Saltash Ferried To Defeat By The Introduction Of A Pedestrian (Walker...)
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| 2009... Wild hair flapping in the Saltash breeze... |
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| ...and now, beard flapping in Weymouth Bay... |
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| Buzz Lightyear leans provocatively on the right of the image... |
High white cloud and hesitant sunshine greeted Truro’s contingent at Saltash’s leisure centre, where Stewart Yetton found that a slap on the shoulder was about as welcome as a traffic queue on the Tamar Bridge and Marcus Martin pointed to his ankle with a sharp intake of breath, as both of them tucked into barbecued burgers in baps. Buzz Lightyear lookalike Sean McCarthy glowed tanned against an ice-white shirt, Andy Watkins clung to the summit of a perimeter wall asking an anonymous neighbour if he could have his ball back and Joe Broad’s hair was so carefully crafted that heading was out of the question.
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| Andy, left, explains to Joe just how bloody tough it was to climb over three different sections of netting to ask for his ball back... |
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| Raised for the plastic people of TV broadcasting... |
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| Maine Road? Nah, that was Man. City's old ground... |
Kevin Heaney and companion sported fine headgear and sunglasses but sponsor Follett Stock’s presence was even more understated, judging by the enormous lettering on the company car outside the ground.
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| Hats off to you both... |
Martin Watts really didn’t like a lady wearing white behind one goal and targeted her accurately before the break, probably blaming her for the hand-ball he’d just been penalised for. She moved at half-time but Martin was displeased and went home for tea early.
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| Heads turn as another Watts bullet sears towards the white-shirted lady... |
His replacement Walker, failed to hit the lady, succeeding only in blasting two shots past ‘keeper Griffiths and into the Saltash net. A bit of a spoilsport if you ask me.
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"No Yetti, so we should be OK..."
Wrong... |
The goalkeeping coach made tea for the Truro coaching staff but Saltash’s physio’, complete with rubber gloves, carried a tray of tea for his colleagues and managed to spill most of the beverage over the tray and onto the stairs of the grandstand. I’m kind of glad that I didn’t suffer an injury for him to treat; didn’t fancy my blood trickling down the steps…
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| Saltash provided Yetton with a roller to set his wilful locks... |
The gaps between the benching planks dug into my buttocks all afternoon, despite two painkillers and a strong cup of tea, there was no match programme but Bob the loyal Truro fan was there and his companion Gill looked the other way, which was her usual greeting for me, in truth, because I played her up mercilessly.
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| Mr Heaney crashed his Tardis on arrival... |
Sitting in front of me in the grandstand there was a fellow wearing the costume of a country gent, hunting grouse. His flat cap disguised a bald pate, his jacket concealed a small, MI5 tape-recorder, into which he spoke at regular intervals, commenting upon Truro’s rise to the Zamaretto Premier League, where he was likely to go on Saturday next, with a reminder to check out the train timetables. He ate his rolls, then a hot cross bun and drank from a flask. A Groundhopper? I am not like him. Not yet… I had thought that he had been talking to the chap in front of him but all the time he had been recording observations. A spy? A tell-tale from Bedford, maybe?
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| Man pretends to be a Groundhopper... |
The lively Afful, spelt Aufful on the team sheet I was shown by a Saltash official, wearing a black shirt and club tie, all Roy Orbison, minus the shades, along with Watkins caused defensive problems for the hosts because of their considerable pace after the recess. Broad, Walker and White stiffened midfield to resemble the ridge of Joe’s gelled hair and Gaia’s general assuredness was evident in defence for much of the time. Goalie Armstrong-Ford was decent enough, the lady in the white top returned home none the worse for her Watts ordeal and Saltash were left to rue two shots which rapped the Truro woodwork. Ash, Martin and Yetton were absent, along with an experienced ‘keeper: the backbone of a team, interestingly.
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| Arms folded, Lightyear feels the Buzz... |
Scott Walker’s ship came in, he replaced Martin Watts, upon whose corner Gaia reckoned he got a touch for the opening goal, and Scotty made it easy on himself, so that, by the time his two goals had been scored, it seemed that, for Saltash, the sun wasn’t gonna shine any more, the moon wasn’t gonna rise in the sky, the tears were always clouding their eyes…
And whatever happened to Truro’s portion of the gate-receipts that day?
I know…
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| The tea-swilled grandstand... |
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