Alien Abduction...

25th Oct 2008: East Fife 3. Arbroath 2 (Barrs Scottish League Division Two)

It doesn't happen very often but there are times when ah'm left speechless at the end of a game. Today was such an occasion. If the first half had been an excercise in how not to defend immediately after your team had scored, the second showed us that when we're up against it, our club is made up of the right stuff. I was on the far side of the pitch for the last half hour and, although we were under the cosh from a determined (if not particularly impressive) Arbroath attack, every time we won the ball back all I could hear was players screaming to get forward to grab a winner. Absolutely fuckin' awesome team spirit!

However, nothing was as awe inspiring as the performance of today's ref, a certain Mr T Robertson. In the first half he had little to do except stifle laughter every time he whistled to confirm a goal had been scored - it has to be said, the defending from both sides was utterly shite! Robo's second half shenanigans are worth looking at more closely, however.

It was like someone had slipped somethin' in his tea at half time. Five minutes into the second half, the chemical concoction had made it to his bloodstream and he was seeing things. Apparently, Shaun Fagan, had grown an extra arm during the interval, had stuck a big boxing glove on the end of it and set out to clobber the Lichties' Kevin McMullan. Despite Kev pleading Shaun's innocence, the ref insisted that his delusion was real life and red carded the midfielder for violent conduct. It's a strange old world right enough...

At the end of the first half he'd also sent off the Fozzmeister. One of the officials (whose name has been witheld to protect the incredulous) confided to me that he'd been red carded for (and I quote) "making a lunge at the forward that if it had connected would have stopped a definite goal scoring opportunity so as well as the free kick it was an automatic red card". Hmmm, if you say so... I suppose the fact that we were still playing at five tae five is also somehow tied up in the same equation. No matter what it says in the rules, take yer medicine and make stuff up that, to the untrained ear, sounds close enough to be convincing... Like ah said, it really is a strange old world.

Maybe it's all doon tae global warming. It says everything about the luck that we have in this country that when even the Arctic ice shelf is heating up, things appear to be gettin' worse and fuckin' worse in Scotland. When ah got tae the stadium this afternoon it was like something out of an Old Testament story - thank God ah don't believe in any of that shite!! It was freezin' cold, already dark, if it hadn't been raining so heavily, ahd've sworn (no' like me, eh?) that the hurricane force wind was washing the waves over the wall at the sea end. What a fuckin' day for fitba - should suit our silky, skillful football right down to the ground. Aye right!

Fair play to the teams, mind. They staggered out onto the pitch determined tae make a game of it, big Tweed hangin' on tae the mascot tae make sure the wee fucker didnae end up somewhere over at the Bawbee Bridge, and shirts flapping like the sails on a yacht (when did ye ever think you'd see that word in an East Fife match report?) foundering somewhere out in the bay.

Despite the teams' best efforts, however, the weather was to play its part throughout the entire match. It was to manisfest itself just five minutes in when the home side took the lead. Dougie Cameron trotted out to the far side of the pitch to take our first corner of the afternoon. He knocked the ball a couple of yards to the Boaby who steadied it and stood back, allowing Dougie a chance to skelp one over from a slightly better angle. It was a great cross, made all the better when the wind caught it and pushed it goalwards, bamboozling keeper and defenders alike. The only one up wi' play was Shagger who, these days, is lookin' for every oppertunity. His desperate attempt tae touch the ball sadly came tae nothin', not that it made a difference as half a second later it trundled over the line of its own accord and another one was chalked up for the highest scoring fullback in the league.... Never worry, Paul, your time will come.

It was a perfect start and with conditions worsening, we might have been forgiven for thinking that it would get tougher for the teams tae create anything. Aye, away and shite... Just minutes later it was all level again. The Smokies managed to exploit some poor defending and headed for the bye line before sliding over a low cross. It looked an inoccuous enough ball but Willie somehow contrived tae make a pig's arse of it, leaving a simple tap in for the Lichties' centre forward. The wee coterie of fish smelling halfwits who'd made the trip went wild; the best that the home fans got was a chance tae warm their hands on Wullie's beamer... Never mind, Mr McCulloch, shit happens.... and, in any case, it was gonna get even shittier before too long!

Say what you like, we were certainly getting our money's worth; two goals in ten minutes and twenty two players at least trying to serve up something worth watching. With the wind swirling all over the place, however, it was far from fancy football that was served up. They battled on, mind, the away fans gave the stewards some abuse to pass the time and I took cover in the stand in a vain attempt tae dry out. It was obvious that if either of the teams could master the conditions then the points could be there for the taking. Just ten minutes from the interval it looked like we'd made the breakthrough.

We'd slowly been gaining in stature, imposing our authority over the visitors, and from a quick break forward, Dougie C fired a fabulous crossfield pass that landed perfectly at Shagger's feet. His first touch was just as good as the pass and half a second later he fired in a hard, low shot, the Lichties' keeper able to do nothing more than compete with Wullie for the worse attempted save of the afternoon. He went down in instalments, fell on the ball but couldn't stop it wriggling under him and into the net. No' the flashest goal that Paul's ever scored but you could see by his reaction that we wasnae givin' a fuck - they all count.

Sadly, before the fans had stopped cheering we were on level terms again. Right from the kick off, Arbroath moved forward, looking to attack. Within a minute they'd managed tae make big Tweedie look like a haddie and Willie McCulloch had time to think back to those halcyon days of the first ten minutes. If only all his howlers could be like the first goal, he could maybe live wi them. Alas, he had to stand in the middle of his box as the ball looped over his heid and into the net. Fuckin' tragic - but no' as tragic as Mr Tweed's reaction. Sure, we were all hurtin' but there was no need tae stick the nut on the keeper.... Ah well, at least it shows that each and every one of the team are committed.... or something like that.

The picture of the captain malky-ing the keeper was still in my mind's eye when Rip-the-Pish Robertson decided tae add tae 'The Laws of Association Football'. In his spare time the ref is, apparently, some kind of psychic phenomenon. He had a woooo moment and just knew that Fozzie had evil on his mind. Sadly for the Fozzmeister, even though he was just a bit too slow to catch the forward (who slid past the big man like he wasnae there....), he had the look of a man that had murderous intent and that, of course, was enough for the man wi the whistle (it's in the rules; just read it!!!!) and so it was a quick toot and a red card up the Fozz's nose.

You could see Dave Baikie already thinking, "who the fuck am ah gonny play next week?" as he wandered across the pitch and up the tunnel at half time. Five minutes after the restart he must have felt suicidal. After his half time alien abduction (mebbe it was just magic mushrooms; they're in season so they tell me....), the cheat was up for anything. Six hundred and seventy seven fans in the stand were bemused (aye, even the Arbroath supporters), twenty one players on the park were perplexed, two sets of 'auld fat codgers' in the technical areas were equally stupefied but the man in black was convinced. His drug addled mind was clear; he saw Fagen swing the axe, he saw McMullen's face burst in a grotesque eruption of blood and grey matter. It was simple; Shaun had to go.

Which left nine men with forty minutes to withstand the inevitable onslaught from the Red Lichties. Well, mebbe not. It says it all about Baikie's boys that the only team that was ever gonna win this one was East Fife. With a two man advantage and the uncertainty that the weather conditions ensured, our visitors.... did hee-haw. We were forced to move Chris Templeman back into the middle of the defence, Stevie Crawford was obliged to concentrate on his defensive duties and Paul McManus was compelled to run his heart out in a vain attempt to simply occupy the Arbroath defence and slow down the inescapable battering that we'd face.

But the Smokies kept the same formation, stayed with the same game plan and behaved like it was still eleven v eleven. As a Slovene friend of mine would say, unbefuckinleavable, Ian. Aye, they certainly moved the ball forward from time to time. Yes they had a few half hearted attempts on goal (Wullie Mac finally deliverin' the kind of performance that we're used to) but, when it's all said and done, they offered sweet fuck all to suggest they had enough belief to actually cut loose and win this one.

However, nine men in black and gold had other ideas. They were certainly up against it - even a shitey team like Arbroath can hold onto possession when they've got a two man advantage. But as every Lichties attack broke down (and they got more and more pathetic as the game marched on), the determination etched on the Fifers' faces appeared more and more purposeful. We'd been forced into moving players out of position but, if anything, that seemed to give the team more freedon. Paul Stewart, who'd started off at right back, was oft found on the left wing, pushing forward at every opportunity and confident that, no matter where he headed, there'd be a team mate ready to fill in at the back. The fluidity with which we played frightened the shit out of our visitors who, at times, appeared completely traumatised by the home side's tactics.

The rains and the wind continued tae whip around the ground, as often as not proving to be more of a hindrance than the Arbroath players. But slowly and surely you could see that the nine men might just, miraculously, steal all the points. At Ajax in the nineteen seventies, they called it "total football". This afternoon in pishing rain and freezing conditions we could simply call it "total fuckin' wonderful football". We have a group of players who, at times, have struggled this season but whose commitment and professionalism can never be questioned. They had pride at stake today - Arbroath were miles behind us last season - and eventually they delivered, as surely we all just knew they would.

Five minutes from time, we'd won a free kick just outside the Lichties' box. Cameron whipped over a great cross which the Wonderhorse met perfectly, only to see the ball riccochet back off the bar. As the Arbroath defence stood like statues, Steven Tweed pounced and toe-poked the ball high into the net. The crowd erupted in celebration as the captain was swamped by delerious team mates. They had run their socks off all afternoon and must have been fuckin' knackered but they had continued relentlessly and had been rewarded in the end. Utterly fuckin' incredible!

Or rather, utterly fuckin' credible! No matter what's thrown at our heroes, they turn it on week in, week out. We've had our ups and down in the early part of the season but the one constant is the fact that this team doesn't stop workin' until the final whistle. Today they once again proved that we've got the best squad in this league, the team down to nine men still refusing to believe that they couldn't pull it out of the bag. As the final whistle sounded (at three minutes tae five....), we'd secured another precious three points and as the cheers rained down onto the pitch, our heroes dragged themselves, utterly fucked by their exersions, off the park. They'll all be aching tomorrow in places they didn't even kno2 they had, but they'll be warmed by the fact that they've delivered, once again, for the support. And we need tae remember that...

I packed away ma camera, made ma way from the stadium and headed up into town tae meet the missus before heading home... "It's alright, darlin'," she muttered as she pulled away from the kerb, "you don't have tae say anything; ah heard it all on Kingdon FM".

And so we sat in silence as we streaked home in the torrential rain, a satisfied smile on ma big fat puss. There are times when football can appear unbelievable... Today the boys delivered one of those times. Let's get out in numbers next week and make some noise at the National Stadium! Football doesn't get any better than this...