Fan-dom. Funny old game, eh? Maybe particularly when you’re a part-timer (like me), living 340 miles from the object of your viceral-tribal lurv-thing, or whatever it is.

Town. Grew up there and went to virtually every home game, aged 10-15. Then plenty more aged 15-22. Then on special occasions; ‘home visits’.

Been in Wales, see, for forty years or more. (And what a glorious privilege it’s been). So family life – my own, kids etc – got in the way of journeys Up North and back in time. But been doing more, largely due to our mum’s illness, and it’s all tugging a bit.

With every visit the realisations multiply, somehow. Unconscious or inexplicable truths around the magnitude of early life, early mates. Might not be the case for everybody but clear to me now that those mates from Primary School were and are about as good and as key as you’re ever gonna get. Torn between eulogising them and moving on: the universe probably needs to hear about the fabulous ordinary guys who have carried me through life, and will probably carry me out of it, unsung. But too intrusive of their quietness to go naming it. Too invasive of their unshowy, implacably honest ground.

All this feeds in to football. Those individuals; our tribe. I walk the genuinely grim or grimy streets around Blundell Park, on *that mission*: to go support the lads. (Yes they do finally have a women’s team but I’m too late and too far away to participate in that welcome ‘innovation’). The lads, who used to be Stuart Brace and Matt Tees before Terry Donovan and Mike Brolly became the boys Vernam, Rose and Warren. Six times I’ve walked in there, in the last year, through but with the other daft buggers in their Town clobber. Dads. Grandads. Mums. Daughters. All kinda sounding the same. All wanting the same and feeling some kind of connection: to this Town; to this place.

Football. I hate loads about it – the cheating, the money, the ‘Authorities’ near and far. The 21st century moral black hole of it. But walking briskly in, as you do, to Grimsby Town FC, at Blundell Park Cleethorpes is a wonderful, grounding pleasure. And it registers win lose or draw.

Last night I couldn’t be there. And/but they were on the tellybox. Tranmere. We’re 9th, they’re 16th in the table, or were. I’m watching from Pembrokeshire.

It looks a decent night – and the commentator says as much – before soon changing his tune. (You’re right up against the Humber/North Sea estuary multiplex, generally haunted by apocalyptic, cod-hurling ‘showers’. We soon got one). Important game for both sides; the brief interviews with the respective managers reinforced that view. Artell for GTFC thoughtful in that articulate, passive-aggressive way that he has.

Town have been dropping-off, results-wise, despite having a good coach and a solid, possibly even exceptional wider culture. Whether it’s a dip in confidence, or the presence of TV cameras, who knows, but Grimsby are poor in the first half. The squad has as many players who look good on the ball as the top handful of sides in the division but they fell into that awful lower-league hoofing-thing. Almost every contact with the ball was a ‘clearance’. It was Sunday League. Tranmere were better *and* they were winning every second ball. (So not only were Town failing to play to their footballing strengths, they were failing to compete). No complaints that Tranmere lead 1-0 at the break.

I’m a coach and slinger of wild opinions so let’s get into this. Warren, Turi, Vernam and Rose are good players at this level. And more broadly Artell has deliberately gathered a squad who can play patient, skilful (dare I say it?) intelligent football. Phases of passing. Good movement. Ball into feet. Rehearsed plays. I’ve watched them do it, often impressively. Last night they were without their best player, McEachran, who sits and passes and turns and makes the thing tick. But Turi – the guy tasked with filling the McEachran-shaped hole – can also play. Last night, for much of the game, Pym, the keeper and the likes of Warren (unusually and disappointingly) were clattering the ball over his head, bypassing the central midfield.

This is ok if it works. Last night, for 45 mins plus, it was bloody awful. Turi failed to show, or impose his will on the frankly amateurish chaos around him. Rose almost literally never got a touch, reinforcing the belief that he simply can’t play unless Town are threading balls in to feet. Vernam had an absolute ‘mare, from start to finish. Walker – who *does do* this – spent about an hour solely intent on drawing fouls. (For me, he was an embarrassment but he’s not alone at the club for ‘falling easily’: and yes I am happy to call out the coaching staff on this. Of course they are seeing #PremierLeagueLegends do this on a daily basis, but for me Artell and co should be discouraging it not using it as a strategic tool).

But on. To a second half where the Mariners found themselves and a good dollop of their game, equalising before probing for the winner that they may have deserved. As he often does, Artell made smart, timely substitutions and had obviously *had words|* about the lack of courage and composure in the first period. Burns, who for the first time in my limited experience looked a threat, scored a fine goal and would have notched a decisive second but for a remarkable save for Tranmere’s superannuated keeper. It was ‘all Town’ until, disastrously, the defence switched-off and allowed the visitors to *absolutely steal it* in the 96th minute. Horror show!

I had a brother and plenty mates there. They will have felt distraught at that cruel denouement but also at the capitulation in the first half. Town stopped doing it the Town Way. Good players stopped being brave enough to show and to pass to feet. It’s happened a zillion times, at a million clubs. But bloody tough to see that at your own.