Accrington Stanley (a) - League 2 - 19th October 2024
It was about eight o’clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the Holbeck Hills. I was wearing my black jeans, with grey long sleeved Lacoste polo and grey Saucony trainers. I was neat, clean, shaved and momentarily sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four misfiring strikers.
Boarding the Traveller out of Barrow Town, optimism hung in the air like a Scott Maxfield inswinger. A grizzled horde, hunched together as we lurched towards the Lancashire East Side through winding streets. The fitful sun held little attention as we slowly moved towards the steep stacked mill towns.
Accrington. Even the name evoked a lurch in my stomach like a Phil Bolland aerial challenge ducked. Here was where the case had called me. Where were those goals? And why had they become as rare as a Mark Cooper pleasantry?
The door of the bar swung open. I was looking for answers, but there was only Stella and strange accents. As I shivered in the windblown beer garden, the first clue appeared in the form of some unusual numerology. 4…1…2…1…2 .
Eyebrows shot higher than a Jordan White sitter. What did he mean? And where were the wingers? Or even wing backs? Had we just selected the best 11 available and prayed?
It was time, I downed my rum and headed out. The authorities had attempted to sober the oncoming crowds and had somewhat succeeded. A nod to Jonny ‘Beans’ Mangas and security let me through. There was no going back.
I could make out some players playing in the sunshine. They looked like footballers, but football wasn’t taking place. Over to our right side, banners and chants were raised against us and ignored.
Accrington looked like bouncers after a hard shift at Martinis and were in no mood to do anything other than slug it out in a streetfight. A wild overhanging diagonal reached their winger, and he provided the killer punch. Not just the strikers, but our team had disappeared with a body blow.
Goons cavorted as we settled into some heavy confused trudging through phases of play. A shout rang out, goal for Barrow! But wait, someone had got to the referee. He scribbled some madness in his battered notebook. No goal. I went to the half time bar, filled with carpet baggers morosely staring into their pints muttering, and that was just the women.
I glanced at my notes; no answers there, as useful as an Andy Cook match analysis. Dallas; scurries here and there with a ball being smashed at his head. Acquah; big, ineffective. Garner; back to last season in the shadows. Popov; not a striker. Campbell; too deep. Feeley; too reticent.
We had one shot; well we hadn’t… we had one opportunity. The set piece. Jackson swung over, but the bouncers kicked it all away. By this time, we were so desperate we might have re-signed Grant Holt but instead we played tactical tombola. Spence and Campbell ran around, we kept trying. But there were no goals to lift this turgid gloom.
The whistle came. I turned my collar and forced my way back to the waiting Traveller. Past the blind clappers and the weekend meltdowners. Past the angry gesturers and the morose. Angry mothers slugged it out with abusive critics. Parents held their loved ones ears as tightly as an Andy Ferrell rucksack at customs. Words of disappointment filled the air, angry posts were planned.
But there were few clues. These crimes continue. The Curse of Carlisle. Murder versus Morecambe and now the Accrington Assassination. Each 1-0.
And still, no shots rang out as I headed for the County line.
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