If you are one of those people that say “ooh, it’s just another friendly” or worse, “it’s a semi-friendly”, then stop reading now. I bloody love the cups, always have done, so for me this was as competitive as two gladiators fighting dragons (I don’t know who was a gladiator and who was a dragon in the context of this game, but just go with it).
I’m actually not in England at the moment but knew this game was on TV, so the night before I scoped out a local bar to tap the owner up into showing the game for me.
To be fair, I’d visited this bar two years ago to watch us play Birmingham City in the season opener, so I knew what I was getting.
Because the game was on the red button, he made it clear he wouldn’t know if he could show the game until kick-off, or at worst, five minutes after kick-off. To set the scene, the bar has about 18 screens dotted throughout the place and the most random selection of footie shirts you’ve seen pinned to the wall. One of our very own Waitrose classics was displayed very close to the screen I ended up watching.
I faced an anxious wait to see if our game would be shown, so I calmly and expertly ordered a local draught beer – a beer I called “a waiting beer”. As he flicked through the games, it became clear I’d have to wait until after kick-off to see our lads do battle.
Barnsley, Bradford City, Bristol City… Burnley, Burton Albion, Cardiff City all appeared, but not us (side note: those little dots indicate where we should have been).
By now, I was worried. The bar was filling with slicked-back-hair, Asics-wearing West Ham United fans to watch their game against Portsmouth (I mean literally the worst two teams going) on the big screen with the sound, and I was sat there with a local beer, watching the owner cycle through thousands of channels. Just as I’d finished the complimentary BBQ Ruffles, we appeared, like a unicorn in the highlands of Scotland.
Show time!
In celebration, I ordered another local draught beer and settled down, hoping for a) a win and b) to block out the commentary of the other game (which in itself proved to be a skill).
We started well, the kit looking good in the sunshine and the ball being sprayed around well. So good in fact that we actually scored through a comprised strike via the baby-faced assassin Josh Stokes. He really does look about 12 but, if he scores on the regular, I’ll overlook it completely.
The camera panned to the dugout and it was a contrast of styles clothing-wise. Here is my review below:
Leam Richardson: All black. Brave, given the weather. Not a badge in sight. Wouldn’t look wrong on the sidelines of La Liga.
John Coleman: Badged-up. Chunky trainers. Mismatch of colours. Looked like a lost dad at an all-inclusive buffet in Cyprus.
Bromley manager Andy Woodman: Competition winner.
After the goal, it’s not wrong to say we collapsed. We conceded a goal that would have been a shambles for a Sunday league team, let alone a professional outfit that have access to free bottles of water and Powerade.
For me, Joel Pereira is solely to blame for that. Paudie O’Connor had too much on his player with both the striker and the ball, and needed Pereira to come and smash it. He didn’t, got ‘megged and somehow the Bromley fella made it look more difficult to score than miss (seriously, watch it. He looks like a penguin in Piccadilly Circus putting it in the net).
At half-time I was 2.5 beers deep, felt awkward asking for a fourth bowl of complimentary Ruffles and needed a wee. I did the wee first, then ran down the stairs (I forgot to say this bar was on the first floor) and into the local supermarket to buy my own bag of Ruffles and ordered another beer.
Listening to another game while watching ours was seriously testing my patience. At one point, the commentator was talking about a team targeting one of Hull City’s best players. “Why would Bromley be in for him?” I thought to myself and then realised it was West Ham. A genuine Matrix-style feeling that needed a lot of concentration.
The second half was a little better. Kyreece Lisbie was enjoying the fruits of his labour and earned a penalty. Lewis Wing stepped up, hit the post and it ended up going out for a throw-in – something I’d never seen before in my whole life.
From about the 70th minute, I felt it was going to pens and it seemed like both teams agreed with me. We huffed and puffed but couldn’t start the fire and, as such, our first competitive game of the season was decided by death-kicks.
A perfect set of pens and a save from Pereira saw us into the hat of the second round.
Ultimately, we lacked composure in the middle with Wing and Andy Rinomhota. We also didn’t create enough from those spots until Charlie Savage came on, creating four chances in his cameo.
Lisbie looked OK. The rest were pretty average and you’d hope for a much-improved performance against Luton Town in the league opener.
As I left the bar, I made a mental note of how much Sim owed me from the TTE kitty given that I’d left a pool, a beer machine and my sun lounger to roll down a mountain (hill) in 35-degree heat (yes, I know it’s hot at home but this is different heat) to watch this.
I also wondered how I’d feel in February when I’d be walking down Wembley Way to watch our boys in the final of this competition. We can hope, right?
Until next time.
