The Sky Bet Championship kicks off for us with a home fixture against Huddersfield.
A free flowing glamour tie, it is not. Both teams waste chances, both teams are defensive and, frankly, piss poor.
However, there are positives to take out of the 1-0 defeat. We play some decent football, the new signings look comfortable. It could have been worse.
Next up are Accrington Stanley in the Carabao Cup. I’m not a fan of this team – mainly because of that bloody awful milk advert which tortured my childhood but also because… No, just that shitty advert really. Piss off, Rush.
Now, there is an argument, prevalent amongst the fans I’m sure, that we need a cup run for morale, for experience and for the chance to restore, ahem, pride to Pride Park.
I take a different view.
And so, behold: the fucks I could not give about the Carabao Cup in either real life or this dismal alternative reality.
So I play a reserve team. A team in which only goalkeeper Ryan Allsop and aged centre half Curtis Davies are over 21 years of age.
I don’t want a second round match in this competition which gives “tin pot” a bad name.
It starts well when Accrington’s Colby Bishop scores after six minutes.
In the dug out, I lean back, legs extended in front of me and watch birds circling lazily overhead.
Referee Peter Bankes disallows it. I can’t tell you why, I wasn’t watching.
The League One outfit keep pressing – they have 9 shots and 59% of the possession – but they can’t hit the back of the net. Or apparently any passing bovine buttocks with a banjo. I’m speechless.
It ends in a bore draw. Thanks to Covid it goes straight to penalties.
We finally get the loss I desire when the Louies – 19 year old Sibley and 20 year old Watson – miss their penalties.
Harsh mistress, football.
I console both players, arm round the shoulder, “there, there lads, worse things happen at sea, hold your heads up high…” blah blah blah.
I skip off into the night. One less contest to worry about.
However, our trip to the snazzily named Weston Homes Stadium to take on Peterborough is next up as we return to league action.
I shuffle the pack – the entire Muppet Baby line up of the last game are axed – and I also ask Phil Jagielka to see if he can gather any splinters on the bench.
I love the man but his pace of 9 and his age of 38 is not enough to leave out Morato or 20 year old Lee Buchanan who is a key player, but is less good than Miguel Gutierrez at left back. I’ve bought Gutierrez in from Real Madrid and so this way I have my cake and eat it.
Darren Ferguson’s side line up in a 3-4-1-2 and look to want to hit us on the break.
Our defensive work is cut out for us with the tweaked formation, but having six men behind the ball does nothing for the spectacle for the fans.
But fuck em. I don’t want to lose.
18 minutes in, we are losing.
Jorge Grant sledgehammers one in from 25 yards and we’re a goal down.
It’s a horrifyingly balanced game. Clear cut chances are in short supply, possession finishes 55-45% in the home side’s favour.
I push the midfield forward a touch, mess with the wingers, up the pace of our attack.
It doesn’t work.
And then it does.
With 83 minutes gone and all three subs made, my Polish winger, Kamil Jozwiak plays a smart one two and then smashes the ball across the face of goal high into the net. The game finishes 1-1.
The fans are frustrated. I don’t care. 20 points to parity.
Our next fixture is another away trip, this time to Hull.
I have high hopes for this one. On the grounds that, without a huge amount of evidence, I’ve decided that Hull are shit.
It’s tight. Our reshuffled deeper defensive 4-2-1-2-1 line up snuffs them out, their 4-2-3-1 struggles to find space. They are probably edging the better chances by the time we reach the break.
Alright you fuckers, I tell them. Unleash hell. Width, pace, attack. We reshuffle to 4-1-3-1 and we start making chances.
Tom Lawrence soon makes the break through. Some good interplay allows the old Tom Cat to get free and power home a finish.
As we enter the 70th minute, I’ve made all three subs and we’re in control.
I toy with changing it and shutting it all down. It’s what Macintosh would do.
Glory. Victory. I can taste it. There’s a second on the cards here.
Until there’s not.
Out of nowhere, Lee Buchanan – the boy, lest we forget, this formation is designed to include – shoves over George Moncur in the box.
David Marshall saves the penalty but Moncur reacts fastest and slots the rebound. 1-1
Still, I hold on from changing anything. The second will come. It’ll come.
It does.
To Hull.
Bloody Moncur gathers the ball after some slick passing and thrashes one in off Marshall’s post from 25 yards.
I’m incandescent. With myself. No one is to blame for this but me. That’s a point – at least – dropped.
We remain 24th, a mere 19 points off safety.
There are two bright sparks in the gloom. The exodus of reserves continues to reduce the wage bill and the sale of Kornell McDonald for £650k to Blackpool allows us to begin operating in surplus for the first time.
Next up, Middlesbrough. They’re 23rd. They’re gash. And I have to beat them.
I do not beat them. I chase the win like a puppy chasing it’s master’s car. Although I keep the formation, I drop Shinnie who is tired and throw in 19 year old Louie Sibley.
We lose of course. In my desperation to chase the win we end up playing a 2-4-1-3 and make chances only for Boro to hit us on the break.
The fact that Josh Coburn’s finish is a worldy which earns him the man of the match champers is less of a consolation than it might be.
Shinnie holds a player meeting to gee up the lads. He’s a good boy, old GS. The players claim to be reassured and motivated.
His reward is to continue riding the bench. I want some stability of selection.
But never fear! We have another home game.
Against fierce rivals Nottingham Forest.
The first half is all Forest. At the break, it’s 0-0 but they’ve had 5 shots to our 1.
With 19 minutes gone, Briana Ojeda scores a terrible goal out of nothing to put them 1-0 up.
We’ve been solid and resolute. They’ve looked more incisive but have the cutting edge of a balsa wood sword.
At half time, I keep the formation, but switch to wide and fast attack.
We play so well. It’s all white shirts now.
We pile forward, spattering chances like a painter’s radio. The crowd are on their feet. The commentators literally talk about fluid movement.
Substitute Danny Loader is *this* close to putting us level.
You already know what happens next, don’t you?
Forest tear down the other end of the park and rejected pantomime villain Philip Zinckernagel smacks one in from 35 yards and we lose 2-0.
The media come calling. Headlines like “Newman’s Touted Revolution Falls Short” are bandied about.
Although I want to tell them where they can jam their proclamations, I don’t. Some of the lads – St Shinnie who definitely get in the team next game – likes my positivity.
To round off the perfect month, that clown Kazim-Richards also comes knocking at the door asking about first team football.
I have to reassure him that he’ll play on the grounds that in 5 games we’ve scored 2 goals.
In a private meeting he thanks me. The coaches then report his professionalism has dropped.
And it’s only just September.
I turn the lights out and go and get drunk.
Fantasy Cricket Captain 