Plough Lane Parity

AFC Wimbledon (A) - League 2 - 24th March 2025

For a team that some pundits feel should now be ‘on the beach’ with safety pretty much assured it felt appropriate to be journeying south in shorts for the first time in months. The weather’s turned warmer, the nights are getting lighter and green shoots abound – in life as in The Soccer.

Avanti’s finest got us down to London in good time and whilst some sought sustenance in the ale houses of our capital, with my daughter in tow it was another tour of the shops for a while, followed by Chinese burgers and a Portuguese bakery in Soho for dinner. Eclecticism in line with the away end, later in the day.

From central London there’s many ways to the Wombles. Underground, overground…(sorry) but we plumped for the Northern line to Tooting Broadway. I allowed myself a brief reminiscence over Citizen Smith as we emerged blinking into the light, which went way over my eldest’s head. Never mind. A stroll to the ground and a brief pitstop at the ticket office to sort an administrative issue (I hadn’t saved the tickets to my phone when I bought them…) and a look around the club shop which even at 2pm was a lively throng of folk buying shirts and a some lovely retro 90s pieces. Can you do retro merch for a club that is spiritually you, but not technically? Obviously you can. The mood amongst the home support was confident – after all, if you want to go up, you need to be beating ‘teams like Barrow’. We shall see.

Around the ground to the away end, past the metal detectors and into the asphalt amphitheatre of consumption (it’s not a concourse, it’s not a fanzone, it’s just a space to sup pints…) which was a lot busier than I expected. Granted, the diaspora usually do us proud when we head south but this was a notch above turnouts at places like Bromley. And I barely recognised anyone. A weird feeling. That sounds a bit gatekeeper-ish but with a support of our size, the regulars tend to know the familiar faces. It would seem that international week meant that we were the beneficiaries of groundhopppers from around Europe and beyond looking to take in a game in the

capital. Let’s face it, there’s usually plenty of tickets available when we venture south. Serbs, Italians, French, Swiss, Germans - over and above our usual visitors from Köln – and I’m sure other countries were represented too. But hey, come one, come all. Every woman, every man, join the Canavan of love etc.

Into the game and we started brightly. The borrowed triumvirate upfront were causing problems – Pressley’s presence, Whitfield and Smith bright and alert, worrying the home team’s defensive lumps with their pace and directness. Indeed, if Smith’s control hadn’t let him down (or was it the pitch?) then he might have capitalised on some of the chances that came his way. Wimbledon were true to their spiritual heritage and were direct. Either diagonals to the lads up top or trying to get their widemen behind our wingbacks. Nothing wrong with it, but we handled it with relative ease, Farman being called into serious action just the once when he did well to tip a rasping effort over the bar. Half time, all square, that’ll do and the League of Nations in the away section headed off for a pint and those confident home fans were left to ponder their own team’s ineffectiveness.

Second half and again we started comfortably until we were unstuck by a textbook long ball from Lewis - whose shorts looked like they painted on, the preening sod - which was flicked on and Browne left a fouled Canavan in his wake before rifling a shot into the net. Bugger. But hey, last week showed us that maybe we’re made of sterner stuff recently. Keep the faith. Campbell came on and we changed shape, trying to establish more dominance in central areas. We kept plugging away – with Campbell pulling the strings in midfield - but all too often moves broke down before we could seriously test the home keeper. On 80 minutes a treble substitution as Acquah, Fletcher and Mahoney joined the fray as Whing attempted to freshen things up and rescue a point. Unfortunately it was the home side that notched next – Neufville released down the right, a good ball in and the prolific Stevens found a little bit of space and a good finish increased their lead. Double bugger. One or two had seen enough and headed to the doors. Even the Canadians sat behind me were thinking about but decided to stay put, just in case.

Five minutes later and their decision to stay put began to pay off. A Wombles corner was cleared and the counter was on. White shirts swarmed forward and a deflected Campbell shot found the net. Game on. 6 minutes of added time went up and we continued to press. And then it happened. Farman boomed one forward, Fletcher flicked on to Acquah who rolled his man, played it back to Fletcher who then found Mahoney on the edge of the box. Connor Mahoney. I’ll admit, I’ve not been his biggest fan this season and the penalty miss v Harrogate was for many the nadir of the season thus far. But here he was on the edge of the area and calm as you like stroking it into the net. What a finish. Joy unconfined in the away end as seasoned travellers and Bluebird debutants combined in a whirlwind of humanity. Your correspondent defied middle age to bound down from the back of the stand to the front to the salute the joyous pack of players. This is why we do it. Moments like that. Feelings like that. Being objective, it was ‘only’ an equaliser in what was, for us at least, a dead rubber in terms of the significance of the game but objectivity has no place here. We’d shown spirit, application and no little skill to come back and get something from the game. Credit to the players, credit to Whing and his substitutions. Credit to those who stayed til the end and kept backing them.

The final whistle sounded and the disgruntled locals let out a few half-hearted boos. Maybe ‘teams like Barrow’ aren’t always the soft touch you expect? The away end dispersed back to all points of the globe, buzzing with what they’d witnessed. We headed back up the road to Tooting Broadway and, as is my habit, got talking to a stranger. A lovely lady of a certain vintage, an exiled Bluebird living in Epping. She hailed from Chatsworth St and remembered the night the floodlights were turned on for the first time way back in 1963. I love conversations and encounters like that. Anyway, the Northern line took us back to Euston for cans and sustenance before the journey home.

Having a sup and basking in the reaction on social media I sat back and tried to make sense of it all. In a lot of ways, Wimbledon are a blueprint. Playing-wise, they are big, strong, simple and effective. Fairly basic football but when it works, it is undoubtedly successful in League 2. They haven’t spent a lot of money but what they have spent has been used wisely. Off the pitch, whilst they are pulling 8k home fans in, their ground redevelopment is still underpinned by the flats that encircle the stadium. It’s a sad fact of life but if you’re building new stands these days, they can’t just be stands. They have to have ancillary income baked in – whether it’s flats, a contractor’s hotel, retail units, events space or all of them – if we’re serious about redeveloping Holker Street into a venue that sustains an EFL club then any new stands won’t just be terraces/seats and a concourse.

But that’s for the future, for now I will bask in the warm glow of an injury time comeback and the associated buzz that crackled throughout that away end – feelings like that are why we keep coming back, spending the money and putting in the miles. Onward.

February / March 2025

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