NO MATCH IS MEANINGLESS
Steve HILL DEAD RUBBERS STILL EXCITE FANS
WHAT possesses a man to travel the length and breadth of the country for a meaningless football match?
In the face of the cold indifference of the universe, they’re all ultimately meaningless. But this time of the season does tend to throw up the odd dead rubber, free from the heady thrill of a promotion chase or the nauseous horror of a relegation battle. Yet still we come, offering unyielding support week after week. By way of example, I recently awoke in Norwich on a Tuesday morning, caught a train to London, then two further trains to my house whereby I immediately got in the car and drove to Gloucester, picking up my brother from Cheltenham en route. Numerous fellow Chester fans made their own particular journeys to watch a team with no prospect of making the playoffs and, with only one relegation berth, little realistic chance of going down. It appeared to be a sensible decision when we cruised into the last ten minutes with a 3-1 lead. Not so much when we conceded an injury time equaliser. Hopefully it won’t prove crucial, although a small part of me did wish it might, just to feel something.
Odyssey
Despite the capitulation, at the end of the day it was good to catch up with a few faces, tick off a new ground and see a hatful of goals. Pity the poor sap who turned up a few minutes late to find the gates closed, forced to clamber over a fence thus missing the first two goals. To add insult to injury, he had already paid for a pre-booked ticket. This thought kept me going on the solo drive home, along with sporadically shouting the word “Idiots!” for midnight, a gruelling 12-hour odyssey. Take a point, move on.
North then to Guiseley the following Saturday, where I stood next to a Scotland-based Chester fan who hadn’t been home since Gloucester, simply touring the budget hotels of this land between matches. What commitment, rewarded with a comfortable 2-0 victory. Again, had we been playing for our National League North lives, it would have been celebrated long and hard as opposed to being treated as a tour of duty. While a crippling blow to Guiseley’s survival hopes, without any real jeopardy attached it was little more than a kickabout in the sun for us, albeit preceded by a sublime bit of chippy.
A glutton for punishment (as well as chips), I even did battle with Bank Holiday
Monday traffic for what I though would be a trip to the seaside, otherwise known as AFC Fylde. Slightly disappointed to discover that their impressive stadium is very much inland, it was another new ground for me, meaning that I have ticked off the entire National League North except for Blyth Spartans, for
which I am truly sorry.
Anger
The game also coincided with a visit from a legendary Chester fan of my acquaintance, the self-styled Sydney Blue, over from Australia for a brief tour. His family were horrified to learn that he would be spending a significant amount of his time on these shores watching his team, whereas I will be appalled if he misses a single minute.
It would have been simpler to go and visit him at his famHome ily home, but given that our entire relationship is based on mutually bellowing at semi-pro footballers that was never going to happen. A 30-minute M6 delay and an impromptu tour of Stafford later, I rocked up at Fylde’s in-house sports bar only to be informed that no away fans were allowed in. They eventually let me in to shut me up.
As is often the case, the pre-match was arguably better than the game, a cursory 3-1 defeat. Despite having nothing to play for, Chester filled the away end and made most of the noise, particularly following a preposterous penalty decision that at least instilled a bit of anger. What a club!
I’m already booked in for the last three games of the season. If there’s one thing worse than a meaningless game, it’s no game at all…