It's not what you do, it's who you do it with vs Stockport (L2)

I don't know if you can all remember that far back, but early on in the season we had a little trip down to Upton Park (The Boleyn Ground, if you're being pedantic or accurate!). As well as being a great evening's football only spoiled by a last gasp goal by our opponents, it was a special night for me as I took a long time (but not met up with enough) London based friend with me to the match. Let's call him Mic. Good idea, because that's his name. We have in fact been friends ever since our school days - which for those that know me will realise is quite some time ago! It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening for many reasons, and we decided to do it again some time.

That time had arrived when the Stockport game arrived. An odd selection of match you might think, but explained once I tell you that there was a third member of our little 'crew' who is now resident oop north - not a million miles from Edgeley Park, home of Stockport County. Mic and I travelled up together in my old jalopy, stopping only at Stafford services for a comfort break (that means we went for a wee but is apparently more polite). Mic was faintly amazed that people were coming up to me and saying how much they enjoyed this blog. I basked briefly in the cyberfame before admitting that only about ten people know who I am, and for some reason most of them were at Stafford services!

We had arranged to meet Toby (the Third Man) outside the Royal Oak in Stockport. Despite a bit of a walking tour round Stockport, we eventually managed to all meet up, for the first time in God knows how many years. The idea of the pub appealed, but none of us had eaten so we decided to try a local cafe instead and leave the beer until later. I know - lightweights!

We chose from the 'extensive' menu - two of us selecting a panini (I thought that was a football sticker!). It was a bit odd when the 'panini' turned out to be a toasted sandwich - or at least the contents of what should have been in the panini between two slices of toast, which isn't really a toasted sandwich at all, is it? Thinking that this might be some sort of odd northern custom we all kept quiet in our soft southern way, rather than offering all and sundry outside, or threatening to sue for mental anguish. Eventually the mystery was solved when they admitted that they had actually ran out of paninis and gave us a free bowl of chips as some sort of compo. Result!

We were just polishing off our gourmet meal with about half an hour to go before kickoff when a soft scottish voice at my shoulder asked if he could borrow the vinegar from our table. Of course, Steve Kinniborough, feel free. Turning round, sat at the corner table was Ben Purkiss with a plate full of chips (bloody sportsmen and their health foods), which would have obviously been awful without vinegar. Steve and Ben were all tracksuited up, but (call me Poirot) I suspected that they weren't in the squad for the match, since a bite to eat in a cafe isn't the usual prematch routine I'd expect from finely-honed athletes. Steve settled down to his green soup (looked horrible) and a salad roll - marginally more healthy. We left and made our way to the gound.

Edgeley Park is actually OK, despite the 'garden shed' song, although the away stand is uncovered. As all travelling suporters know, that generally makes for less atmosphere, with noise just floating away rather than building. Luckily it wasn't raining. Being a man with forethought (and of course hindsight) I'd provided Oxford scarves for my mates, so we were all kitted out - and the number of the Us supporters gradually swelled to about 600.

The pitch. Ah, the pitch. I'm not sure how to describe it really. Agricultural? Sandy? Muddy? Cut up? Awful. All of the above. It certainly played a part in the match. The teams were announced, through a very echoey PA system. My sleuthing skills were vindicated, with Pukiss and Kinniborough not making the squad. Let's just hope we don't need a fullback amoung the subs, eh! In fact there were no changes from the team that had lost at home to Hereford and away to Lincoln. Hmm. I wasn't sure about that before the Lincoln game, and now I was even less so. We are supposed to have a decent squad. Tinkering with a winning team might be daft, not tinkering with a losing one is probably dafter.

Still, Stockport are rubbish - so surely we could still get something out of the game...

After a bit of action in the Stockport goalmouth early on, nothing happened.

Half time...

Oh, you want a bit more than that. Ok. Heslop was booked after a late challenge, Clarke saved a free kick, Craddock had a shot blocked after a decent move, Tonks was booked, Craddock shot over (he was leaning back at about 45 degress, so no surprise), Tonks made another challenge at least as bad as his first but somehow got off with a final warning and Stockport probably should have gone ahead just before half time, but the shot curled past Clarke's right hand post when it could snuck inside the post just as easily.

Those are the facts (or at least what I remember). But the story of the half was really that there were two terribly poor teams playing terribly poor football on a terrible pitch. Oxford were even worse than they had been against Lincoln. For the first few minutes of the half, Stockport had looked like a team who expected to lose. Once they realised that we weren't going to challenge for the ball in midfield and that our attack was powderpuff, they grew in confidence. Not in ability mind you. But they were no worse than the boys playing in the 'Spurs' white and blue away kit. Our passing was woeful, our touch dreadful. There was little or no pattern to our play, with head-tennis being the order of the day for long periods. Movement was poor and effort seemingly lacking. It had been a dreadful half of football.

Half time (OK, now?). My friends were trying to be kind about the standard of football, and had enjoyed the songs and banter. I'd particularly like to mention the chap behind me who said 'Shit, shit, shit, shit' in a very worried voice everytime Stockport came near our goal (he could obviously read my mind!) and the bloke a few feet away who appealed for a 'handball!' every time a Stockport player touched the ball with any part of his body, including feet. An optimist. Most refs in league 2 don't seem to give a handball when it really is one - the chances of him doing so otherwise were fairly slim! The favourite food around me was upside down meat pie in a sea of mushy peas. Looked disgusting but, from all the contented muching around me, obviously tasted lovely.

What would I have done at half time? I'd have made some changes. Tonkin was obviously walking a very thin line. Shame our other fullbacks were probably still mopping up the remains of their prematch nosh in the cafe. I'd still have taken him off, and rejigged the defence. Maybe bringing Sangare on in the middle and moving Jake out to the left. In both midfield and attack we'd been feeble, so I would have brought Hackney or Clist on for Heslop who isn't firing on all cylinders at the moment. As always, CW didn't do any of the above, preferring to give the existing players a few minutes to show what they could do.

After five minutes of the second half, that looked like a brilliant decision, and showed why CW is a football manager and I'm not. Beano managed to get a flick on, Seve Maclean passed in to Craddock who slotted it under the goalie and between his legs to put us one up. It was probably the first time in the match that we had moved the ball quickly, and a forward had actually tried to run through the Stockport defence to recieve a through ball. It had paid dividends. We would surely go on to win the match now. Mic and Toby were cheering as much as everyone else, and joy in the Oxford end was unconfined. You could actually see the Stockport players' shoulders droop.

But (great credit to them) they picked themselves up and went on the attack, forcing a decent block from the shaggy haired Wright. Then it all went quiet on the pitch for a bit, with the ball going up in the air, and both teams giving the ball away as if they were playing some bizarre variant of pass the parcel.

An odd substitution saw Simon Clist come on for Paul McLaren. I am presuming that Mclaren was suffering from an injury, as there were two midfielders I would have hooked off before him. As soon as McLaren went off, we started to lose even more of the midfield.

Then with about 20 minutes of the half gone, Tonkin mistimed another challenge and the inevitable happened. We were down to ten men. Why Tonks hadn't been subbed I don't know. He's having a bit of a mare at the moment, poor bloke. An own goal at Lincoln and now this. Clist went to left back to fill the hole. That left a midfield of Hall and Heslop with Craddock, MacLean and Beano up front. There was a big MacLaren shaped hole in midfield now. In another odd move, MacLean came off and Alfie Potter came on. We needed someone in central midfield. Not a pacey little striker. Payne and Sangare were picking splinters out of their bums. Surely either would have been a more solid choice.

We were now playing 4-4-1 with a midfield of Hall, Heslop, Potter and mostly Craddock, sometimes Constable. Now I know I am stating the bleeding obvious, but that doesn't loook like a 'battling, let's protect our lead' sort of midfield. It looks more like a 'bugger, I don't trust some of the players on the bench' midfield. Well, whether it is obvious or not, the midfield was now a challenge-free zone. We dropped back, and back, and back. Tackles were missed or not even attempted. But we were still one up. There was only a quarter of an hour to go, and when a Stockport cross fizzed across the face of our goal without getting what seemed certain to be a decisive touch, it looked like it might be our day.

Hope - dashed more often than not.

Clarke came out and challenged for a ball pumped into the penalty area and punched, the ball fell to a Stockport player who passed it to a teammate who had the whole goal to aim for. He couldn't miss - and didn't. He had been standing exactly where a decent central midfielder would have been. Pfft. Maybe a point was OK. Well really it wasn't, if we were to harbour any realistic expectations of a play off place. Perhaps CW agreed, as Hackney came on to add some pace to the attack, replacing Tom Craddock.

Stockport could smell blood though, and they certainly didn't want to settle for a point. Their ambition almost cost them as they pushed forward, with Hackney latching onto a through ball. The keeper came out, Hackney lobbed him. The Us supporters behind the goal tried to suck the ball in, but it didn't have enough pace to escape the attentions of a Stockport defender, who hooked it away, out of danger. We were now well into stoppage time.

Stockport then won the game. A blue shirted player simply ran though the centre of our non-tackling midfield, which parted in much the same way as the red sea did for some bloke with a beard. Our northern Moses was given the whole of the goal to shoot at. He shot, he scored, we lost. Match over. Maybe even season over? The decent ref blew the whistle, much as we had blown the match.

My long-suffering friends were consoling, the mood amoung the faithful was extremely pissed off. But (as per the title of this article), it's not what you do, it's who you do it with. The disappointment of the match couldn't spoil my day (usually I'm like a bear with a sore head when we have lost) - meeting up with old friends was too great a pleasure. And besides, after the Hereford and Lincoln matches I was already fairly convinced that midtable mediocrity would be our fate this season. Something has gone badly wrong - how can a team that looked so good against Bradford look so slow and unskilful against Stockport. As we walked back to the car, a Stockport lass leaned out of her car, and shouted 'we are staying up' with a huge smile. 'Im afraid you're not, love' was my reply. They were dreadful, we were worse. But we have 16 more points than them - and that's the difference.

Thoughts afterwards...

None. We went and met Clare, Toby's better (much better :) ) half, had a lovely curry and went to the pub. Football is important, but it pales into insignificance when compared to the value of true friends.

Bleeuugh. Sorry, came over all schmaltzy there for a moment.

A great weekend, the only blemish a crappy football match.