The Sporting Hack

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...

A little over a year ago I left the Keepmoat Stadium on a Tuesday night a disgruntled fellow – local rivals Barnsley had eased to a 2-0 win over Doncaster Rovers. The only solace was to be found, of all places, in Blackpool. At Bloomfield Road to be precise, where the Tangerines had thrown away a two goal lead against Manchester United to lose 3-2. It was consoling for the fact that, as very much an anti-Manchester United fan, I was also in the miniscule minority of the footballing world who also wanted Blackpool to struggle and accordingly had struck a £5 bet with my father that they would be relegated despite their lofty – and comfortable – position of twelfth. Why? From a hazy recollection I was watching Match of the Day while inebriated and said that I thought the Seasiders were the sort of side who were either red hot or ice cold – far too inconsistent, and therefore said “These lot will go down.” My dad, who does not part with money easily, smelled a bet – and one that ...