There are two types of supporter I hate. There are the colourless,
wit-free meathead fisticuff type which Cardiff has almost seemed to
nurture and encourage over the years. Then there are the glory-seeking,
fan-for-life but settee-bound one-eye-always-on-Liverpool type of which
about 10,000 were in attendance at Ninian Park last night. There's nothing like an FA Cup semi final to get a club out of
administration.
Sensibly, nee astutely, Cardiff City had deemed that season ticket
holders aside, anyone who wanted a prized ticket for Wembley against
Barnsley needed to keep their stub from the Championship match with Hull
City. Lo and behold, lots of fans emerged from nowhere. Bumper crowd
(well, 18,000).
The reason I'm telling you all this is that a) it meant that City's
sparse travelling contingent were considerably out-shouted; and b) your
reporter had a struggle parking. And therefore missed the only goal of the whole fucking match. Sorry about that.
So, I use word of mouth and other reports to say that Stephen McPhail,
from the second ball of a set-piece, delivered one of those spot-rooting
overhead kicks after fewer than 50 seconds, the kind of which did for
Boaz Myhill at Bristol City and did so again here.
The text alert informing me came through as I was putting the car in
easily the most illegal place I've ever parked it. It was almost as if
I'd driven it through the front wall of South Wales Police HQ and asked
"okay if I leave it here for a couple of hours? Sorry about the rubble."
Anyway, something like 300 had made a similarly long and awkward and
rather nervy trip to watch the Tigers. One terrain of empty terracing
separated us from an over-full section of bellowing Welshmen (and boys)
desperate to watch a Championship match of insignificance to the home
side, just so they can get a ticket for the semi-final of a competition
they won't win, with the secondary prize being a place in a European
competition they can't enter, due to being Welsh. Which is an
outstanding reason to bar anyone from anything, frankly.
City were unchanged from the tonking of Scunthorpe United, and had that
"chance of a lifetime" air about them as other clubs looking longingly
at the top six collectively lost 24 hours earlier. Myhill; Ricketts,
Turner, Brown, Dawson; Garcia, Marney, Ashbee, Pedersen; Campbell, Fagan.
And the Tigers proceeded to dominate possession, keep it simple and
slick, without really creating the sort of gilt-edged chance which
should have been put away. We never looked like scoring.
Craig Fagan, in amber boots (and this was bang on, shirt-matching
amber), was deeply ineffective. It's as if he felt the boots were the
making of him, and his Premier League class and awesomeness would
naturally follow. Those who hailed the second coming of our most
overrated and overvalued player of recent years should remember that he
is a striker who doesn't score and a winger who doesn't cross. He's also
now a primadonna who doesn't deliver, judging by his performance and
footwear in Cardiff. He did change his boots at half time, possibly
because Brian Horton told him he looked stupid.
We lost Wayne Brown to injury midway through the half, but where Neil
Clemen's patent left-footedness caused imbalance and nervousness at
Bristol, his introduction to the left side of central defence was
tailor-made, and he looked comfortable and assured. We may just have
signed a very important player, provided he isn't square-pegged into any
more round holes.
City took a step up as half time drew near. Henrik Pedersen and Fraizer
Campbell give Richard Garcia some room, but City's only benefit was a
corner from a deflected shot. Dawson finds room on a shrouded overlap
but his shot is skewed wide. Then Sam Ricketts cuts between two blue
shirts and, with the anti-Swansea vitriol from all angles making his
ears bleed, belts a grasscutter straight at Enckelman.
Half time, and as City fans ponder the prospects for the second half,
the world's most bombastic tannoy announcer introduces yet another
bombastic tannoy announcer, and they provide 15 minutes worth of bombast
about the FA Cup semi final and less relevant stuff. Your author
contemplates his barely edible hot dog and hopes for a recovery, a la
Norwich, rather than a luckless bit of domination, a la Bristol City. The latter, sadly.
City had almost all of the ball in the second half. This is not
exaggeration. The problem was that the crossing, the forward play, the
general requirement of sparkle was entirely absent. Fagan spent more
time on the left than strictly necessary; Garcia wandered with less
purpose than we now respectfully expect from him; Pedersen shifted up
front when the manager hauled Campbell off (wrong) and threw the
returning Hughes on. Though Hughes stuck to the left flank, there seemed
to be confusion about what Garcia and Fagan were meant to do.
To that end, the ball did reach the Cardiff box on the odd occasion.
Ricketts crosses, Pedersen's header is deflected for a corner. Hughes
puts one in, it evades everyone. As things get more desperate, Ian
Ashbee starts shooting on sight (skies the ball) and Michael Turner
becomes a permanent centre forward as the clock ticks down the last
seven minutes. Dean Marney, sometimes effective, sometimes not, makes
room for a deft ball in which again nobody takes a chance on chasing.
Corners are forced but these are cleared by defenders or grasped by
Enckelman with way too much ease.
The final whistle is greeted with glee by those many people who Want To
Go To Wembley (and that tannoy bloke starts an unspeakable song to that
effect as the supporters traipse off) and dejection by the City fans.
Our position is still ours to enhance, and maybe it is always a bit much
to expect to gain points from everywhere when a division is as equal as
ours. Plus the return of Jay Jay Okocha after Saturday will revive the
sparkleless midfield. But of the four games we've played in our busy
March, we've now lost two and so getting something from the sides
hovering round the drop zone (or in the case of Colchester, entrenched
firmly in it) becomes more crucial. So that'll be teams like
Southampton, Colchester and Leicester then, to throw three entirely
random examples your way. Who have we got coming up, by the way?
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