29/08 Rushden Part 2

Grimsby Town 2 Rushden and Diamonds 0
29 Aug 2005, Coca Cola League 2

A throw-in to Town on the right, 30 yards out. Exciting. McDermott chucked it to Reddy and the ball ballooned off the riverdancer back towards Macca, who raced forward and chested the ball on. The clouds parted, the sun beamed a single shaft of light to the turf upon which the hallowed one hovered. The crowd rose: we could see the future and it was macca-nificent, for within 0.674 seconds we would see cherubim and seraphim trumpeting the glory. About 25 yards way off to the right His Maccaness the McDermott bazookered a whipping, dipping volley over Young and into the top right hand corner: the perfect parabola from the perfect player. The crowd were in a holding pattern six feet above the terraces, with a cry of joyful wonderment sending a shockwave out towards Pleasure Island which flattened a family of four from Rotherham as they sat down to eat some fish fingers. Macca roared along the touchline pursued by the entire team, eleven dentists from the Main Stand, the inhabitants of Neville Street, and an ice cream van playing Tubular Bells. At that moment humanity reached Nirvana. Wasn't it a breaking news item on Radio 5? Nevermind.

Phwoar, eh! Cracking goal.

It even induced the Pontoon to sing "There's only one John McDermott". Well, not technically correct, but we do have The John McDermott. Tenors, painters, writers and lawyers are much lesser mortals than right backs for Grimsby Town. Who cares what happened in the next 10 minutes eh - we're floating man. Our love of Macca was the drug that we were thinking of.

The next ten minutes? Town kept heading the ball, Rushden kept passing, no-one got near goal really. Rushden had a flick and trick followed by a shot that Mildenhall forgot about before it passed the post. We must be fair to the kids, they need encouragement, don't they. We must be fair to Parkinson and conveniently ignore the fact he lost the ball 25 yards out through sheer wimpiness. Boring, but comfortingly boring, with Rushden twittering away without any thoughts of penetrating the double glazing. And then there's the referee. It was already clear he was ruining a bad game. Whistle while you work, R Booth is a twerp, he's half barmy, so's his army of linesmen.

A Rushden corner was curled to the far post and after a bundle and a cuddle the ball fell to Pearson. The Pontoon, in a charitable act that is unlikely to receive publicity on Calendar, assisted the referee by audibly observing the handball. Accidental danger averted through a return to old fashioned community singing. Ah, maybe he's not so bad this ref. Jones the Lump lost possession outside the Town box and O'Grady was a-twizzling through the area. Whittle lunged and missed, Jones dived and swiped. O'Grady was assassinated by an invisible sniper, right in front of the ref. Penalty? No, a free kick to Town and a booking for diving. Or maybe for a rubbish dive: O'Grady had a leg to fall over, but missed.

Twenty five minutes gone. One goal, one booking, one shot, one pass. One linesman did a step-over. One flew over the cuckoo's nest.

"It was either a headless bear or a windmill."
"Dad, was that Macca's last ever goal?"
"We stopped in Sleaford, but the chip shop was rubbish."
"I want their number three sent off, he used to play for Wimbledon."
"What are all these trippers doing here? Is it a bank holiday?"