Jittery?

Umm, yeah, me too.

But the players weren’t.

Our promotion-fated Tigs turned in another manfully committed team display, and bested the visiting Wessies across most of the Circle sward yesterday. But we couldn’t create enough decent chances in the face of sturdily resolute defending from opponents who look worthy of ascent themselves and who fielded the match’s undoubted star performer, the magnificent Nigerian centre-back and skipper Sodje. It was a game that was short on goalmouth drama – in contrast to several of our recent dramatic instalments – but it was never less than absorbing, and we didn’t remotely resemble a team contemplating tumbling to the floor and twitching when in sight of the winning post.

Don’t worry.

Promotion? We’ll be OK.

Myhill
Thelwell Joseph Delaney Dawson
Green Junior Ashbee Elliott
Burgess Alsop

It was loud in our grand and full ground as the game kicked off, and the energy levels on the pitch were high … but there was a lack of shape to both sides’ play. Hudders shaded it early doors, but neither goalmouth saw anything of the ball. We were 13 minutes in before anything serious happened, and this was a gruesome collision between the visiting centre-backs, Mirfin and Sodje. Both reeled to the turf and play was held up for four minutes until Mirfin was fit to resume, complete with a large white bandage wrapped around his head. Sodje remained absent for another couple of minutes after play had resumed, before he sauntered back on, sporting his customary blue-and-white bandana. I guess he’d had some stitches, but whether they were inserted into his head or into the fabric stretched on top of it, I couldn’t say.

We had astutely endeavoured to take advantage of Sodje’s brief absence. Burgess passed wide to Green, whose cross was flicked a yard wide by the Alsopp forehead – our first effort on goal. Then Burgess released Alsoop, but alert keeper Rachubka smothered the danger. Sodje returned, but we had suddenly acquired a bit of momentum, and the middle reaches of the half belonged to our attacking potential. Thelwell shot hopefully from 25 yards, and Alsop was nearly rewarded for attempting to interpose a cute ricochet he just missed the ball. Then Green stroked in a free-kick from wide on our left and Elliott flicked a header goalwards, only for Rachubka to dive acrobatically to his right and tip the ball away for a corner. It was a very fine save. From the corner we managed to bundle the ball into the net, but the score was promptly chalked off for some skulduggery in the goalmouth skirmish, and no one was minded to complain too much about the ref’s decision.

We hadn’t cracked them. And the game began to grow a shade tepid.

Sodje is a remarkably fine defender, and it’s a mystery to me what he’s doing down at this level. Burgess was on his game, but could get little joy out of any encounter with the lissome Nigerian, whether on the ground or in the air. In fact, all over the pitch Huddersfield were getting stuck into their individual battles and giving us no space to build up the sort of slick attacking move that has undone most teams we’ve taken the fight to this season. Make no mistake, we weren’t playing badly, even as the game began to drift towards a scoreless half-time stalemate. We were playing quite well, but we were facing a seriously doughty opponent. Hudders even had a shot, smartly saved low down by Myhill on 38, but they’d come for their point and at the break they looked like getting it.

Except, of course, Oxford thought that back in January. They matched us up until half-time. And then got blown away by Hurricane Tiger.

The Ox were last seen tumbling down into mid-table. Huddersfield are a bit more firmly anchored.

And they did what hardly anyone has done all season, when, in a lively opening to the second period, they managed to catch out Delaney with a high ball. Booth jumped above the Lion of Cork at the back post and nodded the ball square to his fresh-faced striking partner McAliskey. Fortunately for us, he scuffed his shot and Myhill pouched it with ease.

We got serious now, and took complete control. And started to make some proper chances.

On 55, Big Ben out-muscled his opponent and won possession, before slipping a neat pass in behind the defence for Alsop to hare after, with only the keeper to beat, albeit from a tight angle. The shot bobbled across the face of the goal with Rachubka struggling to cover it, but the ball slipped out of play just beyond the far post. Shortly afterwards it was Alssopp’s turn to set up his partner, and a low cross rolled invitingly into Burgess’s path. He took the ball on but the keeper hurtled off his line and cleaned out both ball and man, leaving Big Ben crumpled in a heap on the turf. Our centre-forward is no malingerer, and it soon became obvious this was a game-ending injury. Burgess limped off, in obvious pain, but our manager refused to take the natural option, and throw on Walters or even the neglected Forrester. Instead he sent France into the fray, taking up duties on the right-side of midfield, while Green switched to the left and Elliott trotted off up front.

It was a peculiar tactical gamble. I’ll admit I’ve gradually altered my views on Mr Taylor over the course of the season, from initial deep scepticism to a stance that is much readier to recognise his excellence in the transfer market (with an emphasis on youth that will serve the club well into the future) and his patient advocacy of an appealingly attack-minded 4-4-2 formation. But he does occasionally fall into the temptation of the needlessly obscure tactical switch which is just not wise down in the depths of Division 4. Still, Mr Taylor seems likely to be with us for a while yet. I learn that talks aimed at bringing him to Spurs to work under the overall direction of David Pleat foundered when Mr Taylor was told that Mr Pleat would be grooming him.

The pattern of play had much in common with the first half – we’d gradually gained superiority, and come the middle period of the 45 we were battering them. A low Alsop cross from the right just eluded Green, and the problem remained an inability to convert possession into a goal that would likely decide the afternoon. It never came. Ashbee was a Trojan in midfield but we didn’t quite do enough in the attacking third. And Huddersfield are no mugs.

Alsop was replaced by Walters with quarter of an hour to go, but what we really needed now was a bit of flair, a bit of imagination … even simply a bit of goal poaching. Walters is an honest toiler. The visitors held him in check all too readily, and as the sands of the ninety minutes ebbed away Hudders had fought us to a standstill. Three added minutes were brandished on the electronic board, which was the signal for a number of folk around me to leap to their feet and make their stony-faced, passionless retreat to the car park. We’re one goal from promotion. They’re buggering off home early to beat the rush. Truly astonishing.

And the extra three minutes supplied us with our best opportunity of the whole game. A Walters surge fed Elliott, and we shoved men forward in search of a late winner. A cross is floated in from the right, and who’s this, rising to meet the dropping ball, wholly unencumbered by any marker at all why, it’s Junior Lewis, drifting into the danger area in much the same way as he surprised us by doing on Tuesday at Southend, and once again he’s earned himself a free header. He’s too tentative. He heads the ball down into the ground in the approved manner, but it’s far too close to Rachubka who gratefully scoops the effort into his clutches.

And so it ends scoreless, and Huddersfield celebrate as if t’mill’s been re-opened.

Well, now we need two more points, and one will do unless some fairly improbable adjustments are made to our goal difference and Torquay’s over the next fortnight … and we might perfectly well go up even if we contrive to lose both remaining fixtures, provided either the Torksters or Hudders falter … So we can’t blow it now. Only one win in our last six games … but we can’t blow it now.