Queens were back at Gretna to seek revenge for 3 thrashings and to try and lift themselves off the foot of the table. Their fans thronged the cattle shed that lines one side of Raydale Park. Again, in the sunshine. And then Dobbie, a cart load of havoc, weaved his magic. 1–0.
Later, a fumbling Gretna defence and some jinky dribbling made it 2–0. The Queens crowd spilling on to the pitch, in pure delight, with no sense of malice, weren’t arrested, but returned to the stable.
Then a free kick. 3–0.
For Queens a perfect day.
A woman stacking the shelves in a motorway service station (me and Mick en route to Dundee v Gretna) questions the need for sport and in particular football. Which she hates. She looks white as a sheet. Her husband she declares would be at home, as he was the other night, going through it all and giving it all to the tv showing the Celtic game.
Gretna, like every other club, is a special case. That is why clubs exist. Gretna have come from relatively nowhere, through 2 successive promotions to stand on the edge of another which will lead to the Premiership, to Celtic, to Celtic coming to Gretna (population 2,000) and to the stacking-lady’s husband shouting at both, on the tv. Perhaps he will even leave his armchair.
A week ago Gretna were thrashed by the bottom team. Humbled. Disgraced in some opinions. The manager, an intense and private soul, having worked his butt off to take them to this pinnacle, froze. His knees turned to jelly. He was not well. On top of this the dressing-room erupted. Accusations with spit were spat out. Of course it is a competitive game… where hopes are raised – and dashed. Where emotions run high.
By Monday the assistant manager was in charge and a seasoned player had been shown the door. By Tuesday the captain had done his captain’s thing and rallied the players, looking ahead to the Dundee game, the first of a new era. The beauty of success having been derailed – could it be restored? The press were rubbing their hands. The public were talking about it in supermarkets and on pavements – and not only in Gretna. Management was questioning its own ability – could they find another gear, a new belief? The youngsters, apprentices, of course believed this to be the club with which they might have a future. They might question that now.
And so the first team charged with the GRETNA reputation sidles up to Dundee – who have their own problems : slipping into receivership and administration with £17 million debts and no big sponsorship deal, and 4,000 crowds paying a tenner a time. Who all arrive in the few minutes before kick-off.
Before that it was stewards and players texting messages and wondering whether to walk the drizzled pitch in their white trainers. As so often when it is reported to be barmy in the Home Counties, it is raining in the north of England, Manchester and Scotland.
Irons, the ‘new’ manager, has his day of reckoning. Has a Polish goalie who has never played before with his Gretna team-mates. Who will have goal-kicks to make on a greasy pitch – as well as back passes with forwards bearing down and the crowd taunting. As it turns out he has a penalty to save and a certain goal to tip over the bar. He will have blushes to spare as his teammates give him a standing ovation in the dressing-room afterwards… and the BBC interview to contend with, where he will simply say “the past is the past, this is my team now”.
All the players had performed, driven by spirit. Still several lacked confidence. Two in particular did pretty as well as tackling things, but failed to do the bigger things like SHOOT, or CROSS, with conviction.
And this is what makes the game so fantastically interesting. And better than stacking shelves only. It is about the values that surround human achievement, village and community life, the team ethic, the context of weeks and seasons coming and going sometimes too furiously fast and sometimes too painfully, deadly slow.
