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Bizarre positional choices, gutless displays in key positions and a late Sunderland goal conspire to cause much of Phil Parkinson residual support amongst City fans to evaporate. A woeful showing all round. |
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Dismayingly and numbingly dreadful. We broke our recent preference for letting in a goal even as the first whistle is still echoing round the stadium and instead went cavorting to the other extreme, allowing Sunderland to score deep into added time as the sound of the final whistle loomed. And commonly when a game is lost right at the death there’s a feeling of ill-luck, if not downright injustice. Not yesterday. As the home crowd trooped away into the mild grey early evening, to varying degrees sorrowful, baffled, frustrated and utterly furious, no one could imagine we got anything different from what we deserved. No points at all. In fact, had Sunderland shown better form in front of goal they would have slammed us by 4 or 5. And no one would have thought it unjust. Shockingly and disturbingly awful. Myhill OK, three cheers for 4-4-2, and the exclusion of Marney, but … I’m sorry? Delaney left-side of midfield? Poor Damo, as honest a player as the club’s ever fielded, looked lost throughout, and who can be surprised? Our manager, perhaps? Since we were attacking the North Stand in the first half I can only imagine that Delaney was pushed out wide on the left so that he would be running up and down in front of his fellow Corkman Roy Keane, the cunning plan being for Delaney to bark instructions whenever Keane did, thereby scrambling the signal to the Sunderland players. It didn’t work. The game got off to a nice lively beginning, but 10 minutes had passed before the first real opportunity. In a theme that would connect more-or-less every episode of this badly-unbalanced tale it fell to the visitors. A right-wing cross was plonked neatly on to Murphy’s unmarked bonce, but he feebly and wastefully sent his header sailing high over the bar. Dwight Yorke, shorn of pace but still able to push a ten-yard pass modestly sensibly, occupied central midfield, Big Stan Varga (as he is known in Glasgow) brooded in central defence, the peroxide blonde Liam Lawrence, boo-ed by the sprinkling of modern-day City fans who still remember the days when we used to go to Mansfield (and who expect to be going back, maybe quite soon), started on the left but switched around periodically, while up front lanky Chris Brown looked shoddy but not quite as definitively, refulgently useless as he had when with us last season. Sunderland looked, in short, a competent and well-structured side. Canny support too, mind. Thousands of ‘em. Of course. There then followed some ragged, poor-quality football before Sunderland carved out their next chance. It came on 30 when Chris Brown, not readily compared to Smokin’ Joe Frazier in his prime but still muscular enough to nudge Michael Turner off the ball with contemptuous ease, surged clear to create mayhem in our box, culminating in a Lawrence mis-kick and our desperate survival. There then followed some ragged, poor-quality football before Sunderland carved out their next chance. That arrived on 33 when Mills, periodically reckoned to be the closest that English football has produced in recent years to match the feisty bantamweights that seem to emerge by genetic destiny from dusty Mexican barrios, was cheerfully outmuscled by the spindly Murphy down their left. Woeful defending. We got away with it (again) as Murphy generously curled his shot across the face of Myhill’s goal and out beyond the far post. There then followed some ragged, poor-quality football before Sunderland carved out their next chance. This involved a header flicked from near the edge of our penalty box high up and over a stranded Myhill who turned in trepidation to greet welcome salvation as the ball smashed back into play off our crossbar. Now, I am very conscious that players out of favour collect criticism as dung attracts flies in summer, so I don’t want to say that the header was a comically wretched mis-timed effort by Turner …. But that’s what I think it was. There was one added minute at the end of the half and remarkably it contained some ragged, poor-quality football but no chances at all carved out by Sunderland, and we went in at half-time shame-faced but scoreless. We’d looked defensively rotten in the air and not much better on the floor. The rest of the team had offered little. Phil Brown was more animated on the sidelines than Mr Parkinson ever is, though this had no noticeable beneficial effect on the team’s performance and perhaps our new coach was simply aghast at what he’d witnessed and was on his mobile to his agent asking if he might fix him up with the job of assistant to Terry Dolan at Guiseley. Or selling cheese in Wallasey, or used cars in Greenock, anything but getting tainted by this ailing football club. Second-half. Starts off better. Fagan slams in a first-time shot from a narrow angle, but it’s tipped over fairly comfortably by Ward. On 53 Forster has a left-foot shot, puts it wide. Fagan and Forster, a shot apiece, woopy-doo. Both were dreadful yesterday. Forster scarcely got the ball, but showed little appetite to get involved and change the pattern of the game. Fagan’s delivery from his wing was simply atrocious. There is, sadly, no hint that he’s worth a place in this Division. After ten or so minutes of improved football from our team, the pattern reverted to that of the first-half. …. some ragged, poor-quality football …. And then Sunderland …. Yes, you’re there before me. But it really was mesmerically awful and grotesquely predictable. Even a spell of loud and lively backing offered up by both sets of supporters did nothing to lift the appeal of the spectacle on the pitch. Poor Delaney, playing an unfamiliar position with all the dedication that he always brings to his game, was lucky to see yellow rather than red after a brutally clumsy challenge on Lawrence, and then it was time for some substitutes. Forster off, France on, Fagan up front. Welsh off, Barmby on, playing left-side, releasing Delaney to the mercy of central midfield. The game’s more-or-less even by now, but there’s scarcely a hint of a chance for the home side. And on 77 a Sunderland free-kick from wide on the right loops into our box, is allowed to bounce on the six-yard line before careering via Boaz’s bemused and uncertain fingertips on to the crossbar and up and over for a corner. Messy. Very messy. On 80, we carve out a chance. Trumpets, streamers, klaxon horns, dancing girls, dancing boys, acrobats, corks popping, elephants with purple robes, and all other inmates of the sarcastic circus. A chance. Fagan has undoubted pace and he races clear of the defence in pursuit of a hopeful long ball. He needs a decent first-touch and then he’ll have a one-on-one with Ward. Instead the touch is lame, the confidence vanished and Fagan seems content to wait for the defender to get back and smother the opportunity. Feeble. On 82 Bridges comes on, and Fagan goes off. How about that …. There then followed some ragged, poor-quality football before Sunderland carved out their next chance. It came on 89 as a slick move down their left forced Boaz into a superb block from close-range. And, as the “3” board went up to reveal the minutes to be added on, it looked as if we’d scraped the point that would make the afternoon worthwhile even if further proof that we’re bottom on merit. But not even a point was on offer. After some broken play in midfield Ross Wallace took possession from a flick-on and sprinted into our area. I am afraid I have no doubts about the identity of the player who failed to get between him and the goal and failed to put in any kind of firm challenge. Turner again. Wallace scooted gleefully ahead, astonished at how little pressure he was under deep inside our box enjoying the ebb of the game’s final moments, and he slid a delicate and well-judged shot across Boaz and just inside the far post. A fine finish, a just outcome to the game, and though Wallace’s joyous celebrations earned him a second yellow and a brutal sending-off, there was no time and (more significantly) no energy or belief to underpin an attempt to exploit our extra man. We’d lost. The two Hull City managers I really hate are Ternent and Dolan, both of whom sneered at the fans while lining their pockets. They were not honest football men. We’ve sacked managers too quickly – John Kaye readily springs to mind, so too (albeit with hindsight informed by knowledge of what he did subsequently) Brian Horton. I put Mr Parkinson alongside Eddie Gray, Brian Little, Warren Joyce, Mike Smith, and Ken Houghton. I can’t dislike him. I hope things are going to get better. But, other than blind faith, I don’t really see any reason to think they will. |
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HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Mills, Dawson; Fagan, Welsh, Ashbee, Delaney; Parkin, Forster. Subs: France (for Forster, 66), Barmby (for Welsh, 72), Bridges (for Fagan, 82), Elliott, Duke. Goals: None Booked: Mills, Delaney, Fagan Sent Off: None
SUNDERLAND: Ward, Whitehead, D Collins, Varga, Nyatanga, Lawrence, Leadbitter, Yorke, Wallace, Murphy, Brown. Subs: Connolly (for Lawrence, 67), N Collins (for Brown, 89), Alnwick, Hysen, Miller. Goals: Wallace 90 Booked: Leadbitter, Varga, Wallace Sent Off: Wallace
REFEREE: R Beeby ATTENDANCE: 21,512 |
Last revised: October 29, 2006