Life is a rollercoaster
Put your seatbelt on, la.
Scarier than we thought…
As Wrexham vs Bristol Rovers ticked into stoppage time, and Reds and Blues screamed at their respective goalkeepers to “get off the bloody ground” and hit the ball down the field, there was something lurking in the pebble-grey skies above Y Cae Ras. A sensation we haven’t felt in North Wales for some time.
Panic.
It wasn’t ‘at-the-airport-gate-without-your-passport’ kind of panic. Nor was it ‘this-Transport-for-Wales-service-to-Wrexham-is-cancelled’ kind of panic. It was more like that dread you get when you’ve agreed to jump on The Big Dipper and realised it’s half as safe and twice as intense as you’d imagined. Where that voice in your head says: “Shit. This is going to be scarier than I’d bargained for…”.
On Good Friday morning, we were blissfully unaware of all this brewing agitation. Things looked dandy. We were second in the league. We were playing at home. Wycombe had a horrible run-in. Everything was fine. Automatic promotion seemed like it could be a leisurely ride down the lazy river from this point.
Our opponents for the day seemed in decent spirits, too, despite their predicament. Surely, Bristol Rovers weren’t actually bad enough to slip out of League One? When the chips were down, they would prove to be a better side than little Burton Albion, right?
As the game wore on, we all felt like fools. Reds and Blues alike. Watching the clumsy passes, the slumped shoulders, and the puffed cheeks around the pitch, there was an uneasy feeling that we were all watching two teams who were falling short in their personal missions to go up and stay up. They both wanted to win, but neither knew how.
Visiting chairman Rob McElhenney soldiered into a sodden Wrexham town city centre post-game to try and lift his Red Army from the doldrums, but it was, in all honesty, a Good Friday best forgotten. For everyone. Indeed, some Rovers fans won’t remember a thing: With a steaming away section downsized every few minutes by frustrated stewards who hauled out Bristolians - all crying and kicking and screaming - by the bucket load.
The blue half of Bristol haven’t looked that upset since Rickie Lambert ran away to Southampton. But, I guess we can understand. This is what it’s like at the finish line. We’re all tired and cranky and emotional. And when the final whistle blew to signal Wrexham 1-1 Bristol Rovers, everyone in the crowd was a little concerned about what they had seen and where it left us.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
The jitters were still there on Easter Monday, not helped by hours spent on the Northern Rail rattler where a woman inexplicably screeched in fluent Blackpudlian all the way to the seaside. The racket of the Bloomfield Road concourse felt like soothing white noise in comparison.
The rest of the Red Army - some sporting pink noses and pale faces after a long weekend drinking on the coast - seemed nervous. As we huddled underneath the flying white rats circling the ground, panic was rearing its ugly head again. Something needed to change, it was agreed. And apparently it had. Jay Rodriguez had been dropped. Palmer was replacing him. Mullin was also on the bench. Wow.
None of those rumours turned out to be true. The teams came out and there were no big surprises. Just a tweak here and there. Dobson and McClean in. Lee and Barney out. It wasn’t what we demanded. But it was - as it turned out - exactly what we needed.
There is not enough clear blue water in the Irish Sea to accurately symbolise the gap that existed between Bristol (H) and Blackpool (A). These were games that didn’t seem to belong in the same season, never mind the same weekend.
Everything went right this time. The Seasiders’ psychopathic abuse of James McClean poetically backfired as the Irishman rifled home to put us one up, before scapegoat J-Rod put it on a plate for Ollie “The Wind-Up Toy” Rathbone.
The East corner of Bloomfield Road exploded with relief, Welsh hymns rode the crests of waves rolling off the edge of the promenade, and everyone on the Red Rollercoaster was suddenly enjoying the thrill of it all again: Eyes open wide and hair blown back.
McElhenney leapt on board last-minute to experience the fun ride himself, and at full-time his fellow leaders Parky and Humphrey issued rallying calls for the Red Army to turn up on Saturday evening all guns blazing for an epic battle with Charlton Athletic.
Bouncing back to the station with a spring in our step - past the locals hovering in ginnels with cans of cider and balaclava-covered teenagers riding BMX’s on the pavements - we were stopped by an elderly woman with fear in her eyes.
“Is that a fire?!” she yelped, pointing at a ventilation system puffing steam from a house.
“No it’s all fine, don’t panic,” I replied.
It was hypocrisy of the highest order: We’d been worrying all weekend.
Thankfully, our gaffer isn’t prone to panic. Parky may be stubborn as a mule sometimes, but the personality trait that people find so challenging is the same one that has got us this far in the first instance. He sticks to his guns and can keep his head when the rest of us can’t.
The penultimate game is fast approaching and there are lots of stipulations and denouements now. But the best outcome is the simplest one. If our result is better than Wycombe’s: We’re up.
Iesu Mawr. It’s on again. Strap in.
COYR.
Great as ever. What a weekend. Parky gets the points™️