I don't normally do preseason friendlies. Teams don't play their best players for fear of injury and supporters are keeping their well earned cash for the start of the season proper. However when it was announced the mighty Boro would be hosting Deportivo la Corruna at the Riverside how could I resist? Last time I saw Depor it was in Mundial 82 bar outside Celta Vigo ground whilst the Derby match was being played out in front of a rabid crowd. It seemed like every Celta shot went in that day so the locals went home happy. Anyway it also seemed appropriate that I invite Thommo who was keen to practice his Spanish in a foreign environment like Middlesbrough. He did air on caution and didn't wear his Depor shirt. He'd have been on his own if he had that's for sure.
The sun was shining down early when we met at Sheffield rail station for the trip to Boro via York. In classic footie fan fashion Dave turned up with a bag full of cans (Madri of course). Was it too early to start on the booze? Is the Pope Jewish? They were finished by the time we caught the connection from York to Boro. The trip was uneventful apart from a slight delay when someone threw themselves in front of an earlier train. Must have been a Geordie with a Alexander Isak tattoo.
Arrived safely in Boro then a short walk to meet up with brother Steve and my mate "suicide" Ken, a long time season ticket holder who owns his own straight jacket. We met at a rather fine Real Ale micro pub called "The Infant Hercules" excellent ales and lagers on draft and very friendly staff though they had a wary eye on Dave with his funny accent. After a few "looseners" we took the short walk to the ground. The Riverside was resplendent in the sunshine, flanked by Anish Kapoors art installation and the modern art museum. Classy or what. We took our seats at the very top of the main stand. Jeez it was high. I could see the coast of Norway. Due to the low turn out for such games only two of the stands were open. The crowd was reasonable, around 10,000. There must of been some Depor fans there but I couldn't hear them.
The Teams took to the field and I couldn't recognise any of the Boro players. One of the downsides of being a Championship side is that if any of your players shows any form they inevitably get picked up by a Premier team, even if you are pushing for promotion. Depor looked particularly dapper in their all white with sky blue sash on the chest obviously based on the Galician flag. Enough to make a Celta fan apoplectic.
With the crowd baying them on the Boro took an early lead when Tommy Conway bundled it in from 10 yards. That didn't last long. It was obvious Depor are a decent side settling down after the early shock and controlling the game in typical Spanish fashion. Lots to tippy happy but quick on the break with their wingers causing Boro defence all sorts of problems. So it was no surprise when Hernandez curled in a cracker for the equaliser after 14 minutes. Depor dominated the rest of the half without creating too much in the box and the halftime whistle blew at 1-1.
After Thommo hit the half time bar for a couple of pints and a pie we sat down for the second half. Both teams made a lot of changes, usual for a pre season game. Our new Manager, Rob Edwards brought on our first choice midfield which immediately stopped the supply to Depors wingers. However Depor took an early lead direct from a corner when Noubi powered in a header. For the rest of the game Boro took an element of control and duly equalised when Conway got his second, bundling in from 2 feet this time. Depor were good on possession but didn't really rise much threat up front. Towards the end a real match broke out with a few heafty tackles flying in, some handbags and a face slap. Welcome to Boro, lads. The final whistle blew on a surprisingly entertaining affair with both teams getting generous applause. Everyone agreed 2-2 was a fair result.We left the ground to go into town and took up residence in the Crown Hotel for cheap ale and bar snacks. We then took our leave of Steve and Ken and made the short walk to the station. We had 10 minutes before the train to Darlington, connecting to Sheffield. More than enough time for Thommo to make it to the nearest Off Licence to come back with another bag full of cans. What a hero. We arrived back in Sheffield after a great day out. Celta Vigo next time Boro?
Text by Boroman



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«A máis antiga ‹Máis antiga 201 – 207 de 207 Máis recente › A máis nova»3 things are certain in life
- Death
- Taxes
- Real Madrid robbing a team when they start struggling
It turned up the far side of the field, climbing till it was level with him. He felt a little surprise of pity to see it shaking its head, and once it paused to lower its head and paw over its ear with its forehoof as a cat does. ‘You stay there!’ he shouted. ‘Keep your distance and you’ll not get hurt.’
And indeed the horse did stop at that moment, almost obediently. It watched him as he climbed to the crest.
The rain swept into his face and he realized that he was freezing, as if his very flesh were sodden. The farm seemed miles away over the dreary fields.
Without another glance at the horse – he felt too exhausted to care now what it did – he loaded the crook of his left arm with stones and plunged out on to the waste of mud.
He was halfway to the first hedge before the horse appeared, silhouetted against the sky at the corner of the wood, head high and attentive, watching his laborious retreat over the three fields.
The ankle-deep clay dragged at him. Every stride was a separate, deliberate effort, forcing him up and out of the sucking earth, burdened as he was by his sogged clothes and load of stones and limbs that seemed themselves to be turning to mud. He fought to keep his breathing even, two strides in, two strides out, the air ripping his lungs. In the middle of the last field he stopped and looked around. The horse, tiny on the skyline, had not moved.
At the corner of the field he unlocked his clasped arms and dumped the stones by the gatepost, then leaned on the gate. The farm was in front of him. He became conscious of the rain again and suddenly longed to stretch out full length under it, to take the cooling, healing drops all over his body and forget himself in the last wretchedness of the mud. Making an effort, he heaved his weight over the gate-top. He leaned again, looking up at the hill.
Odio que llenas el cuerpo de muelles, resortes y llenas el fregadero de mirar en las noches y llenas la bañera y el sepulcro del sueño y lo eres todo como una sombra viva. Odio que llenas la urna como un petróleo lentamente y te pegas, brea a los pájaros de las palabras –los cuervos, los cuervos eran…, y envejeces y te añejas y eres el gran herbívoro frente al atardecer rumiando. Tú, zumo de mi GULAG: La fruta del asombro se come podrida. Buscar el útero de la memoria y encontrarte en cada habitación como un aceite, y llenas. Llenas y te viertes sobre el espejo deforme y obligas a plagiar a Paul Celan en cada pájaro palabra.
Un fracaso más, una tontería más, significan en nuestro país una serie de estatuas detestables más
Ese era nuestro talón de Aquiles del pánico: regresar sin haber llegado, volver después de estar a punto de lograrlo, presentarnos en la calle con el rictus de quienes tocaron la miel y se quedaron con la basura.
La working class británica ha dado forma a las costumbres, a la música, a las tendencias en la moda, al fútbol, tal y como las conocemos.
Nada que agradecer.
English recruits clad in red sagums
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