Lincoln 0-0 Plymouth – November 9th 2013

This is a hugely personal one for me. Once upon a time, I was known for being Poacher, not for editing one of the most popular Imps’ fansites out there. It seems strange to think that I once only had a voice because I didn’t have a face on matchday, but Poacher was me and I was him. If you haven’t already, and if santa lets you down, maybe it’s time to pick up my book?

Anyway, this match was my ‘final’ game as Poacher, or at least the last time I’d pull on the suit as the full time incumbent of the role. I remember it fondly because of the reception I got at half time, which I’ll repeat here as part of an excerpt from my book.

The first half ended 0-0 and when the referee blew his whistle, I was ready to go. I played along with the ruse and headed pitch side and sure enough, I was grabbed by John Vickers. Alan announced that I was going after sixteen years and JV presented me with a framed memento of my time as Poacher. JV shook my hand and said thank you for everything, and Alan announced I was to do a full tour of the ground for a round of applause.

By then I was crying some happy tears, and that feeling of overwhelming joy only deepened as I made my way around the ground. I passed in front of the South Park end of the ground, in front of box 18 where I had seen so many games early in my mascot life. The fans applauded, even the posh people in the boxes (those that weren’t in the bar) clapped and flicked their lights on and off. My Dad was sat in that end too, I’m sure he had some dust in his eye as I walked past, but he wouldn’t admit it.

It was on to the Co-op Stand, where the bulk of the fans sat. I had heard applause like this as Poacher whenever we had local dignitaries or charity groups on the pitch, but I’d never heard it solely for me. There was a brief rendition of ‘Poacher, Poacher’ too, something I hadn’t heard for almost ten years. It was a long walk past the Sincil Bank end, and I dragged it out for as long as I could. All along the touchline I blubbed like a losing contestant on a TV talent show as people clapped my tenure.

Although the Stacey West was full of away fans the applause never broke. There was no booing or barracking from the visitors, something I respect Plymouth for to this day. I could have cut across the pitch to the other home stand, instead I did one last walk across the front of my home end. I’d nearly been arrested for baiting away fans in there once before, but significantly I’d seen all of Keith Alexander’s successful years from my seat on the right side. I didn’t care who was in it that day, I was going to take their applause.

Finally, I came back to the St Andrews side of the ground to bring my lap of honour to a halt. I looked up, and remembered my first ever season when I had sat there with my mate Pete, completely unknown as Poacher, and probably only remembered as the guy who smelt funny. As I arrived back at the tunnel, I got a massive embrace from Alan Long. Before the teams came out, I retreated down the tunnel for the last time to change. Part of me was relieved the day was finally over, part of me was gutted that the journey had ended. A small part of me was bloody happy I wouldn’t have to put the damp, stinking suit on at Southport three days later.