The good place
A couple of weeks ago, as a delayed Transport for Wales train wobbled across the border with the fickle balance of a Bangor-on-Dee Races punter navigating the car park to find his taxi, I felt my arm being roughly shaken.
I looked up and noticed a glass bottle was hanging just above the bridge of my nose, wielded by a surly-looking Morecambe fan.
He was part of a large troupe of Shrimpers who had boarded at the harbour and packed out the morning service into Wrexham to its rafters.
Propped against the window, tucked inside a coat adorned with dragons and feathers, I was an obvious target, and braced myself for the “Wheeeey Disney Sheep Shaggerrrr” jibes that would imminently fill the carriage.
But instead, I got a kind gesture.
“Ya wanna drink, mate?” the lad offered.
It turned out that these boys from the bay had a surplus of morning beers which needed emptying into stomachs before the tutting hi-vis crew confiscated them on the platform.
“No trouble is there?” remarked the passenger next to me, who rode this Saturday service on a regular basis.
“You get some away fans on this bit that are fucking arseholes, but this lot are alright.”
That peaceful, pleasant trip between two sets of rival fans proved to be a good omen. Upon arrival into Wrexham, where Reds were toasted by buckets of tea in the Miner’s Rescue, surrounded by staff plating up pie and chips with even warmer smiles, it felt like there was something positive in the air of that Morecambe game. And within seven minutes of kick-off it proved so: The net bulged twice at the far end of the field and The Reds had already won.
Midway through the half, an old train raced through the horizon of the former Kop and gave three celebratory toots of its whistle, sending puffs of steam hovering in the air as if they were trying to catch a glimpse of Pele’s trickery before dissipating into the waning daylight.
It finished 6-0, all of our promotion rivals stuttered, and local lads The Royston Club served up the soundtrack for celebration at the William Aston Hall.
It had been all perfect, I mused on the way home, until I was jolted out of my squishy daydream by a stranger on the other side of the road.
Whenever you hear “Hey! Hey! You! Excuse me!” being barked in your direction on a winter’s night, you’re probably not about to be offered free cake. It’s almost always going to be a panhandler or a sandwich board-wearing, doom-monger asking you to sign up for a front seat to the end of the world.
But all this person wanted was for me to look up.
“See that?” they pointed.
Craning my neck, I saw a gigantic, perfectly-formed ring of clear night sky had somehow etched itself into the otherwise untouched canvas of clouds hanging over the city, like Michelangelo had pressed a compass against the heavens and quickly sketched a circle in the air when nobody was looking.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?!” the stranger beamed.
I hadn’t. It was incredible. The whole day had been a masterpiece.
Sadly, there is never any time during the season for Parky to quietly wander the Halls of Classic Wrexham Days with his hands behind his back, nodding and grunting approvingly at memories of the greatest football displays of the year so far. Instead, Reds players have to settle for a “fucking fantastic lads!” from our gravelly-voiced gaffer and promptly fall into the procession that follows the oldest football cliche: “Now, we go again”.
There’s no room for sentiment. And resting on your laurels in this sport is akin to crafting a magnum opus and then knocking your bowl of cornflakes all over it the following morning - which The Reds sort of did by surrendering a two goal lead at Harrogate three days later, before eventually being booted out of The Takeaway Tournament with Premier League Toppings.
To add injury to insult, Arsenal Arthur (the keeper who appeared to be the final piece of the puzzle in building this promotion-pushing squad) is now spending some time on the surgery table.
The FGR postponement has bought us a little bit of precious breathing space and an opportunity to head back to the drawing board at a good moment - with plenty of big games coming up. The pick of the bunch is our confirmed FA Cup clash with Shrewsbury - who can be considered trailblazers of the ever-burgeoning We Hate Disney FC! movement.
The Salop faithful believe us to be the Devil incarnate, and they’re salivating at the opportunity to push the Evil Welsh into the pits of hell in front of the TV cameras. Of course, they sort of already did that when we played them last in 2008 - with a 3-0 walloping effectively dooming us to damnation of non-league.
On that sad Sunday in Shropshire, where we had to sit and watch our team put on a Football’s Funniest Mistakes clip show for an audience of laughing tractor drivers, it felt like we’d never see anything remotely resembling artful football ever again. And at times like that, it makes you wonder why you bother.
Football can be miserable. It can even be divisive, toxic and petulant. But on the better days, your faith is vindicated and rewarded. Morecambe (H) was an example of how it can all come together at once. The football can be a very good place.
Maybe the next tie at Colchester will be another example of that. On to the next one.