It’s Okay, No-one Else Knows What They’re Doing Either
Thank god for the fumblings of others, that’s all I can say. Amazingly we’re still in the hunt.
That said, if we don’t find ourselves sitting above the hallowed water-mark of Champions League infamy come the season’s end, games such as this will be pencilled down as vital episodes in our downfall; where one point was secured, but two implausibly lost. It’ll be filed away with those other niggling results which have loitered in the memory; Everton, Villa, Stoke, Wolves et al. All games in which the margins between success and failure have been vapour thin. And we’ve just come up short.
Then again, perhaps it’ll have no impact at all. There’s every chance we could still jettison an open top bus through the Top Four’s shop window- setting off alarms, twanging pedestrians off the front bumper- and this game will barely be a footnote. An anomaly in an otherwise glory-laden saga. A freak result. Nothing more. Hindsight, I guess, will govern its importance. Let’s hope so. Otherwise the cloud of disappointment will be visible from space.
Boys. We really f*cked it this time.
It should’ve been over within the hour. But for the impenetrable aura of Myhill this may well have been another Wigan. Ridiculous, really, how one man- I’ll admit, unheard of until now- could catalogue that number of astonishing saves in a single game. And, equally, how we could allow him to do so. It looked mathematically unfeasible that it would remain goalless. One after another they cued up to have a bash, from thirty yards to two yards; neither distances from which he could be beaten. Something was amiss and I’m fairly convinced it was the stem-cells I saw him deposit into his lucozade bottle at half-time. They should proably look into that.
Without wishing to point the spotlight in any particular direction at our end, Keane should’ve done better with his efforts; Herculean goalkeeping or not. At point-blank range, the Robbie of old would’ve dispatched both chances without so much as a shrug of the shoulders. So what’s up with him? Lord knows. One thing is for certain, spurn opportunities like that on Wednesday and all the diplomacy in the world wont prevent the ‘Keane Out’ brigade- who I am not yet a member- cranking their boo chords up to eleven. It could get ugly.
The Hull game? Would it be a cop out to suggest it was just one of those days?
Probably. But I’m saying it anyway.
Bring on the Scouse.