Falmouth Town 3 Helston Athletic 2
Carlsberg South West Peninsula League Walter C Parson Funeral Directors League Cup Second Round
DATELINE: Bickland Park, Falmouth, Friday, October 19, 2018.
MATCH SUMMARY: This was a storming local derby of a cup tie, especially in the first half. Cup holders Falmouth were rocked as their neighbours roared into a 2-0 lead, despite being reduced to ten men, but the home side hit back to be level by half-time. And Falmouth just about made their man advantage count as they scored once after the break to finally end the resistance of a brave and battling Helston side. Cracking game.
THE BLOG: George IV ascends to the throne following the death of his father, Florence Nightingale is born and the Cato Street conspirators, who planned to murder the entire Cabinet, are executed. And Romantic poet John Keats publishes his To Autumn, an ode to the delights of this time of year, an appreciation of this “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”.
That was in 1820 and, if he was writing it now, Keats would surely not only be in gentle awe of the fruits all “filled with ripeness to the core” and “the red-breast whistling from a garden-croft” but also of the “floodlights brightening the darkening skies” and the “odour of dew-grass and liniment rising to the onlooker’s olfactory scent” as the beautiful game eases into the most beautiful part of the season
Yes, autumn is the very core, the very heart of the football season. Especially on a slightly misty, slightly warm, slightly chilly evening under the lights, when the summer heat is beginning to be a distant memory and there are gentle hints of the dark and dismal winter days to come. At this stage of the footballing year, just as in the calendar year, there is still warmth and hope in the air, still the chance of a sunny day or of a good cup run, possibly a trophy.
The harsh reality of winter has not yet set in, the cold wind and ice has not yet permeated the very bones and soul of the die-hard footballer or football fan, a run of poor performances and abject defeats haven’t yet turned hope to despair and created a yearning for spring so this harshest of seasons can come to an end, be it with relegation, survival or mid-table mediocrity.
And then spring comes, with its warmer temperatures and lighter days and, for some, the football season is still alive with possibility, with hopes of winning the title or, better still, lifting a cup on a sun-kissed cup final day. But, for most, spring is tinged with sadness as, ultimately, almost every football team loses, misses out on a trophy, misses out on glory. Hopes have died and dreams of joy are put aside for another year. The potential that was brought by autumn has not been delivered by spring.
That’s why autumn is the best time of the football season. For just about every club, there is still hope, there is still a chance for success to come your way, for this campaign to be the one that lives long in the memory, that you discuss for years and years to come. Keats understood the charm and subtle melancholy of autumn and, somewhere deep in their poetic souls, so do most football aficionados.
Although, to be fair, there wasn’t much poetry on show at Bickland Park on Friday night.
Falmouth Town’s rambling ground, which they were expected to have vacated for a new home by now, feels almost old enough for Keats himself to have wandered by, and it certainly shows its age in crumbling parts, but it is still a place of great character and drama, a perfect setting for a Friday night floodlit cup tie in the brilliant, the wonderful, the unsurpassable, Carlsberg South West Peninsula League Walter C Parson Funeral Directors League Cup.
Especially for a cup tie derby against their bustling neighbours from just down the road, Helston Athletic. And especially for a crunch clash in front of a large and vocal crowd which challenged every decision made by the ref, which roared on every tackle, which cheered and jeered in equal measure. It was great fun.
Once I had found the new entrance to the ground (put in place due to roadworks and the building of a housing development on neighbouring land), two wonderful things happened. Firstly, I didn’t have enough change to enter the half-time draw, thereby meaning I saved the money I would have spent on an inevitably losing ticket and, secondly, the match kicked off just 45 seconds after the appointed 7.30pm start time. Every other game I have been to this season has begun two or three minutes early or late, much to my slightly OCD annoyance. Well done, ref.
Underdogs Helston, who are in 15th spot in the SWPL Premier Division as against their hosts’ second place, started the better and there was definitely the elusive whiff of a mild cup shock in the air.
I must admit, though, that my attention was slightly taken by the big “FTFC” mural painted on the wall behind the goal at the clubhouse end. In my non-art-expert way, I mused about the possibility of it being a Banksy, that “does he or doesn’t he really exist” artist whose random pieces of street art are sold for crazy, Premier League, prices. Maybe Falmouth could claim that it really is a Banksy and then sell if for a million pounds just before knocking the wall down as they moved to a new ground. What would the actual art critics make of that?
My random imaginings were excitingly interrupted though as, in the 22nd minute of the contest, Helston took a deserved lead. The home keeper got his fingertips to a left-wing cross but could only divert the ball into the path of centre-forward Phil Cattran who calmly knocked it home for the opener.
That was the cue for 20 minutes or so of proper cup madness and magnificence.
“Stop being nice, get into them,” was the frustrated call from a frustrated Falmouth, but this was followed by a crunching, and illegal, Helston challenge which turned up the heat on this mild October evening. That tackle was swiftly followed by another from the visitors’ Hugh Howlett – and the ref, who had been keeping his cards safely tucked away until then, decided to jump straight from nothing to red, much to Helston’s angst.
Now, I have to go a bit Arsene Wenger at this point. The challenge happened down by the far corner flag and my view was genuinely obscured so I am unable to give an informed opinion as to the fairness of the decision. Speaking to people around me, opinion was split between red, yellow and nothing at all. A poll on Twitter (how very modern) came out with 37% for no card, 33% for red and 30% for yellow. That didn’t really resolve anything did it?
Anyway, any thoughts that that would be the end of Helston’s hopes were soundly dashed all of 30 seconds later as the visitors broke from their own end of the pitch to take a 2-0 lead as Cattran coolly finished a one-on-one at the end of a sweeping move. Great stuff.
That finally seemed to kick the hosts into life. They had their first real effort on goal on 42 minutes, which the keeper did well to keep out, but did pull a goal back just a minute later with a stunning left-foot strike by Dave Broglino. And, before half-time, the same player was in the right place at the right time to finish off a neat move and make it 2-2. Wow, that was all a bit breathless.
The late excitement didn’t impress the Helston keeper though and he yelled at his own side: “We’re showing too much respect again. Eff ’em. Get in their faces again.” Ah, the beautiful game. (It made me smile and sounded very much like my own approach in my playing days).
The second half was intriguing and entertaining and kept the large crowd thoroughly, and noisily, engaged. There was a cracking atmosphere as 11-man Falmouth pushed for the winner against the brave and determined ten men of Helston. The decisive moment came on 79 minutes when Dave Blizzard was on hand to sweep home a cross from the left and put the home side in front for the first time, sparking a delighted roar from the loud home faithful. It was almost enough to make their Banksy fall off the wall behind them.
And that was that. Cup holders Falmouth had done just about enough to keep their hopes of retaining the trophy alive, Helston were gutted but could be justifiably proud of their efforts, and we supporters and observers could wander off into the autumn evening replete with the satisfaction of seeing a battle well fought.
Keats would have had a lovely poetic phrase for that post-match feeling, of having “watchest the last oozings hours by hours” – I think he is talking about injury time there when your team is hanging on desperately.
For me, I just thought it was a proper cup cracker where the poetry was all on the pitch. Let’s hope more verses filled with football passion are written large across the cup landscape for the rest of this far from mellow but hopefully fruitful season.
THE PICTURES
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