Dave’s Ramblings – Wolverhampton Wanderers
I’m not exactly sure when the Americanisation of our game began, but it’s now gathering pace faster than a VAR review at Old Trafford. First it was the pitchside DJs, then came the goal music – next thing you know we’ll have cheerleaders doing backflips in front of the Matthew Harding.
So yes, welcome everyone to Matchday 11 of the Premier League Soccer Tournament™, brought to you by the fine folks at Who Asked For This Inc.
How long before we hear the announcer booming:
“Welcome to the Bridge! Sponsored by Burger King! Tonight, your very own Chelsea Lions™ take on the Rabid Wolves® in this epic showdown of sporting excellence! Stay tuned at halftime for the Nacho Cam, powered by Pepsi Max!”
At this rate, by next season we’ll be stopping mid-game for a “Tactical Timeout,” with stewards handing out foam fingers that say #GoBluesGo.
Anyway… having sacked their manager for shocking results, Wolves rocked up with two academy coaches in charge. It could’ve been worse, I suppose – they had asked the hot dog sellers to fill in. Sadly they had a previous commitment at a children’s party.
Today I gave up my seat in the Matthew Harding Upper to sit with the posh folks in the Shed Upper. I’ve never heard so many people say “referee, that was simply unacceptable” in my life.
As everyone in the world would have expected, Wolves arrived up to the bridge with a plan so defensive it could’ve doubled as a medieval fortress. They parked everyone in front of goal – players, the team bus, and possibly a few breeze blocks for good measure.
We should’ve scored in the first ten minutes – easily. But, naturally, we didn’t. After that, our attack started to look like someone had unplugged the controller. Suddenly we were out of ideas faster than a politician in a live debate.
What we needed was a Palmer or an Estevão – a bit of magic, a spark, something. Anything. Sadly, our coach decided creativity was optional, and we just sort of… floated into halftime making Wolves look like a proper football team, which is an impressive illusion in itself.
Even Maresca must know that, so I waited patiently for the changes to come. They didn’t. Half-time came and went – and still, no changes. At this point, I’m starting to wonder what tactical manual Maresca’s using. “Carry On Regardless and Hope for the Best: The Boys’ Big Book of Football, 1956 Edition,” perhaps? Complete with diagrams drawn in crayon and a chapter titled “Why Substitutions Are for Cowards.”
That said, after great work by Garnacho, easily our best player on the night, the ball came over for Gusto to score his first ever professional goal. That would force wolves to come out and have a go!
The problem is they did, and we had no idea how to take advantage, or even cope. And still no bloody change!!
Finally – finally! – just after the hour mark, Maresca appeared to have a sudden moment of enlightenment. Perhaps a message from above, or maybe just someone whispering “Estêvão” loudly enough from the stands. Either way, he finally realised what everyone in the western world (and probably a few on Mars) had known for ages: the game needed Estêvão.
On came the boy wonder, replacing the largely invisible Liam Delap who, to be fair, might have contributed more if he’d just pretended to be a traffic cone. Within moments, the energy changed. Estêvão had been on the pitch for about a minute when he set up his fellow Brazilian, João Pedro, for the second goal. Samba football had officially arrived.
Eight minutes later, Garnacho launched a lightning counter-attack, whipped in a perfect cross, and Neto made it 3–0. Game over. Wolves could finally take their bus (and breeze blocks) back home.
Overall, well, that wasn’t exactly one for the highlight reel, was it? Not the best performance ever – in fact, parts of it were so bad even VAR would’ve looked away out of pity – but we’re still the Champions of the World. And if that’s not reason enough to celebrate, we’ve only gone and climbed to second place! Who could have possibly imagined that? (Certainly not anyone who has seen us play on a regular basis.)
Now, I don’t want to sound like a grumpy old bugger – although let’s be honest, that ship sailed long ago – but even sitting in second, something doesn’t quite add up. We seem to be missing those three little things (and probably more) that every team dreams of: consistency, effort, and cohesion.
It’s all starting to feel a bit… Arsenal, isn’t it? Lovely stuff in patches, flashes of brilliance that make you believe we might actually know what we’re doing — and then, just as hope starts to flicker, we spontaneously combust in spectacular fashion.
I truly hope I’m wrong, but if this trend continues, we’ll be the best “almost good” team in history. Still, chin up! We’re in second, the title’s definitely not out of reach, and delusion is half the fun of football anyway.
My takeaways;
I will never understand it – the strange, sad tribe who proudly buy half-and-half scarves. Honestly, if that’s you, please head immediately to getalife.com, fill out the online regret form, and never darken the gates of the Bridge again. Ever.
As for the first half — good grief. “Awful” doesn’t even cover it. The coach once again displayed the tactical awareness of a broken satnav. You could almost hear the players whispering, “What’s the plan?” With the reply being, “Good question.”
But booing your own team? Nah, that’s just daft and wrong on a gazillion levels. If you’re doing that, grab your half-and-half scarf and join the clown parade out the door.
Credit where it’s due, though – Wolves fans were superb. They backed their lot from the first whistle, even managing to sing “we are going down” with more spirit than we showed passing the ball five yards. Proper support, that. Fair play to them.
That said… this Wolves team. My word. They might genuinely go down as one of the worst Premier League sides ever assembled. You can’t help but feel for their fans – they deserve better than watching their owners flog every half-decent player and replace them with the footballing equivalent of a shrug.
Dave M
