Kev is meeting me there. It’s walking distance from his house (so he got a bus). ‘Didn’t wanna be late’. Good man. We have a pre-match snifter in The Fleece. Beer choice not great but there were plenty in and the atmosphere was convivial. Ideal for Seel Park, 5 minutes away. While relieving myself, I was asked if I was off to the football. ‘Certainly am. You?’ ‘No.’
The entrance to Seel Park is pretty grand, especially the gates. ‘The cream of the Pennines’ it declares, and who am I to argue? The hills rise up beyond the far side and gives one something to marvel at beyond where the hell is Hednesford, tonite’s visitors. (I’ve since googled it; that and Cannock appear to merge together. I can’t believe it’s so close to Lichfield, where my in-laws live. I’ve never seen a sign for Hednesford. Cannock, however...)
Having got a drink from the large social club (‘capacity 120’ the programme tells me) we step out onto the terrace outside and appear surrounded by Brummie voices. It’s the away contingent, and one follower of the Pitmen collars us. I know he’s a fan of theirs cos he has a helmet on with ‘The Pitmen’ scrawled upon it. Nice touch. He knows we think they’re buying their way to promotion and expects Mossley to kick them all over the park ‘like they did last year’. Kev is quick to defend our position as neutrals, as fervent as Peter denying Jesus (have I got the right Biblical story there?) I was quite happy to be mistaken for a Mossley diehard. There’s worse things in life to be. And I don’t know about buying their way up, but it seems only yesterday Hednesford was a Conference side and in the FA Cup 4th round. ‘Yesterday’ turns out to be the late 1990s.
We’re on a decent sized terrace. In fact, Seel Park has a quite a few steps of terrace everywhere and could easily hold 6,000+, though official capacity is 4,500, with 200 seats. We’re in the open, but to our right is a covered terrace 10 steps or more high. Opposite is another covered terrace, slightly smaller and maybe half the length of the pitch, straddling the halfway line. Attendance here is sparse, as most home fans settle on this side, including the stand, high up behind a paddock. The far end is open, but is also a decent sized terrace. Everything here is a ‘decent size’. I bemoan (bewonder?) to Kev how a side like Mossley have a better ground than his (former league) side Darlo. He knows.
Another thing Mossley have in their credit is one of the most undulating playing surfaces I’ve seen in a long time. It’s all over the place. Up a bit here, down a lot there. Never change it. And at least it’s grass. And it didn’t stop the only goal of the game, a quite frankly absolutely brilliant half volleyed screamer into the top(ish) corner from 20 odd yards. Even better, we were right behind it. The kind of goal even opposition supporters would applaud, though none did. 37 minutes was the golden goal. Kev had 90, sold to him by the smartest looking steward I’ve ever seen. Fair play to the Mossley chairman for getting his hands dirty and mucking in, encouraging people to buy a programme or a golden goal ticket. I liked the cut of his jib.
At the opposite end of the enthusiasm spectrum was the match announcer. What a barrel of laughs he must be. He puts the ‘dead’ in ‘deadpan’, though until tonite, I’d never known I needed to know the half-time Clitheroe score. Now I’m not sure I can cope with going to a game and not being given it.
It’s end to end, with both sides missing chances, balls cleared off the line, saves by the keepers. We wonder how it remains at one-nil, but it does. Oh, and the train home? Next one after full-time was 22:15. I was home by then. Vroom vroom!
The Damage:
£10 ent
£3 prog
= £13
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