blades blog 90 minutes in Nottingham

Posted: February 19th 2010
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I tell you what: tick followed tock followed tick followed tock followed tick . . . been here before so many times, men in black await their fate, a blood red tide set to stain all in its path.

Third plays seventh, clocks strikes three-quarters, stewards argue with late arriving drunks, corner comes in, flick on, stab home and before sinew has been stretched between muscle and bone, we are a goal down. The hill is steeper now though the journey has only just begun.

Earnshaw zips and darts, a fizzing bomb exploding into gaps and spaces indiscriminately. He accepts, lays off and collects again, drops a shoulder and is away, rocking and rolling from side to side. We have no answer. Young bucks of the Forest dance with fleet foot, nimbly picking their way through a statuesque midfield. Yet there is no panic as once there was. Nosworthy, now a centre-back colossus, doth bestride the narrow world of the Blades defence, where petty men walk under his legs. He is inspirational and commanding but he his bedfellows are Geary, Kallio and Bartley – virtually unknown to each other.

Yorkshire, Yorkshire . . . sign on, sign on, for you’ll ne-ver work, a-gain . . . scab, scab, scab . . . Ritual dictates and ritual defines even though time has passed and the modern performers on this old stage were not born when such rituals took their form.

Majewski hugs their touchline, lean and hungry like a young Fergal Sharkey waiting to make his music. Anderson too has the ball glued to his dainty little feet. Forest look the part, fit the bill, walk the walk but we hold our line and are not overrun as the early setback might have suggested. Camara enjoys time on the ball as his fitness returns but it is Yeates who harries and chases and works the openings to create paltry half chances. We are impoverished but there is still a strong pulse.

Three-quarters of an hour and the battle is passionless until tick follows tock follows tick . . .  and Henderson sees red held high above his head 40 short seconds into the new half. It is a private battle which Hendo has waged with Kelvin Wilson, a battle he’s now lost. The hill is steeper still.

So what do we do? Do we fold or make strength from that which threatened to weaken us? Fear not, those of trembling faith, the mathematical inequality awakens gentle souls as we stare sneering defeat in the eyes and face it down. Red mist descends, tackles crunch, arms flail as legs akimbo thunder to the ground. Yellow cards litter the pitch. Blades niggle and bully their way back in reducing the free-flowing Forest to uncharacteristic punts and pokes. Wes Morgan, always a shire horse among thoroughbreds, struggles with the finer points and United come close. Yeates never stops, gives his all and is almost rewarded on the odd occasion, though Camp is confident.

Perch fouls Yeates and is booked, Williamson reeks revenge on Perch and is booked and Yeates swipes at Majewski . . . and is booked. Davies and Blackwell patrol the touchline like nagging housewives, berating officials and appealing for everything with arms statuesquely held high. But the Blades sniff a leveller and the temperature hike has benefitted us and not the home team. Suddenly there is hope and every supporter knows there need only be a deflection to earn a point so richly undeserved. Occasionally we punt but more than often not, under pressure, we play the ball along the ground to find an opening – hallelujah!

In every such scenario there is always “the moment”, the chance that goes begging, the slipping finger-tip grasp, the slow-motion, split-second picture of the match which has your left eye watching a Quinny cross sail over Lee Camp’s outstretched fingers and your right eye absorbing Yeates’ incoming run behind Camp. Speed up the action and in the flick of an eyelid Yeates’ foot misses the ball and the gaping empty net behind it, seemingly by millimetres. And in that second all hope appears lost. Stop the tick, tock, tick, nothing good will ever come of this affair now. If the goal were to come then in some parallel universe that’s where it came. We are now drawing 1-1 on another plane but not right here, right now.

So the clock continues and Cresswell replaces Camara as Williamson gives way for Chedwyn – how long will the multi-million pound Welshman suck up cameo performances from the bench? It gives a tired team a last caffeine shot but luck is not with us, or we haven’t earned it – Camp was never stretched but Bunn pulled off a string of fine parries and stretches to prevent a more convincing victory.

Forest’s neat, accurate and fast passing rips holes in your plans but they can be bullied off their safe path. I remain despondent at our predicament but there is much that offers hope about the Blades as yet another new-look collection is fashioned out of the injury-strewn, loanee dressing room. And no matter whether we win or lose, seventh position appears permanently to be ours.

On this evidence we must show patience with the Blades and though the clock never ceases its relentless march, everything comes to he who waits.