Through The Wind And The Rain - Oldham Daytripper Report
Posted by Veinticinco de Mayo on January 28, 2013, 10:39:10 AM
It started so well. A trouble free and sunny drive 40 miles up the M62 (and 25 years back in time) to Oldham. Some nice scoops of one of the few decent things to come out of Manchester (JWLees Bitter), friendly locals and it was off to the game.
I was trying to get my bearings which was tricky given that the last time I was at Boundary Park was 20 years ago; where in a scary echo of what was to come we saw a Rush double cancelled out by three Oldham goals as our woeful Souness era defence was dismantled with the blunt crowbar of Joe Royle's dogs of war. Oh and Don Hutchison tried out his right hook and got sent off. It wasn't easy as the ground has changed quite a bit, or to be more precise half of it had disappeared, but at least our end had a roof to protect us from the elements - or so we thought.
Get to our spec, Row C behind the goal, shit view, scramble down the other end and they score. Bollocks.
We slowly gain a foothold and Suarez waltzes around their defence and slots past the keeper, pandemonium, red smoke and bangers behind our goal. We create and miss more chances and look like we are going to canter away eventually, until half time approaches and another distant shambolic scramble and another goal. Feck. Half-time, time to brave what Oldham no doubt optimistically refer to as facilities. After 15 minutes in various chilly queues I am wandering back to my seat just as Coates is being destroyed by a journeyman midfielder and we are 3-1 down and look like going out. Rodgers brings on the cavalry and the icy cold wind is supplemented by a nice helping of freezing rain. In your face and cascading off the roof and down your back. Cosy.
It's all huff and puff with little end product and then a goal and hope. More huff. More puff. Gerrard hits the bar. Six minutes of added time, by now we cannot even muster any huff or puff. We peter out ingloriously. The fireworks of earlier now damp squibs.
Final whistle. Inbred Manc morons on the pitch. Swift exit. Miserable trudge across the mudbath of a carpark. 4000 Sambas picking their way timidly through the mire. Back to the Greyhound, too many celebratory locals, hear the draw. Get the fuck out of Dodge.
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