Anthony McIntyre ⚽ Prior to Friday evening's clash over at the Windmill Road, Jay had been playing a football match of his own.
It went to penalty kicks so his arrival with Paddy at the house was delayed although not by much. For once I was ready, rather than running around like the busy fool looking for season ticket and phone while Paddy and Jay sit patiently in the car.
At this point in the season, we arrive in Sullivan and Lambe Park while it is still bright. By the time we leave darkness has descended, reminding that we are about less than a month to go before the change of attire. First the shorts will be replaced by full length jeans or cargo pants. Then the light jacket will give way to a heavy overcoat with a pocket to hold gloves, just in case the need arises. By the time we hit the Aviva in November for the FAI Cup final, no matter who the finalists are, caution will not be abandoned. Full winter gear will be how we turn out. Too warm, it can be taken off. Too cold it can't be put on if it is at home.
The prediction, well that is another story. I usually go for a draw, feeling it is the most likely outcome. The history of this fixture didn't rally allow for any expectation other than a draw, and a goalless one at that. Five out of the last seven clashes between the two sides failed to produce a goal. Jay, being a bit more adventurous went for a 2-1 win for the home side. On the way out I ribbed him that at least he got the one goal for the visitors right!
On the way over we pulled in behind a car at the lights. I couldn't resist taking a photo. Not often does the Devil do Drogheda in his own hell wagon. How he might manage the foot pedals with a clubbed foot or sit comfortably on his tail we might never know because the lights turned green and he zoomed off to claim another soul in our once Catholic town. Perhaps he thought we were evangelical Christians who might ram him, getting an out of jail free car because we would only be doing the work of the Lord.
It was a devil of a night. The Drogs played quite well and were more of an attacking force than what we have become accustomed to seeing. But as happens too often for comfort they dropped their mitts, leaving them exposed to a sucker punch in the dying minutes of the game where time had been added on for all the things that cause the referee's watch to go into slow motion. On the 94th minute the game turned (maybe Turner even) and a fourth scoreless draw on the trot was avoided, only not in the way we would have liked. For the first time ever I heard boos from a small number of supporters. Frustration had got to them.
Another disappointing fall at the finishing line, reminding me of the game in Cork when a similar thing happened, only then a point was salvaged. Fortunately this time Kevin Doherty and a fan did not go head to head on the final whistle.
The game itself was by no means a dull affair, much more lively than some of the matches where the Drogs have eked out a point. Even had they secured one on the night it would have been better than none but still disappointing because they should be winning their home games. The solitary point for a draw is something that should be picked up away. Then it can be regarded as a bonus.
Despite hitting the bar through the industrious Warren Davis, at the heel of the hunt it was a mistake at the other end that saw the Drogs done for. Luke Dennison tried to start an attack by throwing the ball to a colleague but it was far too short, Drogheda squandered possession, a corner ensued: game over. The darkness consuming us as we left the stadium was not because the sun had long set.
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