We came out in the second half and looked threatening until the first real referee error. Now, I defend refs, and I felt we’d got a good one, but I’m going to stop saying who is good and who is not. On 50 minutes, Ben House got clear of Matt Smith with a decent challenge, and as Kerr went down from that, he pulled House down with him. It was what Steve Thompson used to call an agricultural challenge, which roughly translated means a blatant foul. Had House not been brought down, we were two on two. Martin Coy called a foul, gave it Wigan’s way, and booked House.
There had been moments in the first half where I felt the ref was teetering, mainly due to the lack of help he got from the assistant referee on the west side of the pitch, but after this moment, I felt he lost control. Wigan were good at handling the game, and I’ve no complaints about them at all. They made a few cheeky little pull backs, unpunished by a booking, but every team does it, and we’re not talking Stevenage or Burton levels. However, inconsistency began to creep in, and it felt to me like decisions began to be weighed against us.
Joe Taylor had another goal disallowed for offside, rightly so. It was another moment where someone had to be to blame. Taylor’s run just felt a little ill-timed, straight rather than curved, and Erhahon just perhaps took an extra touch. Still, I genuinely felt we were in the game. In the second half, we had four shots (apparently) none on target, but that doesn’t include Taylor’s ‘goal’, or the big key moment of the game. A moment that will define our season as much as Szmodics’ dive back in 2021. A moment we can all use as blame, unless we’re trying to be super edgy and blame Jez George or something, which I’m sure at least one person will.
You know the moment, I mean. Lasse wins the ball high up the field and puts in the deep cross that we’ve been getting joy with lately. Joe Taylor hooks the ball back across goal, and Reeco slams it home for 2-1. That’s the goal that keeps us in the play-off race; that’s the goal that makes Tuesday a winner-takes-all encounter. That’s the one.
Only it wasn’t. The assistant referee had his flag up, and it was chalked off. I don’t know whether it should have been or not; we’ve had slow-motion replays, and it’s still not conclusive. Even with a good angle, we can’t tell whether it is out. So, how does an assistant referee, 40-odd yards away, on an angle, see it’s out through a penalty area containing no fewer than 10 players? The answer? He doesn’t. He guesses, and that’s just not good enough. If he was on the other side of the field, I’d get it, he’s got a better view, but he’s looking at an angle; he’s not in line. It’s an atrocious call; whether it is right or wrong, he cannot know. He can’t.
That’s where I’m hanging my anger. We can talk about the subs if you want, how some people think Joe Taylor should have stayed on (including Joe Taylor, judging by his empassioned reaction). We can talk about whether Jovon or Freddie should have come on at that point, or that after the ‘goal’ our passing went awry as we went a bit longer looking for a goal, which doesn’t suit us. We can ask how on earth one of their subs can put his hands on the referee and not get sent off, giving us a numercial advantage. We can blame their winner, a decent strike through a crowd, on us pushing forward if we wish, knowing that had we been 2-1 up, not drawing 1-1, we’d be defending for our lives, something we do so well.
The truth is, in my eyes, none of it matters. The officials have guessed a major decision. It might be the right guess, it might be the wrong one, the critical thing is you don’t know, I don’t know and there’s no way they knew. What I would say (quietly) is that Joe Taylor looks straight at the assistant referee as he’s hooked the ball across, so it might even be the right decision. Maybe Joe Taylor knows. There are three Wigan players looking at the ball as Taylor hooks it across (that I can see), and not one appeals. Maybe they know.
Maybe. Guesswork.
Now for the stats. The xG for yesterday’s game was 0.84 for us and 0.74 for Wigan, meaning a draw was probably fair, but that doesn’t include our three disallowed goals. I’m not being critical of the Latics (and I don’t want the god-awful ‘cry more’ tweets that have me reaching for the block button); they’re a good side with talented players, and I did grip my seat a bit tighter when Magennis came on, the sort of focal point that perhaps would have served us well as we went more direct. No, respect to them for travelling in decent numbers, for their electric start, and for a decent showing in the second half. I felt it was a good game of football, with everything you need from such an encounter – controversy, goals, erratic officials, and two sets of vocal supporters. It’s a crying shame we came out on the wrong side of the result, but we did, however that happened.
VAR in League One? Absolutely not. I’d feel ten times worse if I were writing this now knowing the ball was out of play. Where would I place my anger then? In the subs we made? In the injuries we’ve carried? In a single player who has left everything on the pitch but who misplaced a couple of passes? Pardon my French, but baiser que. I don’t want my anger, my hurt, or my disappointment directed at a group of players who have reinspired a city after a moderate couple of seasons. I don’t want that group to feel anything other than admiration and pride from me at having come from nowhere to challenge for a top-six spot. I don’t want my shouts from the stands to make a player think they’ve made a single wrong decision. I want my pantomime villain to wear an opposition shirt, or be brandishing cards or, in this instance, to be waving a flag he should perhaps have shoved dans fourré le cul.
And to think, I dropped French in Year Ten.
We go into Tuesday night knowing a win opens the possibility of a top-six spot, but deep down, I think the game is done now. I’ve said that before and was proven wrong, but it feels like a step too far. I thought about it as I came down the final straight today in the 10k. I had a dodgy start; the crowded lanes were challenging, and I was off the pace I’d set myself. In the middle, I came from nowhere to be pulling decent 1km splits out of the bag, and as I reached the 7km mark, I was tracking a personal best. Those last few kilometres were hard work, and as I came down Nettleham Road, I was pushing my legs but not getting the response I wanted. That’s this group right now. They’re pushing their legs, but after 16 games unbeaten, after coming in from the cold to challenge the league’s elite, it is just a tiny bit too far. The tank is empty.
I finished the race this morning in 56:55, a time that I would have taken at the start. It’s a time I should be proud of, but a time that I know I could have beaten after a strong period in the middle of the race. It acts as a metaphor for our season, really. If only I hadn’t had a cold for the latter part of March and Feb. If only I hadn’t had a stag weekend where beer and junk food were the order of the day. If only we’d had a striker in October and November. If only we’d held on at Northampton. If only the assistant referee hadn’t guessed.
When the dust settles, I’ll be proud of my time, just like I’m proud of my team. I’ll be back next year, lining up with thousands of others, knowing I can do better. Barring a miracle, this Lincoln City side will be in the same boat, on the start line in August, knowing that everything is there to go one better. I believe that – it’s not hope, it’s belief, and unless I’m very much mistaken, Sir Peter Ustinov never said, ‘It’s the belief that kills you’.
I don’t know that; I’m just guessing.
Up The Imps.