Oh how we’ve been spoilt at Doncaster Rovers in recent times. I genuinely can’t remember the last occasion we had a game like against Preston last night; one of those dreaded games billed as ‘MUST WIN’ or a ‘REAL SIX-POINTER’
These sorts of matches are apparently exciting for the neutrals but faithful followers are put through the wringer – the long way to hell and back.
Chances were frequent but frittered away and the action was as frenetic as it was fragmented. It was an evening fraught with frustration.
There were two spirited sides who were committed to attack but both possessed little cohesion in their play and a complete lack of co-ordination in defence.
If it hadn’t mattered so much, it might have been good fun. Having said that, I have found the Championship to be far from a joy division as a supporter, so I’m sticking to my verdict: It was painful!
The PNE travelling contingent seemed to be made up of masochists. Like the song about the post-punk band by the Wombats, they were celebrating the irony: Everything is going wrong, but they were so happy.
Donny fans, including myself, were notably more tense and grumpy. We didn’t care for this drama, for there’s only one thing worse than a ‘must win’ game and that’s a must not lose affair, which is what this game actually was for us.
Perhaps Preston had accepted their fate beforehand and were hoping for the best whereas all we could do, as Rovers followers, was live in fear of the worst. Being seven points outside the bottom three with six games to go meant only one thing: it was ours to mess up while for Preston, it was the chance of the Great Escape.
While PNE fans seemed fairly relaxed, their manager, Phil Brown, who would love to do a Steve McQueen around Deepdale, was living on the edge. Sporting his traditional suit with overcoat, earpiece and perma-tan, Brown was like a ticking timebomb on the bench.
The man at the helm didn’t need an invitation to come onto the pitch, but boy did he get one in the second half, with a huge RSVP stamped all over it, when referee Scott Mathieson inexplicably decided that Jimmy O’Connor hadn’t fouled Eddie Johnson in the box.
Johnson raced up field from a break following a Rovers corner and was about to score when O’Connor took him down. Even as a die-hard fan with rose-tinted specs, my head went into my hands. Penalty. Red card. 1-0 down with ten men in the game we couldn’t afford to lose.
To my amazement – literal, full-bodied amazement given Mr Mathieson had penalised every little thing in the match – as I looked up thinking it was all over, Brown was on the pitch not celebrating a goal but berating the wee man in charge.
Mr Mathieson was pointing for a corner; not to the spot. But although O’Connor had been booked for simulation in the first half, there was nothing given here, so what exactly was the ref’s interpretation? Like most of Mr Mathieson’s decisions or the game in general, I couldn’t quite fathom it out but I’ve long given up trying to understand.
One thing I do know is that it felt like a sign that we’d stay up at PNE’s expense. And after 77 minutes of basketball-style football without a goal despite it gaping on countless occasions, we got another nod from the footballing gods.
Brian Stock was treated like an outcast at Deepdale, so when our skipper lashed home the opening goal, how good that must have felt. My parents always told me that getting payback is not the way to react but I concur with little Karen from Outnumbered: “Revenge is quite a good thing,” she says, “cause then they know never to do it again.”
The most important thing, naturally, was the goal boosted our survival bid but Stock looked as though he’d put the final nail in their Championship coffin. What with the penalty and manner of the goal – with its timing and its scorer – it was all going our way, right?
Wrong. Before I’d even had time to say ‘Paul Hayes always scores against us’, the sub had stuck in the equaliser with his first touch from an offside position and suddenly our luck had run out. It was game back on. Brown was again on the pitch, dancing around like the man from those silly tango adverts.
It was now time for tactical astuteness. There was a special gesture from Brown, with his arms being waved quickly towards our goal (code for ‘take no care, just boot the bloody thing forward’). This, I thought, had been the general gameplan throughout but Brown now sensed victory so the signalling was being done more vigourously.
The penalty was forgotten (for now). It was Preston’s turn to feel their destiny was to score another goal and close the gap. For Brown to make it a hat-trick of forbidden appearances on the Keepmoat turf before the final whistle.
From my point of view, it was a baffling turn of events. Suddenly we went from looking safe to defending like madmen. Sean O’Driscoll shoved another big centre half on, whose sole aim in life was to head the bloody thing away after it had been booted forward with hope in the absence of accuracy.
With a lack of conviction in both teams’ defending, this was not for the faint-hearted. They attacked. Then we broke forward again. Then we were caught short again. This was end-to-end stuff and quite frankly, I didn’t care for it. Although 1-0 would have been great, 1-1 was acceptable. Blow up Mr Mathieson, put us all out of our misery.
Still no whistle. Another break. A yellow shirt was again sprinting towards our goal with no challenge forthcoming. Out came Gary Woods, who had a fine game, and the ball deflected over him and across goal. From the angle I was sat at, it looked like it was in. It wasn’t, thank goodness.
The final whistle went and I didn’t really know whether to laugh or cry; to be pleased, disappointed or relieved. I suspect Preston’s fans felt the same. Brown was again on the pitch – this time legally – clapping the travelling supporters who sung their little hearts out for their beloved Lilywhites.
I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for them because they’re clearly a loyal bunch and had their team played with such endeavour all the way through, they surely wouldn’t be in the bottom three.
But the feeling quickly passed because there’s no room for compassion in these situations. Put simply, Preston needed to win and we didn’t. It was a good result for us in the circumstances.
While Brown was presumerably heading towards the referee’s room, O’Driscoll just stood quietly with the look of a man who didn’t know what had just happened – and he wasn’t the only one. He may also, I suspect, have been wondering quite why we are all fascinated by this frustrating game.
Upon hearing that Scunny and Sheffield United had lost, it emerged that we’d moved one point further away from the bottom three with another game chalked off the list. So I was just grateful for small mercies.
The good news is we can go through it once more on Saturday. Love – no doubt – will tear us apart, again.