A Man Without A Team: Week One

I feel like it’s the start of a song, or a short story theme: I am a Man Without a Team. And, ya know, maybe it is something creative. Maybe it is a chance to spend all those Saturdays (and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Sundays and not-that-often Mondays) doing something else; to claim back those two hours from updating Flashscores, or watching games in person, or watching them on telly, or just thinking about the permutations of a draw.

And think of all the words I could write if my head wasn’t full of late tackles, ropey offsides, shit refs, Welsh Cup runs, possible European opponents, arguing on message boards about Damien Allen, arguing in my head about whether I am going next week, wondering which games fall on working Saturdays for me, seeing if the new kit is gonna be a stonker or a piece of shit, or both. Think of that. And of all the millions of words I’ve already written about all those things and more, about Frank Mottram and Jiws and Carl Dale and well, I mean, Lee Harley even. It’s not easy being a Bangor City fan, is it. It never has been really.

There was the bloke who wanted to sell the floodlights, and then fucked off to Spain to hide from creditors; there was the going-bust-and-reforming that meant a new company was now in charge, with all the same players, same ground, but nobody owing; the madcap antics of Major Maund, whoever the fuck that was, whose most prominent act was to sack a manager before a Welsh Cup Semi-Final (we won, and Ish was on the bench organising the team); there was Steve Bleasdale, who resigned because Haverfordwest was too far away. I mean, we’ve had some fucking whoppers there over the years.

Like the board that sacked Nigel Adkins, the October after he’d just won two LoW titles on the trot. That one still makes me laugh nervously. Like the time Graeme Sharp got us into Europe, and promptly got his budget cut and left. I got sacked from my columnist job after that, cos I hid a rude message about cofis in that week’s effort for a laugh. Yep. Lots of nobheads, lots of idiots, lots of shenanigans.

But I had my team. And they played at Farrar Road, which was a proper ground and one manager said once it ‘smelled of football’, which was a great way to put it.

Farrar Road’s gone; not before hosting a triumphant league win, the last time anyone other than a franchise that doesn’t deserve being named has done so. There’s Asda there now. I boycotted for a bit but fucking hell. A cheap bottle of wine is a cheap bottle of wine. It wasn’t Asda’s fault, not really. Mismanagement, lies, covenant-breakers and general council bullshit did for the Arena of Aspiration. You can’t get valuable town centre real estate like that anymore for any reason.

A shiny new ground at Nantporth, not the same of course, but better parking and way better facilities. All of that, of course, helped only our opponents. I remember Lee Noble chuckling to himself mid-game when his right full-back gave up on a ball ostensibly headed for the touchline, down near the Farrar End and by the garage windows. Noble knew, like a good golfer would know, that there was a bump there that’d hold the ball up and keep it in play. So he chased it, it slowed, he crossed it in and we scored. This is the sort of thing you miss when you have a billiard-table pitch.

Ay, and the mud, and the pissy stink of the brick barely-urinal, and the sweat and the wintergreen and the steam from the players mingling with the crispness of the night, under floodlights that you could spy from a mile away. A mile to walk, a mile of excitement and anticipation. And when it chucked it down (this is North Wales) the huddling-together under the rapidly-diminishing areas of cover. And that only upped the atmosphere. The Farrar Road roar, the chants, the magic.

It takes a special kind of stupid to let all that go, but the pressures were always there. So be it. When we had to sell the ground to the council to pay a tax bill in the late 1980s the future fate was sealed.

But goddamnit I still had my club.

Now? For the first time in 35 seasons?

No more.

Here is a list:

·         Club avoids relegation twice in two seasons by skin of their teeth. The European money had all gone, spent on chasing Europe again. One penalty kick miss later, a Welsh Cup Final loss, and it’s the beginning of the end. But still my club; still my Bangor.

·         A 30k tax bill; paid for with money earmarked for a behind-the-goals shelter, to try and recreate some kind of Farrar Road-y roar. Not the first time this kind of stuff happened. I still had my team. It hurt, that we had to do this again, from money raised by fans, but it wasn’t the first time. This is the reality of an expensive new ground.

·         Suddenly: Incredible news. “A consortium” has taken over! Promises to invest hundreds of thousands of quid ‘til the coffers run dry.’ Exciting news, weird news, as we ponder what is in it for them.

·         And then a picture is released featuring the only person banned from running a football club in the UK.

·         But goddamnit Andy Legg came in, bringing in some properly excellent players and sheer hope. This might even work.

·         Legg lasted til October. Word was he wasn’t able to commit full-time. The bubble popped.

·         Head of Shrewsbury youth sides comes in as manager to steady the ship. A young manager, he grows into his post; maybe he could be the one.

·         He’s gone by April. He didn’t have the Pro Licence. Gary Taylor-Fletcher, still a player, eases the club to the end of the season and qualifies for Europe.

·         We get battered by a good Danish side; G T-F misses a great chance to add an European goal to his collection. Working alongside him is Kevin Nicholson, another excellent young coach and this time one with that Pro Licence.

·         We batter the franchise in the first game of the season. On the pitch, things look great: young players, excellent players, an experienced back four and a goalkeeper better than even Conor Roberts, who’d saved us from relegation. (that new keeper, Matt Hall, is now at Cardiff, and Brayden Shaw has trialled there too.)

·         And then.

·         Our licensing officer departs. Rumours abound about confusion as to where the money to pay for all of this comes from.

·         On the eve of a Welsh Cup Semi-Final, very strong rumours that we’re going to fail the license. We lose the game 6-1. The players look shellshocked. They don’t want to play; maybe unconsciously, the reason to give it all has gone.

·         We finish second. We fail the license. We fail the appeal.

·         The board say they’ll take it to the High Court. They do not. We knew they wouldn’t.

·         We are relegated to the lowest level in the club’s history. Instead of looking to Europe, and the Scottish Irn Bru cup, we’re facing villages without bus stops.

·         The regime, which has converted loans into shares possibly without following due procedure, takes over the clubhouse, the souvenirs, the 4G bookings. A Fun Day is promised. A fun day! Fuck me, the brass balls of it.

·         A new manager, a new team. Money spunked on wages; what is in it for them? It is not clear.

·         A fundraiser for the club – a racist comedian in the clubhouse. The final straw. Not my club. This is not what we’re about.

·         Bills not paid; local suppliers of booze out of pocket; a Tote that goes directly into the coffers of a PayPal address; two HMRC petitions to wind up (thrown out, after being paid, but even so…)

And so, the season started last Saturday with Bangor winning 5-1. Hooray! Or not. I can’t bring myself to cheer for a game that shouldn’t even be happening. What the hell am I going to do now?

This club, this part of my life, has been wrenched away from me by what is at best incompetence and at worst… well. We’ll see when it all is exposed in a rash of admonitions, finger-pointing, shadow directors, strangely-absent members of the board, shell companies and whatever else is lurking beneath the ever-thinner surface.

I can’t do it. I can’t attend and cheer and feel what I have felt. It’s gone for me. No. It’s still there; but I won’t let it out until…

…well.

What does A Man Without A Team do?

Ruthin tonight, I think. Away; I’m working anyway. It’s not the players’ fault, is it?

Maybe I’ll be able to get to an away game. I think I can square that one with myself. I hope I can.

But I see nothing ahead but blank Saturdays (and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Sundays and not-that-often Mondays), until the whole sorry mess implodes.

Imagine this for a second: I am a man who wants the club to go bust. To enter administration, and then wind up, and be put out of its misery.

I am not the only one who wants this.

It has a reason. And that is this:

Maybe, just maybe, when the dust clears and the coast is clear cause they are gone for good: maybe, maybe then we can regroup and reform and comrades can be transparent and run things for the fans by the fans until we run out of money and then…

…

…

…

?