Bloody hell. I hate football sometimes. I especially bloody hate FA Cup football. After thirty-six seasons, you’d have thought it would get easier. Apparently not.
A 45-minute trundle up the road after work, 7,500 in the Darwen End, and the 16th placed team in the Championship. What could possibly go wrong? Even allowing for our recent form, this was surely an occasion to savour. Support in the heaving away end was suitably raucous and full-throated. An evening of unconfined celebration lay ahead.
Then we kicked off.
Unshakeable certainty gave way to calm optimism. Optimism gave way to puzzlement. Puzzlement gave way to fear. Fear gave way to please-for-the-love-of-God-let-this-be-over desperation. Why do we do this to ourselves?
Precisely two rows back from the pitch, your correspondent is not best placed to offer insightful analysis of the patterns of play and what exactly went wrong. But once more we seemed slow and laboured in possession, devoid of imagination and too often and too easily opened up.
Clearly we didn’t know how to solve the puzzle we faced, unable to unlock a team that sat deep in front of us and invited us to find a way through. It seemed to me that Schär spent far (far) too much time with the ball at his feet, as if he were the key. He’s not.
Give or take the odd player, this was a team that this season had beaten Paris Saint Germain, Arsenal, and Man United. Twice. How is that possible? Surely it was only a matter of time before Bruno’s technical superiority, Isak’s innate brilliance, or the welcome return of Willock’s pace and endeavour would see us home.
Nope.
In fact, we were fortunate to make it to half-time on level terms, indebted to a couple of smart saves from Dúbravka, the soon-to-be shootout hero. It seems it’s not just Arsenal who can embarrass us at the back, nor just Bournemouth or Forest or Luton. I’m at a loss.
Our unlikely saviour was Miggy, summoned from the bench on the hour with Miley and Barnes. For ten minutes he was electric, bringing energy and pace which only showed how leaden-footed we had been beforehand. He buzzed and harried as only he can, eventually teeing up erstwhile striker Gordon for the simplest of finishes a couple of minutes after the latter had fluffed a one-on-one.
And breathe. Except we couldn’t. Miggy reverted to type and the momentum subsided. Dubs seemed to have saved us again, tipping a shot onto the bar, only for muscle-bound short-arse Szmodics to knock in the rebound and send us wearily into extra time. Yet again we had Dubs to thank for a smart late block and another to get us to the safe haven of penalties. It really is saying something when penalties come as a relief.
Am I being harsh? Probably. To be fair, Gordon or Longstaff should have scored, as should Bruno or Barnes. On another evening we might be ticking off a job well done in a tricky away tie against a team who were clearly up for it, especially given our lack of confidence. Winning is all that matters, I hear you cry, and we won’t be worrying how we got there if May sees us back at Wembley. We forget how poor we actually were at times in the League Cup last season. Palace, anyone? Bournemouth? True enough.
Unfortunately, that ignores the sheer weight of evidence that’s now made an unanswerable case against this team. Until last night I still thought that we were fundamentally a good side, just one that was underperforming. That in time things would right themselves, that our blue chip players would turn things around. That a late run would see us sneak into Europe and that this really was our year in the Cup.
Now? I see a team and manager who have no answers, locked in a cycle of mediocrity, players like Murphy, Longstaff, and Almirón playing as they did under Bruce. If a side plays like shite, defends like shite, and looks like shite, it might just be, for want of a better word, shite.
There is no corner that will be turned, no miraculous return to form, no fit-again players to magically restore us. It just isn’t going to happen. That’s the real lesson from Ewood Park. In the end, I just wanted us to be put out of our misery.
By the time Fab rolled his trademark piss-take penalty into the corner, a zen-like calm had descended over me. What will be, will be and all that.
Turns out what will be, will be one more match to take us to Wembley. Turns out we’re lethal clinical penalty masters. Turns out we’re only bloody well still in the FA Cup.
Turns out I love football. Especially FA Cup football. I love it almost as much as I hate it.
Matthew Philpotts
Sophie Anderson, a UK-based writer, is your guide to the latest trends, viral sensations, and internet phenomena. With a finger on the pulse of digital culture, she explores what’s trending across social media and pop culture, keeping readers in the know about the latest online sensations.
