Maybe A Bench, Possibly A Soap Box
The Ibstock grandstand was ailing and one chap spent a good deal of the evening looking over the top of the perimeter wall into the car-park. I actually watched the game though. The match had been abandoned on a previous date, due to the horrific broken leg injury suffered by the visiting Dunkirk goalkeeper and so both teams were playing their final matches of the season. I understood that the visitors had included some younger players, for one or two senior characters had played in the national Sunday Cup Final, several days before. The home team was well beaten on the night, mainly succumbing to an in-form, yet diminutive Dunkirk striker, Lee Day.
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| Not dark yet... |
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| Liked the entrance... |
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| The gap through which one chap stared during most of the opening 45 minutes... |
The entrance was manned by someone I thought was a young teen but he did move a car in the parking-lot during the second-half and so maybe I was badly mistaken, or he’d nicked it… He did bring me the team-lists at half-time however, a useful exercise, that. Brothers appeared for Ibstock, whose father engaged me in conversation but the grandstand was not an easy viewpoint. Wide benches sufficed for buttocks and metal grilles were the walkways and although this was where supporters could sit, others stood at the hoardings in front of the benches. I stood on my bench, for I actually wanted to watch the game, rather than chatter to irregular acquaintances or eat my tea.
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| The train was due in 8 minutes... |
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| My mate Colin lives in nearby Ravenstone... |
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| Benches for wide arses... |
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| Ferrets were not kept beneath the grille... |
One goalie was rather portly but he was a decent fellow, although he was so slow going for a couple of the goalscoring shots that I yawned twice before he landed. I fetched a ball for him on one occasion but he failed to thank this willing silver-haired retriever for the effort. Then he allowed four more goals past him. There were two sendings-off, both were visitors, yet neither player was particularly deserving of the dismissals or indeed the accolades and pleasantries afforded to them by sniggering home fans. Abuse, that is. Nine men played eleven and it really did appear that it was Ibstock who were shorthanded, such was the dominance of the Dunkirk crew.
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| Handshakes... |
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| Action 1... |
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| Action 2... |
Day netted for Dunkirk, as did Hopkinson with a fine 25 yarder and Thompson with a thumped, angled effort; Westcarr and Jenkins’ deflected shot completed the nap-hand. Lewis struck a penalty for Ibstock. The attendance? 25…
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| Penalty for Ibstock... |
The lad from the turnstile was some kind of club official I realised but I ignored the ‘keeper, who was built like a World War Two pill-box, at the end of the game, then sidled out of the ground to make my way into the Leicestershire countryside and headed for the warmth of home.
Hmm, odd evening…
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