Dead Rubber SoUL

Chesterfield (H) - League 2 - 29th March 2025

"Football is the last sacred ritual of our time."

- Pier Paolo Pasolini

Ritual? More like routine when the game is as pointless as Barrow AFC vs Chesterfield, mid-table in late March?

There's comfort in routine safety and the chance to enjoy football unencumbered by angst. A cracking run of 'never say die' performances, with a little luck thrown in, has propelled us to mid-table mediocrity. How other, wealthier outfits with much bigger infrastructures and fan bases would crave such a position.

A chance to amble down to League Two 2025-2026 Stadium Holker Street - soon to be home of Cumbria's only EFL football team. A chance to see friends, family and football. It might even be interesting - well, it might! But even if it isn't, the bassline of the football season beats on regardless.

Ritual, routine and rite of passage too. My wife and I waved our 13-year-old grandson off through the turnstile - black jacketed, jeans and a pair of Spezials: off to join the 'youth' on the Holker End with mates.

Was that a tear in the eye as the next generation took their place on the teenage terrace catwalk?

Actually, it turned out to be the customary gale force wind and rain that accompanies any attempt by the club to sell ice cream and waffles outside in springtime.

Of course, some having made the shorts decision were resolutely striding through puddles whereas in the Main Stand, older visages peered out of anoraks; like a craggy Mount Rushmore as the game kicked off. We settled into the first seven rows who are routinely soaked from October to April.

This time of the season is a chance to try things. Bailey had another go at the Gerry Cinnamon 'Discoland' version from YouTube. A brave, cheery attempt to whip us into vague consciousness.

"I don't like this shit" was the response beside me to the Glaswegian cacophony that followed through the speakers.

There was more, but not universal, pleasure at the sight of Wyll Stanway getting a start, and apparently a run of games, as Paul Farman allegedly gets ready to depart for another Wildean episode, probably with half our midfield in tow.

Anyway, the ball zipped off the turf as two well-matched sides tried mostly fruitless 'diags' after a little bit of interplay. Andy Whing was in crouching Viking mode as he entreated more pressing and hard running.

Ollie Banks was visiting - a player I'd enjoyed watching in a poor side and just as I remembered him. Cultured, strong, athletic, but not a racing thoroughbred and you'd be running him over the wet ground at Catterick; rather than a summer sprint at the Epsom Derby. In short, a decentish League Two footballer.

It elevated momentarily and Aaron Pressley, willing and committed as ever, cantered clean through from a great ball. However, his first touch was hoof-like and the great chance was gone.

The weather worsened and the stand roof began to thrum alarmingly as Chesterfield racked up fouls. Ben Whitfield put over a variable set of crosses and free kicks but in that wind, little more was expected. We trundled to half time.

Sweet Caroline! Well, not that sweet really as hospitality guests scurried for the exits and I marvelled at the variety of effort some had (or hadn't) made to dress for the occasion. Bailey reaching a breathless climax of sponsor announcements and we soldiered through the break as the Holker Street swirl changed direction.

When does a probing long ball become just lashing it forward? Probably somewhere around mid-table League One, I reflected as things got looser and feistier.

Where we'd been marginally more proactive first half they were beginning to play the conditions better and grow in confidence.

In such contests it is centre halves such as Grimes of Chesterfield - built sounding and playing like a Dickensian villain - who flourish. We looked a bit leggy in transitions, as Andy Whing later alluded to and there was a grumpy stramash as an advantage was called back about three hours after the challenge. Grimes and Canavan were called together like gnarled rugby number eights to speak to their respective packs.

Then, the moment happened for Chesterfield. Wyll Stanway had done well to punch clearly away but the ball was eventually recycled and a shot took a wicked deflection which nestled in the Barrow net.

Chesterfield celebrated with some generic chanting from the Carlisle school of innovation. Our stand creaked and groaned in response.

Then a flurry of substitutions from Barrow, with even Kouyate brought from the deep freeze who enlivened and frustrated in equal measure.

Deano, who'd had a bit of a stinker second half was brought off. Sam Foley came on and tried to interject a bit of urgency, but nothing really went right.

And that was that. We'd been edged out in the 'battle for 14th' as some wag labelled it back in the Cross Bar. Shivering around the table, we reflected on where we were in this topsy-turvy season. We've underachieved overall probably, but not by as much as we would have thought in halcyon September.

Barrow are at the level we deserve to be - League Two. With a squad of pretty honest, reasonably paid journeymen with the odd sprinkle of quality. And once the sound of chattering teeth abated, that actually felt pretty good.

Ritual? Routine? Rite of Passage? Or Natural Order? I could happily get used to that, five years in.

On we sail through calmer waters, while others plunge the watery depths. Where's my bucket and spade?

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