many of these would speak fondly in future saying yes, I remember watching Premiership Fulham, and for 12 seasons and nine matches remaining. The white tee-shirts handed out on coaches said “Believe,” but in what at now as we stood to greet our team and face one last chance against a team and a nation? I steeled myself beforehand with a Pint of Brain’s and a Clark Pie. The latter was hard, like Lee Clark. How we could have used him in his full pomp on a day such as this.

The noticeably wider pitch seemed well suited to wing play which we sought to exploit initially via Dejagh and Riise and the improbable strike partnership of Mitroglou and Cauley Woodrow. I had watched the latter a few times at Motspur Park and given the occasion, played well but never seemed certain with his partner which was to be nine and the other 11. Typically, the back four were all sixes and sevens so I was struck by how very little had changed since my last match in person at Brammal Lane. For a 4-4-2 with two holding midfielders, we were less central in attack, using the left and right backs to try overlapping runs. We defended in triangles for what seemed the first time in a year, against their danger men, Park and Craig Noone but lacked pace to respond when their backs jumped in and became free with ours rightly focused on Jones and Campbell. The first half had a whiff therefore of the Bundesliga about it, not as it is now but ten years ago between say Bochum and Aachen, with slow build-up, plenty of head tennis on offer and little true International quality apart from the lively Mr. Noone. This was not the pedestrian farce from August at St. James’ Park, but neither did it have the sense of urgency on expects from relegation six pointers. Around the38th minute, I became deeply concerned from whence the opening goal would come given the lack of a cutting edge in either side. Cometh the hour cometh the man; Caulker (again) in the 45th+1, scoring unmarked from a set piece, the bane of Fulham 2014.

Halftime was a period for self reflection. I had long ago resigned myself to loss of our Premier League status, as early as November to be truthful, so it was more a meditation on what that meant and how very hard to regain. Like most supporters, the 2000-1 side which layed waste the Championship and went straight into The Premier League by 10 April will never be seen again and has never since. To develop or acquire the Saha, Boa Morte, “Bazza” (the Lambeth Eusebio) to say nothing of Steve Finnan or Maik Taylor seems well-nigh impossible. And what shall I miss most? Not the days out in the great cities of England and Wales—Manchester, Newcastle, Birmingham and Cardiff—though I shall miss those too. It is the sense of connection to modern English life which top division football provides. Specifically, it is this idea that at the very top division of English football remains a club, small in stature but rich in history, guided by values of fair play decency and community, well loved by its supporters and liked by its opponents. This club which calls oneself to it and despite all the obstacles succeeds and sometimes even thrives. Very occasional victories against the top clubs which are triumphs of commitment and confidence over pure commerce which show, even in 21st Century Britain, a different way to success is possible: that is the loss I mourn.

Kaciniclic, the forgotten man (I had literally forgotten him) came out early to warm up among the sprinklers and soon became introduced the thereafter Karagounis, whose play seemed to lift us last week after substituting Parker and seemed the more likely starter, invigorated the side and the supporters. Mitroglou started finding his feet, turning with the ball and won the corner. Holtby in the 59th meant once more there was belief and for a flash, I thought of myself in the Hamburg Arena celebrating the Simon Davies goal. What a precious thing is belief.

How fleeting it is too, in the tragicomedy of another goal under Stekelenburg and thereafter-- for we concede ineluctably in pairs or more-- an own goal. The perpetrator was the Man United loving right back whose name is forbidden in my household. The sun faded on the left side of the pitch, the sky now yellow blue in the late afternoon graced these unyielding Welshmen. Sidwell, bustling as ever, over hit a pass to Richardson and they glowered at each other, an unhappy marriage soon to be annulled.

When final time called, a fair few supporters booed. I stayed and showed quiet appreciation and modest applause as after a mediocre play. Some people fault footballers for not caring, but not where I stood in row GG. You can see the pain in Hangeland’s face and sorrow and regret in Richardson, the tired sense from Karagounis, anguish from Sidwell. These may be entertainers but not actors (ok, that Park twerp is an actor and not a good one either but that is another matter). These were real expressions of emotion and acceptance of failure. “We let you chaps down because together, we are simply not good enough.” Holtby stayed longest and was last off the pitch.

On my flight from America, I briefly dreamt of Brede Hangeland or at very least the arc of a tall shorthaired blond man majestically clearing headers on the pitch in Donetsk. You work all your life to be a professional and then Captain. The system changes and now it is all a blur. He himself must have those dreams and in them, he is holding it aloft, The Intertoto, because he is like me and dreams in Fulham. Surely he does not dream of this public failure and derision. Monday, I shall go to an office where I am well liked, successful and rewarded. Brede Hangeland is rewarded too but when he arrives at Motspur Park, his Captaincy will be the nightmare that never ends.

I walked along the gritty streets I have known all too well in life past stuccoed terrace homes, emptied tins of lager, barber shops and the scent of curry powder. It is not “the grass growing on Llaregyb Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.” This could be Wilmington, it could be Reykjavik, it could be Brixton or Wandsworth. Soon it will be Yeovil or dearry me, Brentworth. Oh, that I could forget what Fulham have become, or not remember what it must be now.

On Platform 1, I see some of those same familiar faces, voices from the Southwestern edge of our conurbation that John Betjeman called Metroland. A few sing a song about Ashkan Dejagah to Englishman in New York and another, a paean to Ryan Tunnicliffe’s departure.

I try my voice: “Feeelix, whoa, whoa, whoa, Feeeelix!” to “Feelings” by Morris Alpert. A few chuckle and briefly join in. It seems appropriately Fulhamish, this at once self parodying despair and distaste for our new German gaffer (or is that Kaiser?) whose Martial law is not having the desired effect, as our relegation song. Soon he will be gone but the episode suggests at least some of us will be Fulham evermore.

 

thanks sfm. Only you could make poetry out of Fulham at the moment. :sad-suicidepills:

 

Saigon. Shit. I'm still only in Saigon.

I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission. And when it was over, I'd never want another.

 

:clap: Top notch sfm. Heather,can you put that on the front page? Deserving to be read by as many people as possible. Stanley, if your travels see you out this way before the season is over, be sure to let us know and we'll round up the LA troops.

 

agreed, thank you.

 

Agreed again.

As for me, I feel a bit like the Fulham part of me has been shot up with novacain. The relegation pain is there but it has been somewhat dulled by the long drawn out hope that something might change. I know the pain will become more pronounced as hope continues fading away and is finally completly extinguished.