Perhaps…perhaps…with any luckThis will be the final report to be banished from Mazuma Stadium, Globe Arena, or whatever Morecambe decides to call their tin-shed. For the Cleethorpes of the west, it serves as a lesson in the foolishness of choosing a new stadium while they were still celebrating their promotion to the Football League in 2007. 2010 saw David Artell turn in the final goal ever scored at the former Christie Park pitch, which was named for Mr Morecambe, Joseph Barnes Christie, whose vision established the J. B. Christie Trust. Among the caravan parks, there is one that can accommodate fewer than 6,500 people for the 2023–2024 season. It is plagued by financial instability and depends on its guests to provide some atmosphere.
Other than the well-known “been there, done that” feeling, many of us are unsure of where the precarity in towns comes from. Twenty years after some early spousal derision, with comments like “why do you watch this rubbish week after week?!” we were both very excited and enthusiastic about the game. By 3 p.m., the mist that had blanketed the Bowland Forest’s hills during the morning had given way to pleasant sunshine welcoming Christie the Cat, an enormous assortment of Shrimpettes (do you really think it’s a good idea to dress them in red to suggest freshly boiled shrimps?) and about 500 eager seafarers. There were still pies to be found; Morecambe’s “fame” stems from the calibre of its pies.
The now-familiar 4-2-3-1 formation of Town (and Morecambe) was as follows: Cartwright; Andrews, Andrews, Clifton, Rose; Green; Holohan; Hume, Thame, Rodgers, Mullarkey; Obikwu. The bench, apart from Eastwood, was designed to attack.
First part: shaky
So, adaptability, choice, and mobility. Merely had Morecambe begun their march towards the ocean when they lost possession on their left side. Holohan deftly manoeuvred around the Town right side, laying off the ball to Andrews and then Clifton. Clifton’s cross into the box found Rose, who successfully placed it into the net. It was only eighty seconds later.
There was a time when both teams dribbled down the wings during end-to-end play. The Welsh wizard Gwion Edwards and Senior and Slew, who Green regularly cuts out in the first half, are Morecambe’s equivalents. Every team had opportunities. It was time for both teams to move forward. In a way, it was competitive. There was a minor annoyance (Justin Obikwu made a promising debut, but he hit the deck instead of persevering despite being clearly targeted). It was as cool as the sunshine streaming across the Bowland hills in the springtime. There was an air of optimism.
By the thirty-minute point, Morecambe picked up the pace. Edwards was regularly breaking through the defence with a barrage of shots that Cartwright palmed away or Mullarkey cut out, helped along by the line-o (sorry about the spelling, Lancaster is home to lino[leum]), who looked to a referee who was unable to see the action to decide which arm should raise the flag.
Three nervous minutes of extra time were added, and when Town won the match, there were ironic jeers. Town led at halftime and had played for forty-eight minutes without conceding a point. Might it? Would it endure?
Second part: blunders
Neither group altered anything.
It was, in fact, more of the same. It wasn’t until seven minutes later. We were unaware of the leak, which was very minor. Town was under attack. Green nearly gave up a full pitch to Edwards when he recovered the ball on Morecambe’s right. He had reached the point so far where it had to be safe, even in the event that Morecambe managed to win one more corner. However, Edwards made a cut ahead and crossed the ball into the centre of the box past the diving Cartwright, setting Slew up to convert from close range.
However, nobody fell on their faces. Though Morecambe’s incredible amount of corners was cause for concern, the end-to-end proceeded unhindered. Town had a few claims for free kicks, including a particularly good one that was turned down in favour of playing the (dubious) advantage. They also had a couple of penalty shouts, one of which involved a Clifton backwards roll that was more rhythmic gymnastics than splatter. As the clock approached sixty minutes, Morecambe continued to smash corners against Cartwright’s goal.
One hour and seven minutes. Obikwu was dragged to the box’s edge: not provided. The ball shot skyward after Thame stopped another Morecambe attack. Town attacked once more, and Andrews had a strong chance to score a penalty. Morecambe put in their replacements. And we followed suit in the 78th minute. New legs came on, ready to attack. In defence, Eisa, Pyke, and Wood were on, but Rogers, Obikwu, and Andrews came off in favour of Rose. Clifton moved to right full-back, overlapping at wing-back and serving as the defensive coordinator. Shots flew in all directions. Town’s misses were the more annoying ones, but then that’s because we are Town and we are accustomed to that kind of jaw-dropping, head-holding, dramatisation that makes you laugh too hard to take things seriously.
