Seven hundred supporters saw a scrappy spectacle, but one that entertained, literally, until the very last. Seven goal thrillers are sweeter when you’re on the right side of them, but in this case, Garforth have nothing to be ashamed of, having secured a two-goal advantage only to be undone by dubious officiating and a numerical disadvantage on the field. Either way, despite the scoreline, both sets of fans were enthralled by the contest (though I personally wish I had a £ for every retarded thing I heard shouted from younger members of Halifax’s moronic, monosyllabic and unintelligent fanbase).
(One of aforementioned Halifax fans)
Garforth took the lead with a well taken goal; after a passing interchange out on the right wing, Riordan brought the ball inside and threaded a lovely incise pass for Lee Mason to tuck home in the thirty fifth minute. Halifax were dejected; the goal occurring after a spell of earlier pressure that did not come to fruition. Town held onto their lead, and went in at half time on top of the game, on top of the visitors, on top of the title chasers.
To the bar, comrades; one in which very few Halifax fans decided to wet their throats in, despite the business of alcohol supply responsible for being vital lifeblood of clubs at our hierarchical position in the football leagues. For shame, you teetotal boycotting Pharisees…
The second half ebbed and flowed for fifteen minutes, before livening up once more with some, ahem, spirited challenges, and full-blooded midfielding. Sadly, a terrible goal regained parity for the misfiring visitors; a shot bobbled in the Garforth box, Ellison fumbled, and the resulting messy rebound was converted by Michael Wilde, which sent a few hundred in attendance wilde, wilde, wilde… and we had to come on and Feel the Noize… Slim Shady of the coaching staff behaved himself this time, but the rest of their fans decided to bang the dugouts regardless.
The joy of animals is often short-lived, as other instincts swiftly come into play; namely the desires for feeding and reproducing. In this case, the joy of animals was cut short when Paul Walker burst through from the wing, up the channel, before slotting in Ormsby. Liam did the rest with a placed finish, and this time the Garforth dugout was banged only for ironic purposes…
After spectacularly dreadful football was offered by Halifax in the ensuing ten minutes, from the Garforth perspective a substitution was made in which Dominic Blair replaced the injured Craig Ellison. Blair was to have a very busy five minutes on the field.
However, first things first. I’ll not be sidetracked from the linear progression of this report, so light your crack pipe, stick your feet up and be shocked and horrified at the tale of Ellison’s injury, my faithful readers. It transpired thus; Craig bravely leapt for the ball, only to be hospitalised due to the dastardly, cowardly atrocity inflicted upon him by a Halifax assailant that shall not be named. That man may as well have been standing on the grassy knoll, for he assassinated both Ellison’s evening, and ultimately the game itself from the deserving hometown boys.
May he contract syphilis in the near future.
Now then, to the subject of Dominic. I hereby christen what befell him and us as “The Blair Switch Project”, as through the tyranny of disgusting prison guard failed athlete officials, Blair was switched and exiled, and Town were left up the Cadbury creek. Firstly; Clayton broke away, and sent the ball across to Blair. A cool finish later, and Town were 3-1 up with only nine minutes of play remaining. Gigity gigity, bitches…
Blair was booked following a “hand to ear” gesture delivered to the crowd. This was reportedly in response to racial abuse that Blair had received. Not to mention that the booking was somewhat inauspicious to begin with. Subsequent to this, the metaphorical grassy knoll; Blair-gate. Blair was grabbed, and the natural reaction was to shove back to escape contact. None of that, in any case, was made to the head or face area, yet Blair was shown his walking papers by the Paris-1975-esque law enforcer in the black. And then it happened.
Actually, I’m not giving the events from minutes 87-94 any degree of sensationalism, because they don’t deserve it. Basically, Halifax scored three crappy goals, and won the game. One stemmed from a move in which the ball had gone out of play, another saw a controversy arise as to whether the ball had crossed the line, and yet another was waved offside by the linesman’s Hitler Salute, but the referee overruled this decision.
Garforth were robbed, scammed worse. This will sit in the archives of sporting robbery along with Leeds against Bayern in Paris, with Roy Jones Jr outscoring his foe 83-37 and losing the Olympic final in Korea, with Lyoto Machida conceding four out of five rounds to Mauricio Rua and keeping his UFC light-heavyweight championship belt. It was a travesty.
And the scenes around the dugout proved one indisputable fact; football provides a vehicle for soft people to pretend they are big men, or that they can fight… some truly, truly pathetic people. Worse, it wasn’t the old guard shaven headed forty year olds, but emo looking kids with pretentious haircuts. People who scream obscenities then avoid eye contact. People who ask the rhetorical question “what?” and then retreat back into the mob. Join a boxing gym, you silly wankers.
Football has produced more fucking twats than emo music.
Fletch
