In the first installment of our new series, Left Foot Travels, Simon Furnivall tells the tale of a day out at the Britannia Stadium and how Asmir Begovic foiled his bet. Simon is the editor of Lovely Left Foot, writes regularly for The Football Project and can be found on twitter @SFurnivall
Jonathan Walters as first goalscorer and a final score of Stoke 2 – 1 Fulham. £1 on, £28 back. With fifteen minutes left and no goals scored, it looked a long way off. Then Walters tapped in an opener and Rory Delap headed in a second – only a few minutes after I’d called him one of the least talented footballers I’d ever seen – and we had five minutes for Fulham to pull one back and me to cash in. They’d scored six against bloody QPR, I don’t think one was asking too much.
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The day was supposed to encompass my first ever trip to a non-league game. Visiting my brother in Stoke, we were planning to head to Field Mill to watch Mansfield vs Southport (a game which turned out to be an absolute cracker as Southport continued their fine start to the season) but an hour and a half before kick-off, still sat in a pub in Stoke, I was handed a ticket to that afternoon’s match at the Britannia.
Deception. Had I been paying attention I might have guessed that something was up with us still being in a pub at half one, watching Liverpool vs Manchester United, but my knowledge of English geography is such that Mansfield could have been an hour or five away from where we were. Still, a ticket to a Premier League ground I hadn’t visited, I wasn’t about to turn that down.
The walk to the ground is one of my favourite things about a football game. I remember from my childhood (a memory brought back by a recent visit) the juxtaposition of a walk with the crowd through the abandoned houses that surround Anfield and the rising excitement of the game ahead.
The Britannia Stadium is perched nicely on top of a hill, meaning that the walk from the match day car park to the ground, joined as we went by an ever increasing number of broad Stoke accents and t-shirts proclaiming a hatred of Port Vale, was a nice, exercising, uphill stroll. From the outside the stadium is a fairly standard affair, four stands with one corner filled in and nothing to mark it out as anything other than a generic football stadium (though the car park alongside for players and officials did seem somewhat incongruous in given the surrounding area).
Inside the stadium, the concourse was as generic as the outside, and with my bet placed it was time (having asked a steward for confirmation of the final result of the Liverpool game) for another of my favourite stadium moments; the step out into the stand itself. There was still some half hour before kick off as we strode down to our seats (fifth row, by the corner flag, a position known as having ‘Match of the Day’ potential) but already there was a fair noise inside.
The noise of the Stoke crowd is about as fabled as the ‘physicality’ of the team they support, and though the opponents were only Fulham, they were in fine voice. The pitch is sunk down from ground level and my suspicion is that helps the atmosphere, keeping a good amount of the noise in the ground despite the three open corners. But however it’s created, it’s impressive.
As the game kicked off there was an impressive chorus of ‘Delila’ (with added dirty lyrics), followed by a firm suggestion of how Fulham midfielder Danny Murphy spends his ‘alone time’. One can only assume that the hatred of Murphy comes from his comments about the more physical teams in the league, and their conviction was unwavering, throughout the game Murphy was serenaded in the same manner, and the roar when he was booked in the second half was almost as loud as that which met Walters’ goal.
The game itself, for large portions, wasn’t the best of affairs, and was certainly shown up by the half time entertainment, a superbly talented football freestyler who impressed the crowd greatly. Both sides played long ball after long ball aimed for the respective heads of Peter Crouch and Bobby Zamora, with the former far more effective in making use of the tactic, while the home side had the only chances of note, Jermaine Pennant flashing a shot wide before Crouch’s six foot legs got tangled as he attempted to volley a shot past Mark Schwarzer.
The second half improved, fired into life when Delap’s shot was deflected onto the post and John Arne Riise almost stole a lead for Fulham with a free kick that thundered back off the crossbar. As a neutral, the sight and sound of hearing the ball smack off the frame of the goal with such ferocity was quite enjoyable.
What was noticeable during the second period was the effect that the Stoke crowd were having on the referee, Martin Atkinson. Just a week after his terrible decision to send off Jack Rodwell in the Merseyside derby, the fans had come along clearly determined to dislike him, and from the off every award given to Fulham was met with a loud chorus of boos while with each one in Stoke’s favour rose an ironic cheer. The number of times they cheered in such a manner might have led the discerning Stoke fan to realise that they were actually getting the majority of decisions in their favour, but rational judgement is often left at home when it comes to football.
By the final third of the game Atkinson had begun to favour Stoke in the 50-50 decisions, even handing out a booking to Damien Duff for what barely even looked like a foul. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen the intensity of an atmosphere have an effect on a referee, and it won’t be the last, but it was impressive nonetheless.
When Walters finally did turn in Matthew Etherington’s wayward shot, with just ten minutes of the game left, the crowd had started to get a little restless. Fulham were, in all honesty, presenting little challenge yet looked set to take a point back to London. Walters’ three yard effort released all that anxiety, however, and the crowd were up and singing once more. After Delap’s effort seven minutes later, their singing turned in the direction of the Fulham fans, housed in the corner of the stand we sat in, a charming little ditty which suggested that it might be time for them to vacate the premises.
I, however, was far more concerned with Fulham scoring a goal. Riise’s free kick aside they hadn’t looked like doing so all day, the lack of invention quite troubling for a side who were supposed to be playing entertaining football under Martin Jol. They did push forward in the final few minutes though, and when Clint Dempsey lined up a shot from twenty yards I thought my time was here.
It may have been a limp effort and hardly heading for the corner of the net, but I don’t think it was asking for too much for Begovic to spill it over the line, one sees such goalkeeping mistakes all the time. Stoke would still have had their three points and I would have collected some extra money that would have come in exceptionally useful at the pub. Instead the big Bosnian idiot caught the ball with ease and launched yet another long, arcing kick in the direction of Peter Crouch’s ugly noggin.
It may not have been the most enthralling of games, but the Stoke crowd provided plenty of entertainment and, late irritation at Begovic aside, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. A lovely sunny afternoon watching a game of football amongst supporters who are passionate about their side, I can think of much worse ways to spend a Saturday.
