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DESTINY'S CHILDREN 9-3-07
Calum Law
At 12.46p.m. Bob Fisher will leave his house (wearing, we can be sure, his Homer Simpson underpants). Proceeding down the south side of Railway Street he will touch the third lamp-post.
He will buy one steak and kidney pie and two jam doughnuts from the bakers which he will eat on the way to Ladbrokes in Market Square - where his bets will be laid at the second window from the left. At the Four Feahhers he'll drink three pints of 'lager top', and if his friend forgets the lemonade he'll queue up to remedy this even if it's four deep at the bar.
The euphoria engendered by the ale and by the upcoming game may have induced a certain forgetfulness in Bob by the time he reaches the ground, but should he fail to think ahead Bob will not leave his seat before half-time: for Bob knows, Bob is certain, that whatever conflagration rages in his bladder 'tis but nothing compared to the calamities that will befall his team should he abandon his perch.
Of course most of us aren't as disabled by superstition as Everyman Bob (though plenty are) but even the strictest materialist is apt to search for portents when it comes to football - witness the universal felicity to the concept of 'bogey sides'. We all like to gift ourselves the power of special 'feelings' when it comes to the fortunes of our heroes and with justification - 50% of those premonitions materialise! When it comes to the Cup of course, this tendency goes into overdrive, but Boro fans above all should be wary.
For if ever destiny had etched, in advance, a 'name on the Cup', surely it was Boro's on the UEFA last season - and we know what happened there. All over Teesside, Great Aunt Bettys were seeing the shape of Gareth's nose in their tealeaves, and all to no avail. Any Boro fan inclined to grasp for omens should've been chastened by last year's heartbreak in Eindhoven, so remember: Radio Cleveland have played that Toto song roughly twice a week since 1984 - if they play it on Saturday morning it doesn't mean Yakubu will get a hat-trick.
This said however, rational reasons why we should feel optimistic about the United tie are stacking up - not least our opponents' growing list of injury concerns and the suspension of midfield fulcrum Scholes. The latter could arguably be crucial as Scholes metronomic passing is key in releasing Rooney and Ronaldo into areas in which they will hurt you. It is to be hoped that Ferguson plays the limited O'Shea alongside Carrick rather than the wily Giggs, for if Boro can dominate central midfield it will allow us to carry the game to them and bring our strikers into play - something we failed to achieve in the league fixture.
We have genuine grounds for hope but ultimately of course, as the saying goes: nobody knows shit. What we do know is that to beat teams like United, self-belief and luck must dovetail perfectly. Luck we cannot control, but it's crucial that the manager and senior players are able to instil the former in their young colleagues, for they are not just playing for a semi-final place. It's arguably no exaggeration to say that this game could well define Boro's fortunes for the next decade.
Lose, and the season almost certainly peters out; Woodgate and Viduka reason that Middlesbrough are structurally incapable of pushing on to become an outfit of the kind of stature their talents merit, and shorn of their influence, frankly we'll be favourites for the drop next season.
Victory however, and the season heads towards a buoyant conclusion - and possibly Europe.
'Who knows?' speculates Gareth when musing on our potential to one day become a Champions League player. Most will chortle at such chutzpah, yet the likes of Villareal and Deportivo have shown what's possible (albeit not in a sustained way). We have a spine to our team that at least glances at the description world-class, and with the young local talent emerging around them there's a small but insistent chance that, taken on the flood as it were, this formula could see us burgeon into a phenomenon.
Taylor, Downing, Cattermole, Morrison and McMahon have all proved themselves capable Premiership performers - and it wouldn't be a shock to see all of them honoured at international level - whilst Adam Johnson, in glimpses, has looked the most exciting of all. Most importantly, like the 'golden generation' of Saturday's opponents, they've grown up together, and have the priceless unity and understanding necessary for a 'team' to transcend the sum of its parts.
That their United counterparts were able to perform expansively was down to the fact of their being integrated into a side which contained Schmeichal, Pallister, Ince and Cantona. West Ham offer the converse example of how its easy to squander ones inheritance.
So drive a different way home Friday night, eat a lamb vindaloo, cut your toenails while watching Friends - whatever it takes to summon the Gods. We need all the help we can get on Saturday - cause this one counts.
Roeder to Nowhere
Glenn Roeder, aged 11, has a big club. The rat-faced cockney has been waving it around telling everyone it's 'bigger club' than Gareth's club, and 'always will be.'
Calm down dear. We'd happily believe that you and your 'Army' of bug-eyed, beer-bellied psychotics have a big club if only you didn't see fit to remind us at every turn. And you're not gay either, right?
For an institution allegedly so important that we scarcely figure on their radar, they seem to spend an inordinate amount of time casting anxious glances in our direction. For our part, we can afford to be magnanimous - we don't have to frantically maintain this inflated self-image, like some latterday Norma Desmond.
So well done Norma at scrambling in through the tradesman's entrance of the Intertoto Cup all the way to the last sixteen. I really hope you vanquish AZ Alka Seltzer and once more see your name in lights - all the way up Consett Boulevard.
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
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