Cod Almighty | Diary

Wishin' and Hopin'

2 May 2025

Your A46 Diary is celebrating even before what may or may not be the last game of the season tomorrow against Wimbledon. I'm celebrating what has been a great ten months, a time since last July that has seen us make huge strides forward. A time when we remembered Peter Handyside in the first Handyside Cup, with honours shared as Stoke City's U18s and our U16s won.

When we spent the summer waiting for transfers, deciphering roadside poles and identifying Iceland. When Artell went to Iceland and came home with a fair-haired youth. When we watched YouTube clips of a Champions League goal and dreamed of our own Vikings coming to pillage League Two. When we loudly scoffed and quietly worried as pundits had us lower and lower in their predictions. When we asked, what will data do for us?

When we soon learned that this would be a stormy season, our Mariners tossed in their trawlers as wave after wave brought us high and low. When Vernam was flying. When we waited again for Vernam to be fit. When we never thought we would get a player into the League Two team of the season, and then Hume stepped up, stepped forward, stepped into that team with assist after assist. When we waited for Tharme and Thompson to be fit. When we realised they were the tip of an injury iceberg that would surely sink us all. When we had one fit striker and thought again the Mariners would sink, but Rose rose and rose and rose again. When we lost away and won at home. When we lost at home and won away. When we couldn't beat Notts but saw that debut from Turi. When we spat acid one week and alkali the next, cancelling out our pains and our pleasures, week after week, thrilled and frustrated.

When Davies promised us a new hero. When we all told each other again and again, don't fall in love with a loan player. When Davies lied. When Obikwu stepped up and promised again. When we said again, don't do it, don't fall in love with another loan player. When Obikwu lied again. When Barrington scored a couple. When Luker scored a couple. When we waited for consistency...

When summer clung on and McJannet showed us what data can do for recruitment. When the Iceman came and Bradford were pillaged at last. When Davies scored in the last minute against Chesterfield. When 125 years for Blundell Park ticked around and the sun shone and the sky was so blue and the turnstiles were heaven's gates. When the stands were full of smiles. When we thought the cup would be kind again. When we put Bradford to the sword in a shoot-out for the ages. When Eastwood was the double hero. When Vernam cupped his ear. When we were 1-0 up against Wednesday at half time...

When Doncaster came and turned home into hell. When autumn brought its reds and oranges, its dark nights and its winds and its smoking fires, blowing its impending death high over the Findus and down onto the fans, the players, the very grass of the pitch, smothering us in its mists and its year-ending silences. When the Iceman melted. When we would see half-performances. When we would have our 45 and then joke about going home. When we would not simply let a game slip through our fingers, but we would throw it away, our efforts not sand but litter. When we lost eight in ten, league and cup, day and night, always night, the lights illuminating loss after loss, the mists dancing in the glare, taunting us, mocking our earlier hopes and wishes for that away side, those Mariners who played so well away from the home hell.

When we danced away from home. When we found our walking boots, walked all over and won five in a row. When playing away meant heading out onto the A180 and finding magic: every game, every goal, every move, a greasy chip butty with a kebab on the side served up on a golden plate by a unicorn with opposable thumbs, a lighter in its mane for healthy cigars, a cool box on its back for hangover-free beer.

When Christmas came and the form reversed again. When the whole town was lifted by the youth team's win over West Ham. When a tap-room curry at Swindon couldn't cover the hurt of the first of a double defeat to Runaway's Reds. When a seagull brought its festive cheer: a flash of white in the sky and a nod-on that Rose would've been proud of. When winter bit for real. When the New Year soured the results but saw the Iceman refreeze. When that shock of blonde hair harried and carried and danced and spun. When he dazzled with his touch and the whitest of teeth and lifted us as we shivered through a winless January. When Tharme's own-goal got goal of the month for Gillingham. When the Gills confirmed we couldn't perform against shocking form.

When the youth team gave Spurs a proper game and lifted the town again. When February came and filled us like sails, chests expanding with pride and joy. When we won and we won and we won, home and away. When Artell shared the model ships he'd been sent by a chap in Sunderland and asked for a trawler next. When we dined again on greasy chip butties. When the unicorn returned. When we knew that this was the prize for us and for the players, all of them, but especially for the stand-ins, the second midfield, the ones who weren't going to play as much, who were there while we waited for Thompson and Davies and Ainley.

When Khouri became Artell's most-missed player, the engine, the powerhouse, the one who should score more but should always be in the side. When his dad came to the front to hug him. When McEachran, small at first and under the microscope, grew and grew, his talent quickly macroscopic, there for all to see, the touch, the movement, the calm, the vision - the boy's got the lot! When Green stayed and so many of us groaned. When Green played higher, so much higher than we'd ever have dreamed. When he was the one that let us say a final farewell to Hurst and his way. When Green – Greeny! Greeny! Greeny! - passed like Zidane, assisted like Zidane, shot like Zidane, when he became Zina-Green Zidane. When he scored at Harrogate. When he scored that goal at Harrogate. When we think of Harrogate and we know that anything is possible...

When we try to concentrate on work and school on this day, the day before. When your A46 Diary wears his black and white tie to share triumphant poetry with children dreaming of Wembley. When we try to sleep and we toss and turn and dream our own dreams of games against Mansfield and Huddersfield and Doncaster and Lincoln and Hull. When we hear the club say they'll give out 2000 Harry Haddocks! When we imagine the noise of Blundell Park. When we imagine the faces of our football friends. When we're intoxicated by the anticipation and dread of the whistle. When we imagine what we will do, what we will be when we win, and what we will do, what we will be when we lose. When we know that after this storm-tossed season, we're probably greedy, but we want it anyway.

When we know that tomorrow, 3pm will be it, the moment that we can make our own as we wish for three more games.