The 22^nd April 2019 was the last time I visited ‘The Crops’, or ‘West Street’ as it is now more prosaically known, to watch Coggeshall Town play. ‘Coggy’ were then enjoying the end of a successful first season in the Isthmian League after successive promotions from the Eastern Counties Leagues. The pages of this very blog recorded that the day was unseasonably warm, and on the day before “…the mercury hit 23 degrees in my back garden”, with the prospect of it getting even warmer.  Five years on, almost to the day, and it’s grey, wet, and cold and Coggeshall Town languish at the foot of the Essex Senior League, about to experience a second successive relegation, creating an unwelcome symmetry with their earlier promotions.  Weirdly, this reminds me of a Rorschach test, when it should be the other way round.

Since I first watched Coggeshall Town in late 2016, I have been meaning to travel to a game there by bus, because it seems like the responsible thing to do.  Today, with the prospect of raindrops on misted up bus windows, it is the perfect opportunity to make that tick on my non-existent bucket list.  To add to the attraction, this will be the first time I have ever seen a match in the Essex Senior League and today’s opponents are Great Wakering Rovers who, in a fortnight’s time, will contest the final of the FA Vase against Romford at Wembley.   So, I will get to see a cup final team without having the expense and bother of getting to London.  A man needs to know his limitations.

  There is a bus stop just round the corner from my house and whilst the laminated timetable hanging limply from the bus stop pole only tells me what times the buses are from Monday to Friday, the wonder of the interweb has filled in the gaps for me and at 14:18 I hail the pale grey double-decker, which is almost a minute early if the timetable and my phone are to be believed. The fare, which I pay by tapping my bank card in the modern way, is £2.00 for the 8-kilometre journey along the A120 between pale green fields of cereal and bright yellow ones of oil seed rape.   As I pay my bus fare and tear off my bus ticket, which is almost a foot long, I muse that the bus driver looks a bit like Danny Cowley, the Colchester United manager.  But Col’ U are at home to Crewe Alexandra today, so they’d miss him if he was moonlighting on the buses.  The journey takes barely ten minutes and as I alight, I make a point of getting a better look at the driver as I turn to thank him; it’s not Danny Cowley after all.  As the bus pulls away, I note that it has fleet number 33713, which seems a very big number when there are so few buses in rural Essex.

It’s a short walk from the “Nursery” bus stop on West Street to the home of Coggeshall Town, although the footpath runs out part way along and I have to cross the road and then cross back again opposite the entrance.  Luckily for me, I’m one of the Tufty generation.  Nothing much seems to have changed since my last visit here in 2019, although it’s a different bloke on the turnstile and the programme is sadly no longer one you can hold in your hand or stuff in your pocket, being out there somewhere in the ether of ‘on-line’. Entry is by cash only; eight quid.

Once through the turnstile I make my way along the concrete path to the clubhouse, with every intention of buying a glass of beer, taking advantage of the freedom given to me by my ticket to ride on public transport.  But disappointingly, it turns out that the only ‘beer’ available are bottles of something called Peroni, a brand name which always makes me think of infections of the stomach lining.  As I advise the barman that “I won’t bother”, another club volunteer places three printed team sheets on the bar and says that’s all there is as they’ve run out of paper and the printer needs a new cartridge.  I leave the team sheets for the regulars to fight over, and head outside to the tea bar to invest in £1.50 worth of tea to sip and warm my hands on as I await kick-off. There are tea bags a-plenty, and milk and little plastic spoons.

It’s not long before the teams are on the pitch and it’s Great Wakering Rovers who get first go with the ball , hoping to put it in the goal at the clubhouse and Braintree end of the ground.  The Rovers wear green and white striped shirts with green shorts, whilst Coggeshall sport red and black striped shirts with black shorts; two fine kits seen from the front, but spoilt by being solid green and solid red from the back;  although this does make it easier to read the players numbers, it isn’t as important when, refreshingly,  they only number one to eleven and not one to infinity.   I stand briefly above the grass bank on the north side of the pitch before going down into the low seated stand where talk seems to be more of cricket rather than football.  “Reggie!” shouts the Coggeshall goalkeeper randomly and my attention is drawn further to him because his yellow kit is almost luminous on this grey afternoon and he appears to be wearing huge black gauntlets, a bit like the sort a plumber might wear if sticking his hand down a toilet  “Good to see Callum start” says someone in the crowd off to my right.

Behind the Coggeshall goal, a collection of what I can only hope are Great Wakering’s most fanatical supporters are dressed as Superman, a man on a very small inflatable horse, a bottle, ‘Del Boy’ and a girl, and although the girl costume isn’t up to much, I am pretty confident that the girl really is one.  They have a drum and chant Ole, Ole Ole, and then Alley, Alley, Alley-O.  The Coggeshall goalkeeper bawls “Red, red, red, red!”  madly, like someone insane but in possession of some knowledge of public transport who has been asked what colour London buses are.   It’s five past three and a Great Wakering shot hits the Coggeshall cross bar.  Three minutes later, and suddenly the Great Wakering number ten, Ben Search, a player who had previously been notable for whinging, shoving and annoying Coggeshall players is through on goal and scores.

Given Coggeshall’s situation at the foot of the league table, it’s the sort of start I had expected them to make, but their play when not trying to score a goal is neat enough.    Unfortunately, almost every attempt to get the ball into the Great Wakering penalty area is overhit or intercepted.  Of note however is the tidy number seven for Coggeshall, Lester Ward, who is the size of Lester Piggott, and looks so young that I expect him to be substituted before the end of the match so he can go and do his paper round. Number nine Nathan Dennis is  admirable for his distinctly unathletic build  and number four Theo Duffin looks like his socks are too small. 

With almost twenty minutes gone Coggeshall’s number ten Reggie Gregory at last  forces a decent save from the Great Wakering goal keeper to earn a corner and then another before a run of offside decisions at the other end of the pitch provides some entertainment of a different kind.  The assorted coaches who populate the Great Wakering bench and technical area evidently know that their view from five or ten yards forward of the Coggeshall back line is the best place from which to judge offside decisions and the linesman on the far side would be better off sat with them.  “Get back in your dugout” shouts a Coggeshall supporter struggling in vain for a witty put down to answer the Great Wakering crew’s protests.

As the game settles back into mediocrity I admire the view beyond the dugouts, the trees and the valley of the River Blackwater, which could have been the subject of a landscape by Monet if only he’d been a follower of the Essex Senior league.  My reverie is broken by the shouts of the Coggeshall ‘keeper. “Reggie, more, Reggie more” he calls obscurely, followed by “Work Reggie” and then “Finn, Finn, Get In”, which I like best because it rhymes.  Not to be outdone, although in truth he is, the Great Wakering ‘keeper then chips in with shouts of “Up, Up!”

As the half rolls on towards the inevitable cups of tea, the linesman receives more advice from supporters behind him before Coggeshall somehow fashion what is the easiest opportunity to score of the whole match,  and then miss it as the ball is hit over an open goal from close range.  It was “easier to score” says a bloke a few seats along from me incredulously, although the meagre evidence we have suggests that in fact it wasn’t .

Before half-time finally arrives, the Rovers supporters sing one of those electro-pop songs of the early 1980’s in which the lyrics are mostly “De, de, de-de-de, de de” followed by somebody’s name, which today sounds like Harry Palmer, but is probably Harry Talbot because he’s the only bloke called Harry in the Rovers’ team.   Talbot acknowledges this accolade by getting booked and then in a more positive way by having a shot saved to earn a corner, which is the final act of the half.

In the break I invest in yet another £1.50’s worth of tea and for a change (no pun intended) pay for it using coins of the realm, which until this afternoon had sat for many months at home on my bedside table.  The match resumes at almost exactly one minute past four and I soon notice that there are some substitutes now on the pitch, with Great Wakering having introduced a balding number sixteen, who is soon side footing a shot directly at the Coggeshall goalkeeper after a low cross.  A minute later the name of Coggeshall’s number five, Demi Nicolauo joins that of Harry Talbot in the referee’s note book and a few minutes after that another substitute, number fifteen for Great Wakering, breaks forward unopposed down the right before carefully placing his shot hopelessly wide of the far post from a good 20 metres out.

The second half is mostly being dominated by Great Wakering, but amongst some crowd members the suggestion is that it’s not always by fair means. “Ref, watch that number four for Christ’s sake –  Every time”  advises one home fan near to me.  Just before half-past four the score becomes 2-0 to Great Wakering as their Harry Talbot scores from close range and inspires Superman, the man on the inflatable horse, the girl and friends to launch into a rendition of Depeche Mode’s “I just can’t get enough”.  My hands are feeling cold now and I don the fingerless gloves that my wife knitted me the winter before last and which I keep in the pockets of my coat.

“Stay solid, Compact” is the counsel of the Great Wakering goalkeeper as his team seek to see out the final fifteen minutes of the league season, but in time Coggeshall breakaway with number nine Nathan Dennis, although unfortunately, despite a decent run he can only shoot wide, possibly because his shorts are too tight.  “We go again” calls the Coggeshall goalkeeper encouragingly before having to make a couple of decent saves to keep his teams deficit down to two goals.  At just gone twenty-five to five however, the score becomes nil-three as a low cross from Harry Talbot reaches the far side of the goal where number 14 Jack Nolde is stood all alone, and barring calamities cannot miss, he doesn’t.

The game is now won, and lost, but the visiting team’s goalkeeper is taking no chances and advises “Don’t take your foot off, don’t take your foot off” before saying the same thing again for a third time, just in case.  It’s hard to tell whether feet are taken off or whether fate just plays out that way, but Coggeshall win a corner and well into injury time substitute Arthur Massingham shoots over the cross bar.  Either way,  it’s all to no avail, and after five minutes of additional time the game ends, Great Wakering have won comfortably, and it seems that Coggeshall have ended their season in much the same way as they played the rest of it.

There is applause for both teams as Coggeshall Town leave the pitch and Great Wakering Rovers form a huddle before going to commune behind the goal with the man on the inflatable horse, Superman and the girl.  I have only been to a couple of non-league matches this season, but they are still life affirming despite occasional stupidity  on the pitch,  and as I walk back to the bus stop I hope I shall get to a few more next season, it only remains to hope that there will be beer.