This saber-rattling match began full tilt and ended super charged. It was like a couple of
heavyweights began slugging each other while the referee was still saying, “Okay, gentlemen,
now, when you hear the bell...†In fact, Everton were in Norwich's end so fast it made even Delia
blush. However, Norwich flew straight at their aggressors and the goal mouth action at either
end was like a strobe light display. Farm boy Gibson is showing a Scholes-like ability to pounce
on loose balls and clobber them with his size-50 clod-hoppers, and Pienaar, Baines, Jalavic and
Gueye played football like a rogue SWAT unit. All of this attacking left Norwich gaps to batter
through, but Howard flew at the ball the way his midfield was doing. Ruddy, for his part, dashed
each Everton attack with his own scrambling sense of urgency.
In the 18th minute, Baines, Pienaar, and Jagielka strung a series of passes together which
produced a pearl that Pinaar rolled to Jelavic about fifteen feet in front of goal. He clicked the
offering with his heel, like a pinball flipper, and the ball sped across turf and into the net. Two
minutes later Hibbert hit the crossbar and Cahill slid into the rebound, albeit too late, and the
desperate Ruddy snuffed out the threat. By now the spectators were like those at a tennis match;
a missle tennis match. A scud from distance just eluded the far corner of Howard's net in the 35th
minute, but four minutes later a gang of Norwich looters smashed down fences, shattered
windows, and one of the thugs rolled a stolen ball into the path of somebody named Howson,
who was running riot in the mayhem. Howard was left to fend for himself, but the ruthless
Norwich youth hit his target, and the Carrow Road boom box began playing, “The Roof Is On
Fireâ€
Halftime came to restore order and the ref pulled the players away from each other.
The second half began like “Charge of the Light Brigadeâ€, Coleman was on for Maguye, who
seemed to be having a decent match, though not as dazzling as his display at Sunderland had
been. Jelavic showed no quit on any ball. In fact, he even took a flying roundhouse with his boot
at a goal kick. Howard and Ruddy were back to playing, “Dueling Goalies,†and Moyes showed his
intent when he took Neville off for Fellaini at the 55 minute mark. Fellaini hit the field running,
and five minutes later he was part of a raiding party that included Pienaar and the Croatian Goal
Virus. The three of them were after the ball like the hounds of hell, but it was Jelavic who swept
his leg into the ball, which went viral into the Norwich net. Norwich complained that they should
have had a free kick, but referee Marinar just stared at them with his big, stupid, dead eyes until
the players began to feel uneasy, and went back to playing football—which had ceased doing in
order to complain about how unfair all is in love and war. Besides, their previous fifty free kicks
had all been squirted straight into the Everton firewall.
By now, although body language was drooping, spirits were still high. As the sun waned and
shadows grew, Wilbraham broke in on Howard, who saved, sending the ball back to the failed
shooter, who this time sent it to a seasoned assassin, and Holt closed one eye and fired, felling
Howard like a water buffalo as the ball entered the realm of the net, and touched the back. The
two managers urged their charges on like crazed maestros demanding perfection from an
exhausted and frenzied string section. Players trudged off, others charged in, yet neither side
could smash the 2-2 barrier. Moyes finally looked at the bench, and if my lip reading is what it
used to be, pointed at a player and said, “You, erm, Super Sub, get in there.â€
There was no movement from the bench. Tim Cahill was told to come off, yet his replacement
remained rooted to the bench. Players began to speak to Victor Anichebe, but he shook his head,
eyes stuck to a nowhere spot beyond the pitch. It looked like, to me, that he said, “Hell no, that
ain't my damned name. If he wants me to go in there, he can call me by my damn name, and my
damned name ain't 'Super Sub.' He want a Super Sub, I'll give him a super sub, I'll give that man a
super sub right up his arse. See how he likes his 'Super Sub' then. In fact, you can tell the man--â€
“Victor, get your arse in the game!†Moyes growled, his fists balled.
Victor rose to go in. “That's what I'm saying. Just call me by my damned name, is all I'm saying...â€
he muttered.
Within moments the super sub clattered his way in on goal, uninvited, and roared at Ruddy, “My
name is Victor Anichebe, and I am of African heritage. 'Anichebe', in African, means, 'He Who is
NOT a Substitute' or something like that, now prepare to--†his shot was saved.
The action became more gritty than pretty, as the players' determination grew. Finally, the ref
blew for 4 minutes of stoppage time and from both sides came the call to fix bayonets. The
resultant clattering of steel and heaving of bodies produced a few more attempts at goal, and
one embarrassing moment for Jelavic, who clutched his face, cried, “I'm hit!†and tried to crawl
under a dying teammate. When the 4 minutes failed to produce anything more than further
futility and exhaustion, the ref blew his whistle, which, apropos of nothing, made his eyes cross.
At Carrow Road the lights came on and reveled a pitch strewn with dead horses, shields, spears
and bodies, as the grounds filled with echoes. Long moments passed, and then the spectators
quietly turned and filed out. It had been a splendid afternoon.
heavyweights began slugging each other while the referee was still saying, “Okay, gentlemen,
now, when you hear the bell...†In fact, Everton were in Norwich's end so fast it made even Delia
blush. However, Norwich flew straight at their aggressors and the goal mouth action at either
end was like a strobe light display. Farm boy Gibson is showing a Scholes-like ability to pounce
on loose balls and clobber them with his size-50 clod-hoppers, and Pienaar, Baines, Jalavic and
Gueye played football like a rogue SWAT unit. All of this attacking left Norwich gaps to batter
through, but Howard flew at the ball the way his midfield was doing. Ruddy, for his part, dashed
each Everton attack with his own scrambling sense of urgency.
In the 18th minute, Baines, Pienaar, and Jagielka strung a series of passes together which
produced a pearl that Pinaar rolled to Jelavic about fifteen feet in front of goal. He clicked the
offering with his heel, like a pinball flipper, and the ball sped across turf and into the net. Two
minutes later Hibbert hit the crossbar and Cahill slid into the rebound, albeit too late, and the
desperate Ruddy snuffed out the threat. By now the spectators were like those at a tennis match;
a missle tennis match. A scud from distance just eluded the far corner of Howard's net in the 35th
minute, but four minutes later a gang of Norwich looters smashed down fences, shattered
windows, and one of the thugs rolled a stolen ball into the path of somebody named Howson,
who was running riot in the mayhem. Howard was left to fend for himself, but the ruthless
Norwich youth hit his target, and the Carrow Road boom box began playing, “The Roof Is On
Fireâ€
Halftime came to restore order and the ref pulled the players away from each other.
The second half began like “Charge of the Light Brigadeâ€, Coleman was on for Maguye, who
seemed to be having a decent match, though not as dazzling as his display at Sunderland had
been. Jelavic showed no quit on any ball. In fact, he even took a flying roundhouse with his boot
at a goal kick. Howard and Ruddy were back to playing, “Dueling Goalies,†and Moyes showed his
intent when he took Neville off for Fellaini at the 55 minute mark. Fellaini hit the field running,
and five minutes later he was part of a raiding party that included Pienaar and the Croatian Goal
Virus. The three of them were after the ball like the hounds of hell, but it was Jelavic who swept
his leg into the ball, which went viral into the Norwich net. Norwich complained that they should
have had a free kick, but referee Marinar just stared at them with his big, stupid, dead eyes until
the players began to feel uneasy, and went back to playing football—which had ceased doing in
order to complain about how unfair all is in love and war. Besides, their previous fifty free kicks
had all been squirted straight into the Everton firewall.
By now, although body language was drooping, spirits were still high. As the sun waned and
shadows grew, Wilbraham broke in on Howard, who saved, sending the ball back to the failed
shooter, who this time sent it to a seasoned assassin, and Holt closed one eye and fired, felling
Howard like a water buffalo as the ball entered the realm of the net, and touched the back. The
two managers urged their charges on like crazed maestros demanding perfection from an
exhausted and frenzied string section. Players trudged off, others charged in, yet neither side
could smash the 2-2 barrier. Moyes finally looked at the bench, and if my lip reading is what it
used to be, pointed at a player and said, “You, erm, Super Sub, get in there.â€
There was no movement from the bench. Tim Cahill was told to come off, yet his replacement
remained rooted to the bench. Players began to speak to Victor Anichebe, but he shook his head,
eyes stuck to a nowhere spot beyond the pitch. It looked like, to me, that he said, “Hell no, that
ain't my damned name. If he wants me to go in there, he can call me by my damn name, and my
damned name ain't 'Super Sub.' He want a Super Sub, I'll give him a super sub, I'll give that man a
super sub right up his arse. See how he likes his 'Super Sub' then. In fact, you can tell the man--â€
“Victor, get your arse in the game!†Moyes growled, his fists balled.
Victor rose to go in. “That's what I'm saying. Just call me by my damned name, is all I'm saying...â€
he muttered.
Within moments the super sub clattered his way in on goal, uninvited, and roared at Ruddy, “My
name is Victor Anichebe, and I am of African heritage. 'Anichebe', in African, means, 'He Who is
NOT a Substitute' or something like that, now prepare to--†his shot was saved.
The action became more gritty than pretty, as the players' determination grew. Finally, the ref
blew for 4 minutes of stoppage time and from both sides came the call to fix bayonets. The
resultant clattering of steel and heaving of bodies produced a few more attempts at goal, and
one embarrassing moment for Jelavic, who clutched his face, cried, “I'm hit!†and tried to crawl
under a dying teammate. When the 4 minutes failed to produce anything more than further
futility and exhaustion, the ref blew his whistle, which, apropos of nothing, made his eyes cross.
At Carrow Road the lights came on and reveled a pitch strewn with dead horses, shields, spears
and bodies, as the grounds filled with echoes. Long moments passed, and then the spectators
quietly turned and filed out. It had been a splendid afternoon.
