Cod Almighty | Diary

Hope is the thing with feathers

21 March 2025

Your A46 Diary has been down in the dumps, drifting in the doldrums, and downright despondent, floating in a forlorn fog of a football funk. Only alliteration can save me now! But this week even that small pleasure is denied me as, reading back, I find little comfort in my clever collection of consonance. It serves only to remind me of the naked naivete that has solemnised my week.

Gullible is written on the ceiling. Looks up. Sees blank white. Frowns. Squints. Tries to focus on the word that isn't there. Looks away. Looks again. And again. And again. Levels of hope up and down like a heart monitor until...flatline...

It's the hope that kills us.

But it wasn't hope, it was worse than that. It was a surety, an absolute certainty that we would be in the play-offs before this weekend's game against Newport. Last week I raved about the first 45 against County and this week I've stayed very quiet about the 90 against Salford.

I'm not normally one to fall for the charms of Fate and the whispers of Fortune, but there was something in the air, and it wasn't the stink of fish or the gamut of greasy fragrances from NE Lincs takeaways, this was the smell of a sure thing, a road trip with John Cusack and Daphne Zuniga, shot-gunning beers and hurtling inevitably at the object of our desires. (But, instead, the doldrums and some fresh impediment at the realisation that that film is 40 years old this year!)

Why? How? It's been a long time since I fell for the beautiful bedazzlement of the black and white in full bewitching pomp. Too many years since I've been beguiled by those brave boys and their bewildering brilliance. Too long since the footballing gods blessed us with their blinding beneficence. Too many seasons when the blast of bitter winter air blew at us, blanketing us in its black, bile-gurgling breath. So long that I clung to that evil thing, hope, like a man who thinks he's saved from drowning, but cannot see the holes in the rescue boat.

But another home game day tomorrow; time to pull out of the funk and focus on the feel good. When was the last time I let myself fall into that trap? When was the last time I wanted to fall into that trap? This new Town, this bright new black and white breaking dawn makes me want to believe. Last week, maybe I believed too easily or maybe I just wanted to enjoy myself. Maybe I was a little lost in loving life, loving laying back, loving the levity of lovely lads with a longing for elation. Maybe I'll let myself believe in sure things again very soon...

Hope's a little thinner on the ground regarding injuries: the bad news about McJannet is not as bad as it might've been but that's still a big pair of shoes to fill. All the forwards linger in the liminal space of the clinically lapsed, while Matty Carson returns from loan not as the prodigal son but as a body needed for the bench. Can we expect another appearance of October Carson in midfield? Given the barely veiled comment from Artell about individual players not keeping up with the team's improvement, we might be looking at even slimmer options in midfield given Thompson's recent struggles to keep up.

Still, Artell is as bullish as ever and has set the challenge to his players to step up and take their chance. I'm filled with apprehensive confidence that someone will take that opportunity.

For now, on this bright dull Friday morning, I'll take my alliteration, my late-game oxymorons and my tempered hope and quietly flip flop between hating enjoying and enjoying hating the optimistic dread – or the dreadful optimism - of tomorrow's match.