Ask any hardened Bantam twelve months ago if they believed relegation beckoned again this season you’d have probably received a fairly standard Bradfordian response – ‘Playoffs again next year don’t worry, let’s just get through this season’. It’s a phrase we have grown accustomed to, the only trouble being players have never appeared to share those blind views of grandeur.
But this latest failure has potentially catastrophic consequences. Gone are the days of slight embarrassment and a few howls of laughter from our peers after a 17th place finish in Professional Football’s bottom tier. This is a club now facing the very real threat of oblivion. It’s difficult to feel anger when all you feel is deep anxiety.
The day began with the heart-wrenching news from BD6 that neighbours Bradford Bulls had to find the paltry sum of £1million pounds within the next four weeks in order to fulfil their fixtures for the season and more importantly survive. It seems the word ‘survival’ gets banded around quite a bit in this dark area of West Yorkshire. It’s almost surprising Bear Grylls hasn’t visited more often.
The Bantams then had an immediate opportunity to lift the growing gloom enveloping Bradford Sport and look to extend their gap on the trap door clubs of Macclesfield and Hereford to seven points.
The ever popular Steve Evans brought League Two’s answer to Manchester city up the M1 in a bid to cement their top three place. It’s a Crawley side that have attracted few in the way of admirers over the course of the season, with accusations of rough and tumble tackling and direct but effective football annoying admirers of the beautiful game. What any Bradford fan wouldn’t give to be much maligned but sitting atop of the League Two tree. Or even near the playoffs for that matter. There’s that ‘P’ word again.
The game itself however was well fought, with the Bantams matching up to a clearly well organised, well disciplined side whom attacked with pace and power down the flanks, while defending with, just occasionally, the odd tasty tackle in and around the penalty box. It was a Crawley side who always seemed in control, unlike their desperate counterparts.
It wasn’t the ninety minutes however and the subsequent 2 – 1 defeat suffered that will determine the rest of the season. In fact, ask many a Bradford fan as that final whistle blew and you could sense contentment in the air and a belief that the side was at least equipped to beat the drop, the only thing left to achieve in yet another season to forget.
But this is of course Bradford city Football club, a drama containing more spice than a late night episode of Hollyoaks. Not even with the full time whistle blown could we call it a night, have a swift pint in the local and concentrate on Saturdays six-pointer at Plymouth. No. Things of course always seem to take a turn for the worst.
So enough of the match, it’s not really that important anyway.
Looking down at my feet and pondering our desperate predicament (which usually involves kicking a few empty cups of Bovril), a stir suddenly arose from the Main Stand. It escalated quickly to all four corners, but not half as quickly as the mass brawl that had enveloped beneath the Bradford End.
Andrew Davies, in my opinion the finest centre half the club has had in years, had completely lost it. A Rocky moment followed when he flattened veteran and namesake Claude Davis, who later saw red himself, clearly picking the wrong moment to speak out of turn.
So it began. Bradford and Crawley’s very own answer to Mel Gibson’s mob in Braveheart. The thoroughly professional John Mclaughlin, known for his mild persona was seen wind-milling through a crowd of white shirts, his water bottle acting as a makeshift knuckleduster. Add to that Luke Oliver, who like Mclaughlin also saw red for his involvement. After a few minutes of utter madness, with the crowd still perplexed by events, referee Mr. Williamson ushered the final few Green Street wannabees down the tunnel and the night was finished. So could be said for Bradford’s league status.
As it later transpired, Bradford had lost more than the football match, even if the boxing match had been won on points. Their best centre-half faces a minimum five games due to his third red of the season, their second best faces a three game ban and the same fate had been applied to John Mclaughlin, their number one Goalkeeper. The entire central defensive backbone of the team gone, with just seven games to play – all down to one petulant comment towards a frustrated centre-half.
If the Plymouth game wasn’t already huge, it had now become Titanic in proportion. The Bantams also face a crucial game at home to Macclesfield before the season is out, as well as fronting up to the daunting prospect of facing four of League Two’s promotion hopefuls.
47 points, or somewhere near at least, appears to be the safety net which assures a Football League pardon. With just one point from five games, just a four point gap from safety and now a decimated side boiling with frustration; you could be forgiven for wondering how these seven points will be accumulated.
The ‘P’ word is very much yesterday’s word in Bradford. Not even the dreaded ‘R’ word can come close. For now, all across Bradford, ‘survival’ rules.
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