Justin Whittle was mercifully back in the starting line-up, though Dudfield was excluded from it, and, with Elliott injured, Morison, our loanee from Sheffield Wednesday, stepped into the left side role. But expectations that Mr Molby would persevere with his favoured 4-3-3(-ish) proved ill-founded. We carded a no-nonsense 4-4-2:
| Glennon | ||||
| Regan | Whittle | Anderson | Smith | |
| Petty | Green | Greaves | Morrison | |
| Johnson | Alexander |
However, it wasn't quite time for the football, and - wonder of wonders, I kid you not - out trotted the Reverend Allen Bagshawe, for some characteristically witless words, and then the ground fell silent. And so the preening self-importance of football took another loathsome lurch into infamy as it arrogantly paraded the bathetic triviality of a few seconds of silence before an insignificant sports event as a tribute to poor children "the nation" never even knew existed before their death. It is a wicked war of exploitation in which I cannot grasp why football would choose so callously to ally itself to the media's glutinous confectionery of commercialised grief over deaths they deem to lie at the summit of newsworthiness in pursuit of nothing other than extra profit ("We care! Buy our paper! More about their favourite toys! Buy our paper! WE CARE!! OUR REWARD IS BIGGER BIGGER BIGGER, GRIEVE WITH US AND WIN PRIZES!!!").
Time for some football, I think, but not until Johnson had been yellow-carded for a two-footed tackle of the type that seems inevitably to be punished these days even though the challenge was well-timed, won the ball and did not inflict even a scratch on the Bur. Johnson was back in action shortly afterwards, craftily going to ground all too easily on the edge of the box and winning an undeserved free kick from the clean-shaven referee, a Mr D Laws. The Mr D Laws. We don't forget, and we don't forgive. By the way. The ill-gotten free kick was wastefully scooped high over the bar by Stuart Green. Smith, signed for his dead ball skills, looked on disconsolately, hands on hips.
It was modestly lively fare, though neither side offered much in the final third. The incidents that did involve interest in the goalmouths were largely at the North Stand end attacked by City. Mid-way through the half Alexander set up Johnson for a shot that was blocked and then, a minute later, "Jack" Regan strode forward and smashed a viciously swerving 25-yard shot just over the bar. At this stage Regan's willingness to bring the ball forward was pleasing, though he was hindered by playing just behind Petty, who was generally loitering far too deep and simply looked positionally ill-suited to the right-side role in midfield. Elsewhere, Morison, though demonstrably no Elliott, looked deft on the ball but lightweight and, perhaps, less than fully
match-fit, while Green was enjoying a confident spell of intelligent passing and moving. The muscular Johnson was a more likely scorer than his out-of-sorts partner Gary Alexander and, round about the half hour, the Leeds loanee put us ahead.
And a strange sort of goal it was. Johnson seemed likely to be beaten to a hopeful through ball by Bury keeper Garner, but he slid into a challenge on his knees, as if intent on setting up a rolling maul of the type feared by quivering visitors to the High Veldt charged with the lonely task of taking on the Springboks, but he emerged to regain his feet and find the ball becalmed at
his feet, with Garner rucked aside. Johnson composed himself and raked a shot into the open goal from a narrow angle before any defenders could rush back to cover, and, perhaps to his surprise, glanced at the referee to discover that the goal had been given. Bury, it should be said, had little heart for a protest, so perhaps the goal looked more dubious than it really was when observed from my distant eyrie in Kempton.
Green now got himself booked, albeit a shade harshly, as Bury, deprived of Plan A, the "Defend for a 0-0" option, roused themselves and kicked on into Plan B, "Exploit their left-back". Smith duly lost the ball carelessly and a pacy attack was halted only by a perfectly timed challenge on the edge of the box from Justin Whittle, in front of an appreciative Bunkers. Shortly afterwards it was Regan's turn to squander possession and on this occasion it was a delicate defensive header by Anderson that protected us from a dangerous cross. Both centre-backs looked the part, and they shepherded us through to the sanctuary of half-time and a 1-0 lead.
It was thus far an adequate display, no more, but it was the best we were going to get. Bury bossed it once the game re-started. For ten or so minutes we were chasing possession in vain as the visitors passed the ball around with disconcerting comfort. The sum total of serious efforts of goal was zero, and Glennon pouched a patter of feeble crosses calmly enough, but the impression was that our team had, yet again, let its collective mind drift away from the job at hand. On this occasion, Mr Molby wasn't slow to act. Morison had just enjoyed his best moment of the match, a decent little jinking run and swerving shot that was well held by Garner, but he now came off for Price. I'd guess Morison had been told he'd get an hour, no more, until his fitness is topped-up. Johnson, who had faded in the second period but had still easily out-performed Alexander, was replaced by Dudfield, and our display briefly perked up. A penalty box melee in front of Bunkers; Dudfield chips the ball up for Alexander's craning forehead; just wide . corner claimed, duly refused. A lung-bursting run by Green; a back-pass, a hoof clear by Garner.
Just as we seemed to have grappled control of the pattern of play back from Bury, they equalised. It is, perhaps, the iron rule of lower Division football - you score most readily when you're under pressure at the other end. Something to do with defensive dis-organisation? It was a messy goal, with a deflection or two involved, perhaps a wretchedly unpredictable squirt off a surface now moistened by rain that had begun to fall just after 4 o'clock, but the end result was that one of theirs was able to scramble it over the line from about 8 yards out, as Glennon threw his considerable bulk at his adversary in vain.
So, 1-1, and it got worse horribly rapidly. Glennon spilled a low shot directly into the path of one of theirs about ten yards out and our portly keeper was doubtless hugely relieved to see the chance wastefully booted high over the bar. Then Glennon let another cross elude his nervous grasp and although on this occasion no damage was done, his confidence was visibly shredded. Throw abysmal distribution on to the charge sheet and our netman was an all-too-ready target for the witless Kempton boo-boys, now well into their stride just four games into the new season. People who tell you "This is gunna be our season" before a ball has been kicked should be cuffed smartly around the ear, for it such inflated expectation that fuels the stupidity of fans getting on player's backs long before the clocks have gone back, a fault to which the Hull City support is woefully and perennially self-defeatingly susceptible. But Glennon could usefully lose some weight and start keeping goal properly.
Names such as Forrest, Dunfield and Newby do not trip off the keyboard, but all the same these scions of Lancashire lower-Division football were now busily taking us apart. Bury passed and moved, over-ran us in midfield and looked entirely capable of seizing all three points. Green was having a quiet spell; Greaves had been having a quiet spell since kick-off. The tireless running and focused energy which made Mark Greaves one of our most valuable players eighteen months or so ago appear wholly exhausted. Petty was ordinary, Price anonymous. We have no possession of the football at all and only the supreme professional Justin Whittle, ably supported by the improving Anderson (know your history: a Hull City side will always be the better for the addition of a Scotsman), protected us now.
Greaves surprised us all by winning a header from a rare Tiger corner, but its gentle goalward loop never suggested success and it was headed easily clear, and the Bury deluge resumed. Bradshaw replaced Petty, an attacking move that was predictably foiled by our midfield's inability to supply quality passes up to the attacking trio, though the snappy Bradshaw managed to irritate a couple of defenders close to a foot taller than him with his perkiness. I think he is part terrier.
And so we hung on. There were three minutes of "added" and by now Bury had acquiesced in a share of the points. The final moment of note arrives on 92 when the arithmetically-minded Smith belts a 30-yard shot twelve yards too high and eighteen wide, but you didn't have to be much good at sums to know that this was another disappointing afternoon's football.
I don't do "Man of the Match" nominations - it's a team game. But we are very lucky to have a man like Justin Whittle in amber and black.
Report by: Steve Weatherill