One of the things that I thought I’d try and do this season is get around a few more of the ninety-two league stadiums. Whilst I’ve been to more than two hundred grounds in England, I’ve not completed any of the top four divisions and among them there are still thirty-five grounds I’ve yet to visit.
I made a start by driving across country to Accrington. It was a pleasant enough journey via Skipton, a route that I rarely seem to take when heading West.
The fixture was a preliminary tie in the Carabao Cup between Accrington Stanley and Oldham Athletic. I’d bought my ticket online in advance and parked up with at least half an hour to spare before kick-off.
I followed the crowd towards the Wham Stadium but found myself in the section of the ground reserved for the away fans. Oldham had been given the open terracing behind one goal and most of the covered seating along one side. My ticket was for the main stand opposite and when I pointed this out to a steward, she very kindly escorted me most of the way to my seat.
Once in position I was able to listen in to a Geordie bloke a couple of seats along from me. He was explaining that a visit to the Wham Stadium had been on his bucket list for years. However, he had been thwarted by fixtures being cancelled for reasons including a waterlogged pitch, snow and international call-ups.
His previous attempt at the weekend just gone had failed when his wife insisted upon them going shopping instead. With luck like that I fully expected a locust plague to rock up as the teams walked out.
It was an action packed first half, with Accrington taking a three-goal lead. The third goal resulted in an injury to the Oldham keeper when he punched the crossbar rather than the ball. The fella to my left thought that he was feigning injury out of embarrassment at being beaten three times in half an hour, but when the lad removed his glove, his pinky finger stuck out to the side at a forty-five-degree angle. Ouch.
At the break I tried to buy a butter pie, for no other reason than I’d never heard of them before, never mind had one, but they were sold out. Next time in Lancashire, perhaps.
In the second half I watched from behind the goal. Oldham pegged a goal back, but it turned out to be no more than a consolation. The cross-country drive was less enjoyable in the dark and it was knocking on for midnight by the time I arrived home, albeit with just thirty-four of the ninety-two remaining.
Tags: butter pie, sticky out finger, The 92
Trail of the Lion King 
Leave a comment