29/12 Lincoln Part 2

Lincoln City 0 Grimsby Town 0
29 Dec 2004, Coca Cola League 2

Down the channels, over the top, up and at ‘em. Hustle, bustle, a coached team, the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Bang, another shot. Long ball into box, rebound, ricochet, random action and the ball rolled out to Butcher, on the centre right just outside the box. Thwack, zoom, "oooooh", zinging a few inches wide of Williams’ right-hand post.

Richardson, rocking and rolling down the left, around Whittle and Ramsden, towards the bye-line. The ball cracked low across the face of goal, behind the defence. Green at the back post took a step back, leaned back and hit the back of the stand from about eight yards out. Get back to the training ground.

Was it all them? No, these were isolated raids in the maelstrom of madness that was the midfield. Two midfielders leaping, no pear trees though. Bouncing up, elbows out, barging, banging, a stock car demolition derby in the barren wastelands. Ugly, brutish and, in Crowe’s case, short. Fleming rolled up his sleeves and had a right go, revelling in the simplicity of mano à mano leg wrestling. He loved it. As usual all the loose balls fell to Fleming around the penalty box. You know the result.

Ah-ha, Town string half a pass together, on the ground. Lincoln fold. Gritton free down the right, turning, crossing through the box. Mild pandemonium. Squeaks and squalls were heard from the silent locals as the ball rolled through the area. Bull steamed up the left and let fly from 20 yards; the ball shivered across goal and straight to Parkinson, unmarked about 10 yards out. Parky panicked, mis-controlling the ball to his left towards Crowe, who was mugged by three giant barber shop poles in human form. Temporarily imbalanced by close harmony singing inside the penalty area, Crowe passed to Sestanovich and Town retained possession inside the area, being forced wider and wider. Red and white matter was sucked into this black hole, sheer weight of numbers and body fat saving their bacon. Eventually Bull had another shot which sidled through the 6 yards box and wide.

What’s this? More Town? Yep, two team points for perception. Sestanovich and Fleming surged down the middle, Lincoln retreated and gave the ball back to Transit Stan when he missed his gear. Sestan rolled the ball out towards Parkinson. Futcher stretched and missed, allowing Big Ears to swing his pants down the right and flash a low cross in towards the near post. Fleming raced in and yet again just missed the train. He should set his alarm clock a minute earlier, shouldn’t he, or have one less Shredded Wheat. Anyway, a big defender hung a leg out to divert for a corner. Jones headed the said corner very, very wide.

Futcher, the son of the codfather of cool. We bow to thee, our Futcher. Such a Futcher has never been seen by the Impies though. Lean, lanky and Lincoln to the core, Ben had the subtlety of a pantomime horse, there was menace only in his mass. Perhaps talent skips a generation. Shame really, with that gene pool you’d have thought something would have seeped through the evolutionary colander.

Where are we now? How about a Sestanovich free kick? No, thought not. The ball stayed inside the stadium though.

Lincoln lumped it. We didn’t like it. "Hoof". Yes, we still get the drift.

All this scratching around made Town itch, as the ball sometimes fell to Lincoln players. Butcher had another long shot, whistling wide; Toner another, straight at Williams; Green another shot, welching, wheezing wide and high. Have ball will shoot, lamping the ball goalwards from anywhere, our county cousins weren’t afraid to have a go, and their long shooting was generally accurate and firm.

"I parked opposite The Nail Fairy."
"I don’t know which hole Sestanovich is in, it may be the centre circle".
"There are cobwebs in the ladies loo seats".
"Tell me I’m hallucinating: our worse players are our best ones today".
"The police never stop anyone holding a Marks and Spencer carrier bag".