The Kim Hellberg new manager bounce was paying dividends with three wins out of three since his arrival. Visitors QPR had won four of their last five games to move up to seventh and, on paper at least, posed a threat.
We’ve been playing so well though in the last few games that Tom and Harry shared my view that we would turn them over.
Kim’s team selection was interesting, with the risen from the dead Bangura and Gilbert dropping to the bench. He later explained that after so long out he didn’t want them to play too much too often until they were fully match-fit. Fair enough.
We started well and created plenty of opportunities. Boro’s first goal came from a pinpoint Hackney through ball that Strelec finished like a true striker and the second was a trademark Whittaker finish after an equally pinpoint pass from goalkeeper Brynn.
Best goal of the day though was Tommy Conway’s penalty early in the second half. He’s been on a scoring drought which the whole stadium was willing him to end. The relief both on and off the pitch was obvious when he tucked it away. He’s worth his place even if he never scores, but hopefully this one will boost his confidence and open the floodgates.
One of the reasons that I’d decided to head down to Humberside for the Hull game was that it would allow Jen and I to walk a little more of the Yorkshire Wolds Way. It took us thirteen years to complete the Cleveland Way and I’d quite like to finish this one whilst I’m still in my sixties.
We walked on both the Saturday and the Sunday, completing a section between Welton and South Cave in both directions. With the walks in and out to the trail it was getting on for seventeen miles in total. There wasn’t much in the way of wildlife, so the highlight was feeding a robin with ginger nuts.
The Boro playing on the Friday night gave me the opportunity to take in a post-walk match on the Saturday afternoon. I drove South across the Humber Bridge to Brigg for a tenth-tier fixture between Brigg Town and Doncaster City in Division One of the Northern Counties East league.
Before paying my six quid admission I got talking to a bloke in the car park. He had a few interesting stories of his football travels and he also told me that Brigg Town are the seventh oldest English club and that their Hawthorns ground dates back to 1959. It had been refurbished this year to provide a new clubhouse and a 4G pitch.
I spent my change from a tenner on a programme and raffle tickets, then queued for pie, chips and gravy. There was a long covered stand along one side and a smaller covered stand on the new clubhouse side. The facilities looked really good for tier ten, certainly when compared to the equivalent Second Division Northern League grounds.
Most people just leaned on the perimeter fence around the pitch and the dog highlight was some sort of spaniel/poodle cross in a wooly winter jacket.
There was plenty to occupy the crowd in the first half with Brigg taking the lead from a close range header some fifteen minutes into the game and just after the floodlights had been switched on. The home advantage didn’t last long as a mix up between the Brigg keeper, who was wearing goggles, and one of his defenders, allowed a Doncaster striker to steal the ball and finish easily.
Brigg soon restored their lead from a speculative ball into the box that seemed to evade everyone. The was a lot of niggle between the sides which escalated just before the break with two yellows for dissent in quick succession for one of the Doncaster coaching team. On receiving his red card he trudged off towards the dressing room but then thought better of it, doubled back and made for the bar instead.
The drama continued in the second half as Brigg gradually took control. A throw in that went deep into the box was headed towards goal. The Doncaster keeper was slow to react as it looped over him and dropped just beneath the bar. Brigg scored a fourth from the spot with around twenty minutes remaining to extend their lead to four-one. The Doncaster players weren’t happy about the decision and one of them ended up in the sin bin.
Being temporarily down to ten men didn’t seem to disadvantage Doncaster and by the time the miscreant was allowed to return, they had scored twice to bring it back to four-three. Both goals were decent, the latter being scored directly from a corner. Once back to full strength, Doncaster pushed for an equalizer. Despite a generous amount of added time they didn’t manage it though and Brigg took the points.
Snow is falling, all around me. Not really, although there was plenty of rain coming down in Hull. Jen and I had driven down for the weekend, and I’d dropped her off at the hotel before carrying on to the MKM Stadium. The draw for the World Cup had been on the radio, but after two hours of listening I still wasn’t any the wiser as to which teams Paul and I would be watching in Toronto next summer. Maybe England, maybe Sontje Hansen’s Curacao.
It had been a quiet week leading up to the game, although we had been to see Fatherson front-man Ross Leighton at the Courtroom in Middlesbrough Town Hall the previous Sunday. It was an early evening show with doors at 4pm and a planned 6.30pm curfew. Ross played for a while beyond that, but we were still out of there before seven. Perfect timing for old people.
It wasn’t easy to find parking near the stadium, and I ended up in a back street where a permit was required for anything longer than an hour. I gambled that the foul weather would deter any wardens from doing their rounds and I suppose I’ll just have to wait to see if I got away with it.
Kick-off had been delayed due to the weather causing the Boro to turn up later than they had intended and I took advantage of the additional time to join a lengthy queue for pie, mash and gravy. My seat was low down enough for the rain to blow in now and again. I was also at the very end of our section. It’s the place where the fourteen-year-old fans from each club congregate to take the piss out of each other across the divide and offer invitations to a fight outside that everyone knows will never take place. It was all pretty good-natured, no more than children playing, having fun.
We had a lot of injuries and Kim Hellberg surprised everyone by naming Alex Gilbert alongside Hayden Hackney in central midfield. He was a revelation and may now have a future at the club that very few people would have predicted under Carrick or Edwards.
Hull had Ryan Giles and Matty Crooks in their ranks. Crooks got a good reception and rightly so. Giles was jeered which seemed unfair when it’s the season of love and understanding. He was great in his first spell with us. Less so in the second but it seemed more a lack of confidence than effort.
It all went right on the pitch, and we were four up by half-time. It’s a shame that Tommy Conway wasn’t among the scorers as he worked his socks off again. We eased off a bit in the second half and Hull notched a consolation from the spot. That’s two wins from two games for the new manager. Merry Christmas Kim Hellberg.
Boro and Derby have a sort of rivalry these days, stemming back to when they cheated their way to the play-offs a few years ago and Gibbo sued them for exceeding the FFP limits and stealing our spot. They settled out of court, but their fans still whine about it.
They like to sing about how they will party when Gibbo passes away and in response the Boro sing about the equivalent celebrations should Derby cease to exist. It’s all a bit childish, but that’s football for you.
It was raining on the way to the ground, so we didn’t stop at the fan zone. Instead, we took our places early for the tifo display where we were required to wave flags whilst a large banner was raised behind the goal. A lot of work must have gone into it all.
Big news was that it was the first game under our new Swedish coach, Kim Hellberg. He is reputed to like playing out from the back, so we might see the return of some of the comedy defending of the Carrick era. There was also in first appearance in almost two years for right-back Alex Bangura. He did well, despite getting a whack in the face, and unexpectedly played from start to finish.
We began badly and were a goal down after a minute. Derby probably had the best of the first half, but once we started making changes, we gradually took control. Riley McGree did well, despite playing deeper than usual. He may well be the best footballer at the club and would likely make a decent go of slotting into any position if required.
The Derby fans were enjoying their day out for the first seventy-five minutes, but late goals from Matt Targett and Morgan Whittaker turned it around and doomed them to a joyless journey home. What a pity. They might be having a party one day, but not just yet.
I wasn’t very confident about taking anything from this game. Neither were Tom or Harry. It’s not just that Coventry are running away with the division and already have a goal difference beyond anything that we would likely achieve even if we won promotion. It’s just that it’s, well, Coventry. We rarely beat them.
Injuries don’t help and for the first time in a while we had a fairly weak bench. Adi went with wing backs but was forced to slot Alan Browne into the back three in the absence of most of our centre-backs.
We started well and I imagine that the new Swedish boss who was watching on will have been impressed with our attacking play and with the vigorous pressing. However, I doubt he will have been too happy with the defending that left us two down before we were a quarter of an hour into the game.
The momentum shifted when we pulled one back through Morgan Whittaker and then stayed with us when an own goal brought us level.
A cross from the right with fifteen minutes remaining could have led to one of those great comeback nights, but Tommy Conway skied it when it really would have been easier to score than put it in the stand. The miss affected us more than it should have done and a relieved Coventry made the most of their reprieve with two strikes in the last five minutes. Of course they did, it’s what they do. Overall, though, I thought that we did well. There’s definitely something for the new guy to work on.
I’d had an eye on this fixture for a couple of years as I’ve not yet seen a game at the Kassam Stadium. I always think of it as a new ground, but Oxford have played there since 2001. In fact, they are planning to move again before long, so time was running out for me to tick it off.
I wasn’t sure whether I’d have enough priority points for a ticket in the Boro section, so took the precaution back in August of buying a cheap ticket from Oxford for an early round of the League Cup. I later got a free ticket from Oxford for an open training day that they held. Whilst I didn’t attend on either occasion, that buying history was sufficient from me to purchase a home ticket for the Boro game without fear of having it cancelled.
Oxford is a decent drive from Teesside so Jen and I made a weekend of it. My plan had been to walk some more of the Thames Path, but it rained all weekend. That meant indoor activities only and we visited a couple of museums, the Natural History Museum and the Pitt Rivers Museum.
I was disappointed to see that the shrunken heads had been removed from public view. Maybe I need to hurry up and finish the doctorate so I can pass myself off as a legitimate researcher and have a peek in the off-limits areas. Oddly, they still had old photos on display of twelve-year-old African girls without their shirts on. I’d have expected more of a backlash about those than the trophy heads. On the plus side there were some good Captain Cook artifacts including clubs similar to those that may well have been involved in his demise.
I’d selected our hotel as it was close enough to the stadium for me to walk to the game. It’s no fun in the rain though and so I took a taxi instead. The Kassam Stadium only has three sides and on arrival I headed around to the right for the lower section of the South Stand.
I’d arrived in sufficient time to catch the end of the Coventry game on the concourse telly and got myself a steak and ale pie and a coffee. By chance I was wearing a yellowish jumper, which helped me blend in with the home fans, but as an old bloke who says little anyway, I wasn’t worried about being outed as a Boro fan.
I took my seat and watched some of the pre-match entertainment on the screen at the car park end. There wasn’t any footage of either of the four-one defeats for Oxford that secured promotion for the Boro in 1967 and 1998, but they did show one of the goals from the 1986 Milk Cup Final against QPR. I attended that game at Wembley with Blainey who had somehow obtained tickets and joined me in London for it.
The Boro fans were opposite me in the end section of the North Stand. It looked as if those in the first few rows or right at the end of the stand were getting wet. I was quite happy with my seat far enough under cover to stay dry and also the luxury of being able to sit down at a Boro game for a change.
Strelec and Nypan weren’t available after international duty and as we were well stocked with central midfielders, caretaker boss Adi Viveash pushed Hayden Hackney forward into the number ten role. This always seems a bit of a waste to me as he gets forward anyway, and I’d like to see another attacking player within the line-up.
We had the majority of the possession, as we usually do, but didn’t really have many shots on target. Oxford went in at half-time a goal up, but Morgan Whittaker bailed us out in the second half with a goal that I managed to photograph.
It was still raining when the game finished and in the absence of any taxis or buses I walked back to the hotel. That’s twenty-three of the twenty-four Championship grounds visited, with just Wrexham still to do.
As we were staying so close to the river in Budapest, it seemed almost compulsory to go for a boat ride. The dinner cruises were expensive and went on for too long, so we limited ourselves to an hour’s trip past some of Budapest’s more famous sights.
Everything was lit up, and we saw the castle and the parliament building as we drank our beer and wine.
Ok, culture done so back to the football. The final game of the weekend was in the third-tier and at the ESTMK Sportelep, which was about twenty minutes to the south-east of where we were staying in the city.
We parked right by the entrance and were asked whether we were home or away supporters. When I replied that we were neither it was decided that we would go in with the away fans. The fella on the gate sold us tickets for 1500 Hungarian forints a pop. That’s a little under three and a half quid.
As away fans we had been given half of the five thousand capacity ground. We could have watched from the hard standing behind the goal at the scoreboard end. Instead, we opted to sit in a two-row covered stand that ran along one side, but was only opened to just past half-way.
Home fans could choose between the main stand opposite us or a raised terraced area that extended outwards from the corner flag both behind the goal and along towards the main stand.
There was a decent turnout from Keruleti, with a couple of hundred fans sharing our stand. Unfortunately, we found ourselves next to the drummer. Jen had brought her earplugs, but I just had to put up with the racket.
Neither side looked like scoring in the first half, and the teams went in level at the break. ESTMK broke the deadlock on the hour when they scrambled the ball home after a corner. The fans around us seemed stoical about it. I hadn’t checked the respective positions in the table of the teams, so maybe they had been expecting a difficult game.
ESTMK could have secured the points ten minutes from time when they were awarded a penalty. The Kerulti goalie made a great save though, diving to his right to keep his team in it.
There were chances at both ends before the final whistle, but no more goals and ESTMK held on for the win.
My second game of the day was in the top tier of the Hungarian League and required a lot more effort to gain admission than the division six match I’d watched that afternoon. So much so that I’d had to visit the stadium in the morning to obtain a Fan ID that then allowed me to purchase a ticket.
I’d learned from that experience that parking around the ground was virtually non-existent and so when it was time to return for the match I walked for three-quarters of an hour to reach the stadium. Part of the route covered some of the ground that I’d covered early that morning when I’d walked along the river just as the sun was coming up.
The fan ID was a chew on. I’d initially thought that it was a league or a legislative requirement. It isn’t though, it’s just a Ferencvaros thing. You had to rock up at their offices, fill in a form, show your passport and then have your palms scanned.
This latter requirement posed difficulties for me as I’ve got the claw hand issue that Bill Nighy has and so can’t stretch out my right hand sufficiently flat for a scanner to read it. As I entered the stadium, I had to cross my arms across my body to put my left palm on the scanner whilst reaching up to tap my ID card with my right hand. It was like a game of twister.
Once inside the ground the arseing on continued. Cash, bank cards and phone payment apps weren’t accepted. If I wanted any food or drink, I’d have to load money on to my Fan ID card at a kiosk. As the costs of everything weren’t clearly displayed it meant I’d have to add more money than I’d likely spend. That’s fine if you are coming back, but this was always going to be a one-off game for me. I added enough for a coffee and a chicken burger that came with a large gherkin.
The concourse was busy with activities other than food. There was a autograph and selfie opportunity with the Ferencvaros water polo team who were showing off their trophies. You could take penalties or test the speed at which you could strike a ball. There was even a photographer who would snap your picture and then have it printed as a caricature.
The twenty-two thousand capacity Groupama stadium was only half-full at best. No surprise really, considering the hoops you had to jump through to attend. I had a very good seat near the half-way line, but was surrounded by old blokes who all knew each other. I felt I was intruding on their private space for socialising.
Both sides were mid-table and a win for Ferencvaros would take them above MTK. They were the better side and went a goal up twenty minutes into the game. At half-time I didn’t get anything to eat or drink as I didn’t want to join the queue for adding money to my Fan ID. Instead, I got a caricature done and then picked a seat high in one of the sparsely populated corner sections to watch the second half.
Ferencvaros continued to dominate and added three more goals in a ten minute period towards the end. MTK pulled one back just before full-time but I doubt it provided much consolation at all.
As I’d been working during the week, the weekend meant that I could get out and see a bit more of Budapest and the surrounding areas. The first game that I’d identified was a twenty-five-minute drive north of the city. On the way we called into a flea market to see what treasures we could find.
If we’d had a van and were driving back to England, I might very well have bought a woodburning stove. It would have needed to be a heavily reinforced van as I’d estimate the stove probably weighed twice as much as I do.
As we were flying Ryanair, I thought it best not to test their luggage limits and so we settled for some Hungarian LPs from the sixties and a fur stole. It might have been mink, but more likely was ferret. We got it at a bargain price, possibly because it was missing a back leg.
The first game of the day was at the Ujpesti Haladas Sportpalys and in the sixth-tier of the Hungarian pyramid. The ground was in a residential area, with a playground alongside it. The only seats were a couple of benches, but as it was possible to drive your car to some elevated parking alongside the pitch it wouldn’t have been difficult to watch in comfort.
The crowd peaked at twelve, although few people stayed for the whole game. A couple on a bike ride paused for a while before resuming their journey. There were two wags and a girl in an orange tabard who seemed to have some sort of official role. A mouthy bloke stood behind one of the dugouts shouting instructions to anyone within earshot and there was a fella who looked hungover eating sunflower seeds and swigging knock-off Fanta.
A grandad was supervising two small kids who would much rather have been playing on the swings. They stuck it out for twenty minutes or so before moving on.
Kerulet had the best of the first half in any stat you might think of other than goals. The closest they came to scoring was after half an hour when the home keeper turned a shot over the bar. It was goalless at the break and neither side went to the dressing rooms, remaining on the pitch for a ten-minute interval.
Kerulet might have gone in front just after the restart, but the shot bounced back off the bar. They eventually took the lead on the hour when a loose ball in the box was neatly tucked away. Ujpesti were never out of it at one-nil though and the game was in the balance until three minutes from time when a low shot into the corner of the net from the edge of box clinched the points for the visitors.
Budapest is a decent place to stay, even in late October. We were in an old part of town, about ten minutes from the river. That meant that I could go for a stroll along the embankment before starting work or when I had a gap between meetings. I checked out the steelwork on the bridges to see if it was stamped with anything like ‘Dorman Long’ but didn’t see anything that denoted a Teesside connection.
For my first ever Hungarian fixture I selected a game in the Hungarian Cup between second-tier Vasas and fourth-tier Mezoors. It was at the Illovszky Rudolf Stadium, which is fairly new, having opened in 2019 and with a capacity of just five thousand.
I had no idea how popular an early cup round would be and so bought tickets online in advance. Jen and I travelled there on the Metro, which was easy enough, and then walked the last ten minutes.
I’d been a little worried that I might need some sort of fan ID card, as I’d read about them when looking at a possible game later in the week. When we reached the turnstiles, a steward scanned a card of her own for everyone in addition to our digital phone tickets. Perhaps there was a requirement, but it was waived for cup games? Who knows?
I needn’t have worried about getting tickets in advance as, despite the small capacity, there were plenty of empty seats. We were along the side of the pitch in regular seats and there were rail seats behind each goal. Each team had around thirty ultras supporting them from their respective ends with flags and drums.
There were a few options for food. Jen got a giant pretzel thing that had cheese on it. I tried a bit but wasn’t too impressed with the bread to cheese ratio. It would have been better reversed. A fella in front of us had a more interesting selection of a slice of bread with onions and what might have been some kind of paprika spread. You were allowed to drink in the seats, but I didn’t bother.
This was a round of thirty-two tie and so the fourth-tier side had already done well to progress as far as they had. I noticed that Vasas were fielding a lot of players with high shirt numbers, so it’s possible that they might not have been at full strength.
The home side had most of the early possession and went ahead mid-way through the first half with a header from a floaty free-kick.
Mezoors made a game of it and kept the deficit to a single goal until the last quarter of an hour. Some sustained pressure from Vasas brought about a second goal much to the relief of their fans around us. A curled injury time third goal seemed harsh on the fourth-tier side.
That’s now sixty-seven countries where I’ve watched football, two thirds of the way towards my target of a ton.
Trail of the Lion King 