Having come home to Dorset for Easter (aka Frome away) I had given serious consideration to staying an extra week to take in Hungerford. After all, games of this magnitude have been few and far between for us Dorch supporters. Ultimately, a culmination of work, reoccurring PTSD from Bognor away in 2004 and the small matter of Kings Day saw me return to Holland but with every intention of returning home should we make the play-offs.
As it happens, Kings Day – the biggest street party in Europe – was a bit of a damp squid for me this year. Whilst the streets were alive with orange and the canals flowed with Heineken, come late afternoon the nerves and anxiety of the big match back home hit me and I decided to leave my party to return to my flat for a few hours to listen to the game. With the noise of the city popping off all around me, I spent three hours on the sofa, drinking by myself, listening to a man called Cliff commentating on a non-league game of football on BBC local radio. And for 94 minutes I once again found myself questioning my life decisions thanks to this football club.
Fortunately, one scream from Gez, one confirmatory sentence from Cliff later and I was running around the flat shouting, punching cushions and rushing to book a Eurostar back to the UK for Wednesday. A booked ticket and a couple of beers later and I returned to the Kings Day party to explain to my new-ish Dutch girlfriend that I wouldn’t be able to spend much more time with her before she leaves for a six-week sabbatical in Sri Lanka, as I was heading to the UK for a week due to a seventh-tier football match (potentially two).
It wasn’t the time for a full explanation and I’m not sure there would have been one sufficient to placate her anger, but hopefully she won’t dwell on it too much whilst she’s having fun in Colombo. (That’s the capital of Sri Lanka, not Dan Floyd, she’ll be in.)
Nevertheless, nothing was going to detract from the excitement for the day ahead and what was easily the biggest day in the club’s history since Plymouth over a decade ago. I don’t know whether it’s the lottery nature of the play-offs or the underlying feeling I had had for a while that we weren’t quite ready for the National League South, but cycling through the streets at 5.30am en route to Centraal Station, I was nothing but a bundle of excitement and not really that nervous.
Arriving in London, I headed to South London to grab a lift with Goddard, who was driving up early to make a day of it – as much as one can make a ‘day of’ Southampton. Heading along the M3, we caught up and chatted the usual bollocks: family, friends and football. I’ll save you the boredom of the former two, but on the latter, we both felt pretty confident we could win and certainly had nothing to fear. We had taken four points off all the play-off teams and were unbeaten against the top eight. It has actually been our form against the lesser, relegation-threatened teams that had been our weak spot this season – a strangely encouraging fact should we be unsuccessful in the play-offs, as that is probably easier to remedy than not having enough quality.
This is now becoming something of a pattern for this blog, but we spent most of the journey rejoicing how incredible it is to see the club change so dramatically in just a few years and how it finally resembles something like the club we both fell in love with when we first started going back in the Dr Marten’s days (or Beezer Homes in TG’s case, for he is old) For all the shit we’ve had to go through over the last decade or so, we agreed we wouldn’t swap it for the world. The day’s opponents showed why: Whether it’s due to just being a suburb without any real identity or having risen through the leagues too quickly (if such a thing can exist), Totton are one of those clubs that are doing well and getting crowds, but lack any sort of passion, intensity or away following. The type of place where you get the feeling that they all support other clubs but go to the game because it’s a ‘nice day out’ or they’ve been priced out of their Premier League clubs. File alongside Walton, Plymouth Parkway et al.
An advanced guard from Dorch had had the foresight to take the afternoon off work and headed over to join us for an afternoon in the sun. Having arrived in Southampton, they soon remembered why Southampton is the most nondescript city in the South and jumped in a taxi to join Goddard and I at the Anchor Inn next to Totton Marina. “Fuck off has Totton got a marina!” was a response. It does and it is surprisingly nice. It reminds me of the Isle of Wight. But without the continental je ne sais quoi. The rest of Totton is exactly how you’d expect a suburb of Southampton to be. The best way I can describe the place, is that it is a town where a surprisingly large number of middle-aged men still where those Peaky Blinder caps.
Whilst the first group jumped in an Uber and arrived 10 minutes later at a very reasonable tenner, the second lot wanted to ‘buy local’ and saw their Taxi detour and get stuck behind a convoy of tractors making up a Farmer’s protest (“Fucking hell, there’s a lot of Dorch fans here already!”) and arrived over half an hour later and at three times the cost.
With many fans making the short trip their own way, the three coaches of fans left The Avenue at 5.30pm. On. The. Dot.
Despite the clear instructions this was much to the surprise of Joey Prior, who arrived a minute late and had to sprint up Weymouth Avenue to hail down the coach. “There was once a day when the bus wouldn’t have left unless I was on it” he bemoaned. (Quite breathlessly, I imagine!) Those of you familiar with JP’s work will know that he’s not much of a sprinter (or indeed a distance runner) and the video of him charging alongside the coach like a baby rhino was a sight to behold. Never has anyone seen him move so quickly and so nimbly. And never again would we!
A quick pitstop in The Testwood, where a number of other Dorchies had assembled, and it soon became time to head to the ground and now the nerves begun to appear.
The Snows Stadium is a decent, little, modern ground; comprising of an impressive-looking main stand and a couple of steps of terracing all around. There’s plenty of room around the stadium for them to expand should their imaginary attendances ever regularly reach capacity. With 10m tall netting behind each of the goals, it reminded me of the type of community facilities you see in every small Dutch town. The one’s you look at and find yourself thinking “See, that’s why there’s no obesity and very little crime here” before realising it’s also the reason tax is 51% and you miss home. Nevertheless, “The Snows” (as it’s colloquially known) was filling nicely before kick off and it was evident there were quite a large number of Dorchies in attendance.
Having popped in for one last nervous shit and a pint, I came out to find Dorch attacking the end where the home fans had assembled. With the game unsegregated and assuming our lot would wonder round to the end we were shooting, I headed behind the goal and started chatting with The Greenslade’s when we were rudely interrupted by Dorch taking the lead after little more than four minutes; and what a goal it was!
We had come out the blocks and a half! Pards picking up the ball on the half way line, put his head down, slalomed between three or four Totton players before placing in low down to Gosney’s left hand corner. What a start!
Like father, like son.
As the players celebrated in front of us, it became evident that there were Dorch fans dotted all around the ground. It’s hard to tell with Totton as when they are not making up their attendance figures, they are deliberately playing them down to cream some off the top. When we played here in the Trophy they announced the gate as a laughably low 300-odd. It was only with the threat of taking them to the FA that they magically found an extra couple of hundred gate receipts down the back of the sofa. So, it came as no surprise when they later announced the gate as just a tad over 2k. Consensus in the group felt that around the two-and-a-half-thousand mark with 7-800 Dorch fans felt about right, which seemed to be backed up by local media.
Anyway, I digress. We were one up and well on top and by the time I had worked my way to behind the goal and found my my mates, we were two up. An overload on the right saw Olaf waltz into the box from wide and his shot was deflected into the path of Luke Roberts who took a touch and placed it in from ten yards out. Twenty minutes in. Two up. Dreamland.
It could have been more. For most of the first half Totton struggled to get a grip of our shape and when they were able to have moments of pressure, we had the ability to counter attack well. Spetch and Tony Lee were playing with the physicality of two men who absolutely detest each other and sadly that would come to punish us.
About half an hour in, their mutual dislike for each other over-spilled as we defended a corner. The usual grappling ensued which lead to Lee seeing the red midst and raising his hand to Spetch’s face. Tempers flared and both sets of players bundled in, right in front of us fans. It was a clear red but whether both the referee and lino missed it or bottled a big decision on such an occasion, Lee was very, very fortunate to escape with only a yellow. Spetch received a yellow card as well as a palm to the face, which seemed an easy way out for the ref. How we’d come to rue that decision later.
Two up at half time flattered nobody. One particular Totton steward – who can only be described as Mr Potato Head in a hi-viz – wasn’t taking the scoreline well. As Dorch fans continued to sing and generally be boisterous but harmless during the break, he lost his head and pushed Finn Crane off the barrier he was climbed upon. Finn “retaliated” by flicking off his cap, which led to Mr Head descending into a rage, as only Gammon can, and attempting a swing before being dragged out, spitting and screaming by his own superior. It’s a good reminder to everyone that a stewards role is there to protect fans, not to police them. And also that if you put anyone who was bullied at school in a high-viz and they seemingly turn into a prick.
As you’d expect, Totton got an absolute rocket at half time and came out firing, pinning us back for the first fifteen minutes. But just as it began to feel like we’d seen out that period of pressure and get a foothold once again, the referee’s earlier decision came back to haunt us. Spetch made a late meander up for a corner but was caught in no-man’s land as a poor corner was cleared and Totton looked to break. Spetch held his position allowing the Totton player to clatter into him. It was an obvious yellow and sadly for us, his second and he was off.
At the time, I was furious at Will. It seemed in the moment such a stupid yellow to give away, but it’s easy to be logical after the event, when the game was played in such a tense, pressurised atmosphere. When it comes to it, those are the fine margins of such an occasion: If Corby’s corner was a meter further forward, Will has a free header on goal. Alas, it wasn’t and he’s had to turn to volley it and then been caught out of position. And how can you be angry at a man who has led by example throughout the whole season? A man who’s never-say-die attitude is the sole reason we are even in the play-offs! He’s put his body on the line throughout the season and pulling out is not in Will Spetch’s DNA any more than it’s not in Ash Jury’s.
It was a real pity for us, as up until that point Spetch had been a monster at the back, keeping Tony Lee quieter than a Hungerford-based mistress having been bought a Mini Cooper after threatening to go to the press.
Totton however smelt blood and unloaded the bench. Charlie Austin came on for Blair, who displayed the usual level of immaturity you come to expect, smashing a boot into the side of the dug out. But we’ve had plenty of experience this season of playing with ten men and if any Dorch team could maintain a resilience to see out a game of this magnitude, it’s this team.
And until the 90th minute we did. We so nearly did.
Sadly, once again the Referee interfered. Moments after denying Fogden what looked a clear penalty for a trip, he decided that the 90th minute would be an ideal opportunity to finally clamp down on grappling at set pieces. A ball was sent in and Randall got a firm head to it, but misguided it over. Despite the roars and claims of absolutely no-one, the man in the middle pointed to the spot. Such was the lack of protest from even Totton players that we, down the other end, didn’t even realise it was a penalty until it was ready to be taken. Randall slotted it home and suddenly the home team had their tails up and finally began to show their significant fire power.
We were holding on for dear life and in the 98th minute, we finally cracked. Tony Lee, of course, poking home the equaliser. Moments later it got worse. Our never-say-die attitude got to our heads and rather than playing out for FT, we attacked a corner, got caught in possession and Lee broke free from Ieaun to slot calmly past Harry Lee on the break and score a heartbreaking 101st minute winner. It wasn’t the first time this season Tony has scored a double whilst breaking hearts but fortunately this time it did less damage.
Such is the spirit in this team, that their first response was to attack and Corby went and won a free kick twenty yards out (Rather fortuitously it has to be said – I suspect the referee was trying to even things up a little!) Everyone came up for it. Harry Lee, the kitchen sink, everyone! Corby whipped in a disgustingly horrible-to-defend ball and Daws beat Margi (yes, you read that right) to direct a header to the feet of Dicko who tapped in for a 104th minute equaliser.
Cue absolute pandemonium.
Save for Cole Palmer’s equaliser in the Euro ‘24 final, I don’t think I’ve seen limbs quite like that for a long, long time! I ended up ten metres from where I started; people were on the floor; multiple flares were on the pitch. Just pure, wonderful chaos.
No sooner had we caught our breathe and it was extra time. And the nail biting resumed.
Time stood still.
Minutes took hours.
At one point Evo asked me how long was left and we had only played 2mins 40sec.
Ethan Taylor hit the post and all you could do was laugh nervously. The ten men were absolutely out on their feet and heroically holding on as Totton threw everything at us. It was painful to watch, and just as daylight begun to appear and you thought we might just make it to penalties, Totton won it with almost the last kick of the match.
I can’t remember the details and nor do I want to, but a move ended with Charlie Austin picking up the ball, weaving past one (possibly two) and smashing it back across goal past Harry Lee to win it at the death. Charlie blew the bloody doors roof off!
We didn’t have time to respond and even if we did, there’s probably a limit to how many times you can do so in one season.
It was a heartbreaking and a cruel end to what had been one of the most pulsating games of football I have seen. We can quite easily look back at the referee’s performance or Spetch’s yellow as a turning point, but even withstanding that, it was a game of such fine margins. If a corner had been a meter further forward, if Shaq had jumped a split second later for a free header, if Daw’s hadn’t slipped when in just before full time… such fine, fine margins.
As gutted as I was when the full-time whistle blew, it was hard to feel anything other than pride. For 80 minutes we outplayed the team many had down as Champions Elect at the beginning of the season. For 50 minutes we matched them with a man disadvantage. It was a monumental effort that reflected their attitude and desire they have displayed the entire season.
I think the overwhelming sense of pride rather than despair comes from what I mentioned earlier in the blog – a feeling that we aren’t quite ready for NLS football this season. Of course, you take it should it come, as that is the whole point of football, but the NLS is a huge step up, where half the clubs are now full-time.
That is not to be downbeat at all, as this is clearly another huge step in the right direction. I look at our friends at Merthyr and their motto “Progress through stability” as inspiration. This is our third season in a row of real progress and momentum and I don’t see it stopping here. We have the best manager in the league, the best stadium and arguably the best fanbase. (Not that that wins you leagues of course!) I don’t doubt for a second that Tommy’s phone will be ringing insistently over the summer with player’s wanting to come here. (Hell, half of them were in our end on Wednesday night!)
To paraphrase Eddie Jones – teams only learn how to win through losing and team’s that never had to deal with defeat fall apart pretty quickly. I’ve no doubt Tommy and the team will use this hurt to come back stronger and with some minor tweaks to the squad over the summer, I am already excited for the new season and what it can bring. I blogged one of the final matches last season and made a prediction that we’d made the play-offs this season and I’ll go one further now and say I can’t see any reason we can’t be challenging next season.
It’ll be a tough league for sure. Walton will be many people’s favourites after a stellar season. Havant will be stronger after consolidation and being hybrid/full-time; and Gloucester will of course be up there again. Bracknell’s money man has come back to the club (now with added YouTube channel) so expect them to be back in the play-off mix and Poole now have a competent manager(s) to match their ambition and budget.
And of course there is the Dorset Derby to look forward to. I used to absolutely dread these games as frankly our record against them lot was abysmal, but for once I am looking forward to playing them. (Famous last words! Evo, go get the meme etc etc) If Feeney can overcome his terrible record as manager and guide them to somewhere around the top half then Boxing Day should hopefully feel like Boxing Day again, with a decent crowd. I think we’ll surprise a few Mutant fans, who still look upon us as the club who got just 3/400 when we were at our lowest ebb. I’m excited too for our younger fans, many of whom won’t have witnessed a derby game as adults, given it’s been almost a decade since we’ve played them competitively. I appreciate that in lieu of playing Weymouth a sort of hostility has developed with Poole – a TikTok rivalry if you like – but for those of us anywhere over the age of 30, Poole will always feel to us like a local derby but not a rivalry. If it wasn’t for the whole Tommy saga, they’d probably just fall in the same bracket as Wimborne: want to beat of course, quite like having them in our league as its good for local football and would probably even go and watch their odd game if we’re not playing. It doesn’t seem that long ago that we’d play them each pre-season at theirs to help them out financially, so there’s no hatred there, clearly.
So there is plenty to look forward to, but there has been plenty to enjoy this season and this team and this management group have undoubtably done us proud.
So here’s to another season of progress. Another step in the right direction. And here’s to next season and all it could bring. Progress through Stability. Viva la Revolucion! CM
Willy Fletcher’s on my mind, could he be Dorch’s number 9?