The Sporting Hack

In the end, it was the Doncaster Rovers board who blinked first. And, in fairness, they didn’t have much choice in the matter. Their failure to put Richie Wellens – and the thousands of supporters who idolised him as a player – out of his misery would have all but signalled the hierarchy’s disregard for the current season and beyond. Wellens speaks to the media Can a club ‘take the hit’ of meekly accepting relegation before Christmas? No, and nor should they. Rovers, are in a tight spot, make no bones about it. So, they had to do something to initiate a response from a squad that has, thus far, laboured to 13 points from 19 league games - incredibly, they’re still not bottom of the pile. And so the axe fell on Wellens. The Rovers suits knew what they were getting when they appointed him, or certainly they thought they did. A ‘heart-on-sleeve’ former midfield general could galvanise an alienated fan base from the dugout. This wasn’t “married at first sight” either, Rovers had a good lon...

The temperature gun was pointed at my forehead. “35.8,” proclaimed the friendly Lancastrian stood in a makeshift tarpaulin shelter, set up in a small car park. He smiled and nodded. Entry to the stadium was permitted.  With the pang of anxiousness which briefly washed over me vanquished, I picked up my commentary equipment and shuffled on. Instructions were read out by the person who handed me my media accreditation, not that I paid attention too intently. Though each stadium was laid out slightly differently – turn right for the toilets, left for the coffee and so on – it was never that hard to tailgate, within reason, someone who had listened. Truth be told, for the 39 th game of a truly bizarre season, I'd heard it all before. And yet, I could not have wished to be anywhere else but here. The Crown Ground, home of Accrington Stanley, the club that wouldn’t die. The homely, reassuring Crown Ground They are the very antithesis to every column inch and every second of sports...

Towels wrapped around their waists, one by one the Doncaster Rovers players returned to the makeshift dressing room at Bristol Rovers’ Memorial Ground. On show were drooped shoulders, slovenly gaits and bare midriffs. Doncaster had been cruelly exposed by the worst team in the division. Promotion aspirants? Not likely. Where once young cubs stood and bared their teeth, meek kittens eloped up the barren terrace. By Easter Monday, their race was run - season over - and it showed. The collective body language was rotten and awkward glances were exchanged. However, the words tumbled freely from the mouth of seasoned campaigner James Coppinger in the post-match debrief. He couldn’t help himself. He justifiably poured lashings of salt in to wounds prised open by the hosts following a 2-1 loss. “We’re just not good enough as individuals. We were absolutely miles off it,” was the excruciatingly accurate summation. No fairy tale ending for Coppinger This season was veteran Coppinge...