Steve HILL
HILLY’S AWAY DAYS
The last time I graced these pages was to berate the winter World Cup and its devastating impact on the domestic calendar.
Hypocritically, I have of course watched every match so far, on occasion while listening to live commentary of Chester FC tearing up the National League North.
Writing this ahead of the quarter-finals, it’s been a magical 17 days, lighting up the gloom of this dismal time of year. The initial heady four-game ritual yielded to a more manageable schedule, followed by the split screen madness of the concluding group games and the nail biting jeopardy of the knockout stages. I’m ashamed to say I overslept the first 13 minutes of Tunisia v Australia, but barring a couple of in-game disco naps, I’ve seen the lot. Inject it, as they say, into my veins.
Emerging from my cocoon on the first non-World Cup day, I was faced with the biggest game of all: Kidderminster Harriers versus Chester FC, live on BT Sport. What a time to be alive, the historic first ever live broadcast of a sixth-tier league match. Something of a quandary though, as in the normal scheme of things Kiddy away is very much within my radius of attendance, a mere 122- mile jaunt up the M40 and beyond. I’ve been there numerous times, even for the pandemic ghost game where a superb Declan Weeks strike was eventually rendered meaningless when the season was expunged.
The famous Aggborough Cottage Pie may be no more, but it’s still a cracking away day, a proper old ground well served by parking, pubs and array of decent chippies. Unlike a number of clubs at this level, it’s correctly segregated and we always take a decent following, guaranteeing a cacophonous racket behind the goal. This was the argument swimming round my head on the days preceding the match. On the other shoulder was a constant weather update, with sub-zero temperatures predicted and no guarantee that the match would actually go ahead.
Lunatic
Also, being on a school night, I couldn’t realistically take The Boy. A near decade of indoctrination has finally paid dividends and he now loves an away day, galvanised by a brand new home shirt and a recent raucous midweek trip to Banbury.
Kiddy was a step too far though, and as such we made the momentous decision to stay at home and watch it on the box, armchair fans for the night.
Harder than it sounds, this consisted of me pacing up and down all day, pointing out that I could still make it if I left now, almost bundling The Boy into the car straight from school. But as we reached the point of no return,I fired up the TV, only to be greeted by an unblinking BT Sport logo as the wi-fi ground to a halt, presumably due to sheer weight of numbers tuning in for this extraordinary occasion.
A lot of swearing ensued, but a full reboot restored normal service and we were transported to a frosty Aggborough, albeit sat on the sofa in full replica kit with an array of salty snacks and fizzydrinks.Thefirsthalfwon’t go down as the greatest advert for this level of football, but it was still edge-of-the-seat stuff, the nerves exacerbated by the inability to affect the action by bellowing non-sequiturs into the ether.
Not that this stopped me, although they were only audible to immediate family, and in fact The Boy wandered off before halftime, never to return, forty quid’s worth of polyester tossed on the banister.
The second half began with a sensational Weeks strike – arguably better than his ghost goal – and it was on foryoung and old as I ranaround the room roaring like a lunatic. Utterly transfixed to the screen,I cheered the lads home, celebrating every tackle and clearance. When we nicked another goal with 15 seconds to go, to see the players embraced by familiar faces… reader, I almost wept.
Anyway, if you’re reading this on Sunday, it’s my birthday. Please don’t send any gifts. With Chester against Alfreton off, I’ll take England to beat France. What a senseless waste of human life.
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