2008: HALESOWEN 3-1 EVESHAM: a light-hearted view by THE MOWDOG...

A Day At The Grove

The Place…

The Grove was seemingly at an angle from its serving route, Old Hawne Lane. A meandering path traversed a grassy area, which filled the angle between stadium and street but it wasn’t clear if there was a car-park for the likes of me. I chose to leave my car in a side-street, legally of course and as I locked the vehicle, centrally of course, an elderly lady walked her lively dog round the corner from Old Hawne Lane and made conversation. She was a Black Country woman with a whining accent, speaking as if even a ‘Happy Birthday’ greeting would sound like she had a sour plum in her mouth. She possessed mistrusting eyes and regarded me suspiciously, enquiring who The Yeltz were playing, before berating ‘him’. I guessed that she meant the club’s chairman, who apparently wanted to build a hotel and new changing rooms on the site. “But ‘e ain’t tekkin’ away the path. I bin walkin’ they dog theyer fer years; not that dog, they otha dog I ‘ad befower…” I may have understood. I think my face displayed kind concern and I changed the subject to ask where the turnstiles were. “Just foller the crowad…” she replied, flailing an arm towards five or six students who were strolling along Old Hawne Lane. Naturally, they were not attending the game but I entered through the oddly angled turnstiles, which I came upon. 

The Grove from the road...

The operator informed me that it would cost me an extra 50p to sit in the glamorously named ‘Harry Rudge Stand’ and the programme vendor apologised that the cost had increased by 50p to £2, due to the introduction of colour printing. Colour had reached the Black Country at last… I wondered if the dog-walking lady knew about that?

Bit like the beach hut I had once at Swanage...

The Grove in all its glory...

The Grove's regulars...

I was followed into the ground by an elderly gentleman carrying a plastic bag. He made noises in an excitable manner, was apoplectic seconds before the teams emerged from an unlikely gap in the terracing behind one of the goals and performed a mildly acceptable impression of the jailers in ‘Life of Brian’ when verbalising in the vicinity of the Evesham United directors during the game. I was amazed that he didn’t sit next to me, such is my usual fortune.

Warming up...

The players appear captivated by the ball, which is actually on the ground...

Another fellow I noticed was a true ‘fan’ and was presumably a regular at The Grove. He was one of those people who ‘sounds off’ on a subject, so vociferously that the unfortunate punters near him simply tend to nod and grunt in agreement, despite probably totally disagreeing with the Oracle. He wore a black cap, possibly adorned by a metallic team badge, from which straight and impossibly long strands of grey hair hung, as if he had recently auditioned for the part of the scarecrow in ‘The Wizard of Oz’. He had grown Stonehenge teeth, he wore a lumberjack shirt and he wore fawn trousers. He stated that football should be, “2 full-backs, 3 half-backs and 5 forwards, with the wingers getting behind the opposition full-backs.” Simple enough, then. “Go get your coaching credentials, bring back ankle-high boots and a leather ball and manage a team…” I thought. He advised the referee that Evesham’s Steve Hands had “..nearly pulled ‘is backbone out!” as he challenged a Halesowen forward, aerially. I liked that one.

The players appear as if by magic from the rear of a terrace...

Safety…

Four St John’s Ambulance members sat on the front row of the grandstand. They wore green overalls, like they were mechanics awaiting a vehicle to service. They made no attempt to rise from their seats when a Halesowen player was injured and had to be escorted from the pitch; they simply sat and watched, rather like car mechanics, oddly, as the goalkeeper and physio’ helped the injured player to the sideline. The stretcher remained on the ground, the quartet sat. And watched. 

Awaiting more urgent calls...

The Players...

The pouting, frowning, miserable Lennon of Evesham, his bald, streetwise skipper, Lutz, Halesowen’s languid, almost yawning Lee and Cornwall, with his bizarre, high-pitched screaming were all contenders for Most Valuable Player, until the introduction of Halesowen’s player-coach, the rotund Darren Caskey…

The heroic Darren Caskey...

It was like an out of condition Under 8s League team manager taking part in a training session, telling the lads what to do and where to move to. Then he performed a drag-back to flummox two opponents and then gave the ball away and the withering Lennon missed an open goal and then he galvanised his team and then, when Halesowen were 3-1 ahead, goalkeeper Bussey was thrown into the air like the chaff from wheat, took exception and threw a crazy punch, like he was still on holiday in Ibiza. Caskey and friends attempted to dampen the fiery situation by restraining the custodian, especially when the official, Mr Day, dismissed him from the field but the goalkeeper was a whirling dervish and thrashed like an escapologist with no time left. Bussey was finally released and like a petulant infant, threw his shirt to the ground. 

Caskey, maybe 5 feet 4 inches tall, donned the grounded jumper and the sweaty gloves to face the resulting penalty-kick, which Mr Miserable, Lennon, was told he couldn’t take and central defender Hodnot, hadn’t the ability to score, the barrel-like Caskey launching into a terrifying leap to his left to save. Caskey liked that so much, he patted away a dangerous, swirling centre from the increasingly incredulous Lennon and then bombed down to his right to beat away a hard shot from the same player. Lennon went home. Bussey probably did too but I would like to have seen the reaction of his manager when he approached the dugout, a concrete monstrosity, rather reminiscent of a deckchair shelter on Plymouth Hoe. Halesowen won 3-1…

Epilogue…  

I walked around the ground towards the exit, the St John’s team hadn’t made a single error but I was forced to wait at the players’/officials’ ‘tunnel’ fence until the referee and linesmen, fine Englishmen called Mr Khalfe and Mr Kuzmanovic, had exited. The noisy Halesowen crowd had remained to barrack them off the field and they were actually given an escort… Scary.

Then I saw him again… The chap from earlier. He was hooting and bawling at the officials too and I knew then that I wanted to go home. 

So I did.