Tag Archives: Southern League

Tales From The Hot Corner

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us naaaa.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

 “Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From The Top Of The Pyramid

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 26 December 2016.

There was a time when Boxing Day crowds were the largest of them all. It was a general rule of thumb that the much-loved FA Cup tended to produce gates which were bigger than domestic League games, and that the crowds which poured through the turnstiles on December 26th each season tended to produce the highest attendance figures each year.

Of course, these days in the user-friendly, high-octane, internationally-branded, ultra-commercialised and well-loved world of English football – or at least the Premiership, the pinnacle at the top of the league pyramid – gates are usually sell-outs, with near-capacity crowds commonplace. These days, Boxing Day games are – sadly – just another game. Sure, there is the tingle of football the day after Christmas Day, but that extra-special buzz of the game being one of the biggest days of the season has largely gone.

The FA computer has tended to give us home games on recent Boxing Days. Our 2016/2017 appointment with Eddie Howe’s Bournemouth would be our tenth home game on Boxing Day in thirteen seasons (in 2010/2011, there was no game on Boxing Day.) This suits me. I’d rather travel to SW6 on the day after Christmas than have to drive to other points of the compass. On Boxing Day 2012, the computer paired us with Norwich City and I just could not be arsed. But I haven’t missed too many over the past twenty seasons. In 2014, I stayed at home and missed a home game with West Ham United, in order to spend a last Boxing Day with my dear mother.

Boxing Day 2016 gave us the chance to win a club-record twelfth consecutive league game.

Would we do it?

The mood in the Chuckle Bus was positive.

A few games back, I talked about the chance to win our five games against West Bromwich Albion, Sunderland, Crystal Palace, Bournemouth and Stoke City, but never really expected it to happen. But here we were on the cusp of twelve, maybe thirteen.

With Costa and Kante out, it seemed obvious to us who Conte would bring in.

“Batshuayi and Fabregas – easy.”

It seemed odd that we were playing at 3pm on a Boxing Day. Often our games are early kick-offs. In the pubs beforehand, it took a while for things to get busy. Ironically, we live three hours away, but have easier journeys in than Londoners on Boxing Day, with public transport so severely hit.

We popped into “The Goose”, “The Pensioner” and “The Fox & Pheasant.” There were drinks with friends from near and far.

Rob was celebrating the fortieth anniversary of his first-ever Chelsea match, give or take the odd day. Like me, Rob was eight when he saw us play for the very first time. His match was the iconic home game against local rivals Fulham in a Second Division fixture. The attendance that day has become more famous with every passing season. Although we won 2-0, the gate of 55,003 won all of the awards. As an eleven-year-old schoolboy, it amazed and thrilled me that my club could draw such numbers for a game in the second tier of English football. Ironically, it was our last-ever home gate of over 50,000. But it is typical of the size of crowd that was enticed to football stadia over the Christmas period.

Another example of this is a game that I attended, and again against Fulham, and which took place in December 1982. We were dire at the time, sinking fast towards the relegation zone, and previous home gates numbered 6,903, 8,184 and 8,690. The game against Fulham, who were enjoying a fantastic season, drew a gate of 29,797. I was ecstatic that we could pull such numbers. I can remember that I watched from The Shed – it was a 0-0 draw – and I can still remember standing out in the forecourt at the end of the game waiting for my parents to appear from their seats in the East Upper. Thousands of fellow fans streamed past before I spotted my parents. I was numbed – and again thrilled – that so many people could be lured from their warm and cosy homes to watch us in the second tier.

Moments like that evidently stick with me.

We were able to talk to a few friends from the US – John from Los Angeles, Nick from Fresno and Austin from Houston – and it’s always a joy to see their obvious enthusiasm. It would be Nick’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.

Chris 1974, Rob 1976, Nick 2016. It goes on.

The team news broke through and we were pretty shocked.

No Batshuayi.

Glenn summed things up : “That will do nothing for the young lad’s confidence. He obviously doesn’t rate him.”

I told Austin of my feelings : “I’ve only just got my head around 3-4-3, I can’t get my head around this false nine stuff.”

It has never convinced me.

I wondered if it would be like ninety minutes of foreplay.

And if so, would we keep a clean sheet?

We walked along Fulham Road – from the East, it doesn’t happen too often – and it was magnificent to be out and about on such a crisp, bright and expectant Boxing Day.

Here was the buzz that I was hoping for. Fantastic.

As the day would progress, I would be keeping an eye on my local team Frome Town’s progress at home to Basingstoke Town in the seventh tier of our national game. It would be a good day for gates in that league too. Frome are currently in sixth place – a highest-ever league position in 112 years.

Bournemouth had brought a full three-thousand. There was a full house, or as near as could be expected. A few no-shows. The Peter Osgood banner in The Shed always seems more relevant over Christmas.

“BORN IS THE KING.”

Eddie Howe’s team are known for their football being played “the right way” but for the first fifteen minutes his players pushed, hacked, tripped and clipped anyone in royal blue. The ire of the home fans rose with each bad challenge. At last, Jack Wilshere was booked for an assault on Eden Hazard.

The atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was typical of a Boxing day of late; morgue-like. A loud and proud chant of “Red Army” was repeated rhythmically from the far corner and the home support momentarily responded with song.

It was all Chelsea for the majority of the first quarter of the game, with Moses and Pedro creating chances, but with no real threat on goal. Bournemouth were unsurprisingly packing their defence, but on twenty-four minutes, we were treated to a little Christmas magic. Cesc Fabregas touched the ball to Pedro, who was hemmed in, with red and black shirts ahead of him. He twisted, created a little space and chipped the ball, with pace, up and over Artur Boruc. I watched open-mouthed as the ball hit the net.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just after, the loathed Wilshere broke into a little space inside our box and forced a fine save from Thibaut Courtois. For all of our attacking prowess over the past few months, Thibaut has been as good as any. In the match programme, there was a sublime photograph, taken at pitch level behind the goal, of his finger-tipped save at Sunderland.

Hazard broke from deep, twisting and turning like a snake, and was creating merry hell for Howe’s players. Just as impressive was Pedro, a picture of relentless motion, never still, always moving. We gasped as a loose ball on the edge of the box was met by a rabona from Hazard. The shot was aiming for the top corner but Boruc was able to claw it away. Wilshere then followed up from a blocked Bournemouth free-kick but thankfully his low shot was cleared. This was turning into a fine game of football. Matic was impressing me with his tackling and tracking. Willian was full of energy. There were, however, a number of times that a ball fizzed across the box yelling out for a Diego Costa touch.

Rob, the birthday boy, sits just a few rows behind me in the MHU, ironically on roughly the same piece of terra firma that he watched forty years ago, and he wanted me to take a candid photo of him on his anniversary.

“I want it you to take it without me knowing, au naturel.”

“Well, I’m not taking my clothes off for you or anyone, Rob.”

Shortly after, I snapped away.

A Fabregas free-kick just cleared the bar.

Just before half-time, the referee Mike Jones allowed Bournemouth to play the advantage after a foul, but after a shot was hit high and wide, he annoyed us all by giving them a free-kick too. Howls of derision were still ringing around the stadium as the resulting shot hit the wall.

At half-time, Frome were 0-1 down.

There were still crisp blue skies overhead as the second-half began. A typical run from Eden Hazard deep in to the Bournemouth penalty area caused Simon Francis to make a clumsy challenge. Eden calmly slotted the penalty home, low to Boruc’ left.

We were 2-0 up and coasting now. The atmosphere had not exactly been tense, but at last we could relax a little. The twelfth win in a row was on the cards. Our play remained high quality. Shots from Hazard, Moses and Willian came close. We hounded Bournemouth when they had possession, and broke with menace when we were able to steal the loose ball.

Although Hazard was showing – dare I say it – world class form, Pedro really caught the eye with his energetic display. Willian, though not able to create a great deal, was able to support his team mates well. Fabregas was a calming presence throughout. On more than one occasion I was mesmerized by our one-touch football. At the back, David Luiz was again exceptional.

The Shed, especially, had a great second-half, with a constant array of songs. On one or two occasions, their noise threatened to envelope the entire stadium. The Matthew Harding showed willing, but the spectators in the East and West Stand were still waiting for formal introductions to take place before joining in.

I’m certainly not a fan of the dirge-like “Chelsea Till I Die” song though; myself and a few mates always said that it used to be sung by middling teams from lower divisions. It’s hardly sung by any of the bigger teams. Let Birmingham City, Derby County and Ipswich Town have it. It’s not a Chelsea song. It was, if I am honest, the very first time that I can ever remember it being sung loudly enough at Stamford Bridge for me to hear it. Which is why I mention it now.

There was one lovely moment towards the end of the game. Fabregas had been fouled and fell right in the path of Eden. Rather than stop and await the referee’s whistle, Eden just flicked the ball over Cesc’s body. What a giggle.

In a rare attack from Bournemouth, substitute Afobe’s low shot was superbly blocked by Courtois. Every one of our damn players are playing at such a high level.

Time was moving on, and it looked like our domination was only being rewarded with two goals.

Glenn wanted another one, to aid our goal difference.

I turned to him and said “I am bloody convinced that we will score a late third.”

Lo and behold, a run from Pedro, the ball seemingly attached to his boots, ended up with a twist and a shot. The ball struck a defender and Boruc was stranded. The ball crept over the line, but there was that third goal.

Perfect.

Chelsea and Kensington 3 Bournemouth and Boscombe 0.

Chalobah had replaced Willian on 83 minutes, Aina had replaced Moses on 89 minutes, but Batshuayi only saw around five seconds of action after replacing Pedro on 94 minutes. It seemed almost cruel. But who are we to grumble? Our fears of the false nine were unfounded, and Antonio Conte continues to enchant us all with his team selections.

I can’t really believe that I am saying this, but let’s go for win number thirteen. Stoke City will present a different test, but with N’Golo and Diego back, I am confident.

Down in Somerset, Frome had managed to nab a 1-1 draw against Basingstoke. The gate was a fine 366, compared to a season average of 225. Elsewhere in that Southern League, on a day of mainly local derbies, a huge 2,033 saw Dorchester Town play Weymouth, and there were also similarly large gates at Leamington (805), Merthyr (784), Kettering Town (656). In fact, all games drew larger-than-normal crowds. Our national game is healthy, and no team is healthier right now than ours.

Let’s enjoy it.

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