Accidentally scoring five goals at home against Ebbsfleet

A home draw against Stevenage, another era ends

Still-managerless Oxford triumph at AFC Sudbury in minor trophy

(Here is a picture of Limbo.)

[Christ's Descent into Limbo courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Reading a report on Oxford's draw at Weymouth

'Determined to do exactly what has been asked of him, he painstakingly composes the report in the old style, tackling each detail with such care and aggravating precision that many hours go by before he manages to finish it. As he reads over the results, he is forced to admit that everything seems accurate. But then why does he feel so dissatisfied, so troubled by what he has written? He says to himself: what happened is not really what happened. For the first time in his experience of writing reports, he discovers that words do not necessarily work, that it is possible for them to obscure the things they are trying to say.'

- Ghosts

Weymouth 2 (Beavon 40, 52), Oxford Utd 2 (Day 42, Robinson og 83).

This is the information that confronts him when he returns home. He reads the words quickly, then again with increased intensity, interrogating them for the story he knows lies somewhere behind this data. Confused, unsure whether to react with joy, relief, or disappointment, he tries to make what conjectures he can from the characters in front of him. A point away from home, but against a struggling side. A late equaliser. Two goals for Beavon, once of Didcot. A first goal of the season from Day. But in the end, after speculation, all he can do is stare at the words, reading again and again:

Weymouth 2 (Beavon 40, 52), Oxford Utd 2 (Day 42, Robinson og 83).

Unnatural high from Field Mill

(Little Sammy Deering!)

[Image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Darren Patterson is sacked

'Mercenaries... are useless and dangerous; and if one holds his state based on these arms, he will stand neither firm nor safe; for they are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, unfaithful, valiant before friends, cowardly before enemies; they have neither the fear of God nor fidelity to men, they avoid defeat just so long as they avoid battle; for in peace one is robbed by them, and in war by the enemy. The reason for all this is that there is no loyalty or inducement to keep them on the field apart from the little they are paid, and this is not enough to make them willing to die for you.'

- The Prince

(Time for some of our players to consult their consciences).

[Detail from Gozzoli's The Journey of the Magi courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

FA cup second round, Torquay

(A shroud of fog was drawn over our participation in the FA cup as it ended in a pitiful second half - where now?)

Hasty departures after beating Kidderminster at home

(A freezing night; A perfunctory penalty; Moist breath condensing on scarves; Head down, hands in pockets, home: Soul-unstirred.)

A shoeing at Histon

One of 3,196 moments

‘My moments, her moments. The dog’s moments.’

- Krapp’s Last Tape

I was there the moment the opportunity went by. I was looking towards the front of the stand at one of the stewards trying to hide his nose in a dirty great luminous coat - glancing in my direction as chance would have it. Our eyes met. Around me a swell grew and I broke from his glance just as the ball passed through the space in front of the goal. For that moment my gaze joined the gaze of players and spectators, fixed on the ball as it moved towards a player’s forehead. But the header ghosted past the post, and the noise subsided, the moment over.

I watched the ball bounce off a chair with a clatter. It lodged itself under another, discounted. Its significance was unclear to me. It might have stayed there, but a child picked it up and threw it back to the goalkeeper.

[Some words occasioned by something Oxblogger wrote.]

A nervy replay victory at Dorchester

(Persisting or fading?)

Returning home to find Oxford have lost at Grays

(All is darkness and confusion).

FA Cup first round at home to Dorchester

(A half-hearted Ox)

Exiting the Setanta Shield away at Forest Green

(Contemplating whether it's defeat or the conceit of this thoroughly modern football competition that leaves us feeling empty)

Light through the gloom as Oxford beat York at home

The Desire of James Clarke

‘It’s time to demythologize an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars. It’s time to embrace bad men and the price they paid to secretly define their time.

Here’s to them.'

- American Tabloid

When I think about James Clarke, a series of vignettes cross my mind - a flicker of cinefilm story. We’ve watched James Clarke change in front of our eyes.

Click.

March 2007. Stafford at home. A buoyant Oxford crowd watched the ceremony of end of season awards. Optimism in the late spring air. A play-off semi-final around the corner. After a long season in this league it felt like a return to The League would happen after all. The youth team all-conquering - and when the young player of the season was announced, it was a name unfamiliar to most of the crowd.

‘Don’t look so shocked Jamie!’ Peter Rhodes-Brown laughed over the P.A.

What can put this defender ahead of the rest of a talented team? A shy smile. Gentle applause from the crowd. A passing thought as to whether we’ll ever see the boy on this pitch again. And then thoughts returned to the play-offs.

Click.

A cold Aggborough, away to Kidderminster - seven months and a season later. It could have been a lifetime. Still in this league. Still not in The League. A snarling Oxford crowd shut up in one end of the ground - the season spiralling away from them. On the pitch the team clinging on. In the stands men climbing a gantry to bang metal against metal. Willing a campaigning spirit to materialise. The sense of something primal in the air.

And in this atmosphere, James Clarke made his first-team debut.

Oxford defending for their lives. Oxford undeservedly two goals up. The game turns on a contentious sending off. Clarke the player on the ground. The referee adjudged an elbow to have knocked him down. James Constable sent off. Kidderminster incensed. Fingers point. Accusations made. Clarke has feigned the incident. Clarke’s to blame. Cheat. Oxford indignant. The boy’s a young debutant. He’s too young to do that. Too inexperienced. Ranks close. The match a fractious quarrel. Clarke's team mates did what they could to help him through the alley of taunts and studs, spittle and spite.

The final whistle brought relief and victory. The players taking the applause of the fans in the away end - Billy Turley knowing that the acclaim is as much for Clarke’s debut as the team performance. He pushed the young man towards the Oxford supporters behind the goal. Clarke reluctant - shoulder blades shoot back under the pressure of Turley’s shove towards the wall of sound from the terrace.

‘CLARKEY! CLARKEY! CLARKEY!’.

A slight smile. Hands raised briefly to return the applause - then quickly turned and jogged after the rest of the squad. Uneasy in isolation.

‘CLARKEY! CLARKEY! CLARKEY!’.

Click.

The campaigning spirit arrived too late.

Games passed with little purpose. Still in this league. Still not in The League. But amongst this a young defender’s reputation growing. A tackler. A confidence with the ball. But most of all the look in the eye.

And a new aspect to the way he plays?

Burton at home. The winger goes past Clarke. The balled fist goes out - grabbing. The man goes down and Clarke’s game is over.

Innocence and experience?

Click. Click.

July 2008. Court Place Farm. A pre-season game with no edge. But Clarke fighting. Fighting for a place on the team. An unfamiliar left back - but exuded seniority in a second-half team of youth teamers and trialists. And the scales falling from my eyes. His game all pushes and pulls. Shirts. Shorts. Get the man. Stop him. Eyes squinting to see the play. Fingers pointing. Sort them out. No one gets past. Was this always there? Did I choose not to see it? Innocence and experience. Experience from innocence.

Click. Click. Click.

Barrow, away. Oxford kick off another season - still in this league. Still not in The League.

Clarke's fought for and won his place on the team. No innocence. Just experience.

Chest out.

No one. Gets. Past.

The ball falls loose. Get there. The tackle goes in.

Clarke’s game is over.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

A new scene. Hayes in the cup. The game won. No one got past.

The tackle goes in.

Clarke’s game is over.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click...

Desire drives a boy to become a man. Desire takes him from innocence to experience. Desire makes him who he becomes.

Here’s to the desire of James Clarke.


[Ed.: This piece has been planned for a little while, but it seems appropriate to post it now. Get well soon Clarkey: I see in you the ability, but more importantly the character, to become the sort of man who could define the spirit of an Oxford squad.

All images in this post courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with kind permission.]

The magic of the cup at home against Hayes and Yeading

(This was what we wanted to say about the game before the 90th minute. There will be a piece on James Clarke coming next week.)

Victory at home against Burton Albion

Image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.

(Oxford sides are formed in the furnace of passion, they are proved in the heat and light of this forge as passion assumes the form of pride or anger)

A discarded plastic training cone, on top of some piping, next to the pitch away at Altrincham

(Take this as metaphor, or muse on it to distract your mind from seeing Yemi Odubade flying through the air to send the ball high over the houses behind the goal, again, and again, and again.)

Attempting to read the signs at Plainmoor

Image from 'Darwin and after Darwin' by John Romanes, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.

Augury is the attempt to interpret the signs of nature to determine the will of the gods, usually as it is conveyed to mortal man by the flight and call of birds. Evermore confused about this Oxford squad, We Are Oxford United sent Oxford University's finest expert on religion in the ancient world (or at least the first one we found spending too much time at the Kings Arms) to Plainmoor to attempt to divine what signs he could of Oxford's seasons in their performance against 'The Gulls'. A number of academic papers are apparently planned based on these 'research findings', and, as a result, due to copyright restrictions we can only reproduce the abstract to the first of these. Which frankly, given the amount of beer we seem to have paid for under the auspices of 'research funding', we're pretty hacked off about.

This study aims to apply the analytical framework of classical theology's sociological reading of divination to the modern ritual of 'non-league football'. It draws close comparison between Roman augurs of bird flight and spectators of a non-league game of football as both attempt to divine pattern and meaning to seemingly random movement. After a theoretical comparison of the two meaning systems, the analysis is applied to a recent game of non-league football between Torquay United and Oxford United. Themes considered include faith, foresight (and the lack thereof), betrayal, inevitability, intoxication, and madness. The article goes on to consider why the attendees of both rituals thought seemingly unconnected factors to be affected by one another (birds and the future; non-league footballers and the outcome of their game), particularly given the seemingly overwhelming evidence of the past (the inaccuracy of augurs; Oxford looking the business against Cambridge and Rushden but still getting done at Lewes). Following Cicero's De Divinatione, a critical analysis is provided of the arguments for connecting augury and football to such sources as God, nature, or fate. Finally, it is concluded that Torquay and Oxford need to work on their set pieces, both the taking of and the defending of, as frankly, it bordered on pathos.

The dying of the light?

(We could certainly have done with a bit more rage away at Lewes)

Dark day ends with victory at home against Cambridge

(Oxford, United,..)

Defeat at home to Crawley

Image courtesy of Image*After.

(A wounded London Road bellows defiance: We ARE the London Road)

As I walked out one matchday morning

‘It becomes increasingly easy in urban life to ignore their extreme humours, but in those days winter and summer dominated our every action, broke into our homes, conscripted our thoughts, ruled our games, and ordered our lives.’

- Cider With Rosie

It was a clear morning in September, and the sun was establishing the little grip on the day it would hope to exercise. As I walked along the streets with their close houses toeing the pavement, I scented the sharp cut in the air that comes when Summer finally surrenders the struggle to Autumn, its waste and indifference giving way to acute attention, undercut with the promise of cold.

It becomes easy to ignore, but for those who tramp through this ritual, the seasons have always ruled The Season, with their own marks and measures for these followers. High sulky summer marks the beginning and the end, the early days when you bask in the pleasure of a return to a habit given up, lolling in the activities of matchday, with the luxury of games ahead to make up for points carelessly mislaid in these drowsy days. Winter is the season of anxiety, a sense of something slipping, or something slippery, a just-melting icicle held in mittens, sliding through your grasp before you press your hands together and it flies up almost uncontrollably. Spring is the season when we start to see the signs of growth, the things we will reap according to that which has been sown, before the final few days when we briefly see summer again, and surprise is all too rare.

And autumn: autumn is the season that reminds us that this is to come, that these summer days are over, and we are here again; but that this is not enough, and that there is purpose at hand.

On the way to the ground I paused to take a drink. The pub was a murmur of other football supporters, their folded newspapers, their beer, their darting eyes, and sudden shouts. The pool table was covered, and a pair of policemen completed a circuit of the bar, gloved hands tucked into belts. Laughter came from where the crowd closed again behind them. A solemn-faced man watched his boy scuffle with a friend, before haring between the legs of tables and drinkers. As kick-off time neared, and the bar queue adopted a quiet new urgency, the talk was of games gone and the game to come.

‘Should’ve taken three points last time out.’

‘We’ll do it today, just you see.’

Autumn had arrived, and this talk had assumed a seriousness.

Waiting in vain for the Us to go steaming in at Kidderminster

(I still want to be in that number)

Murray lays down the captaincy

Image courtesy of the Wikipedia Commons.

('Far off he stands / In sunset land, and on his shoulder bears / The pillar'd mountain-mass whose base is earth, / Whose top is heaven, and its ponderous load / Too great for any grasp.'

- Aeschylus, 'Prometheus Bound')

A moment of joy at home against Kettering

Listening to Oxford win at Northwich

(Cheshire seemed a long way away last night, but by the end of the evening there was a shade of light visible on the horizon)

Defying the Furies at Ebbsfleet

Image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons (detail).

(Next canto: Nemesis in the form of Lee Steele).

Annual draw at home against Woking

(An afternoon spent trying to discern: 'In the shape of an Ox')

Defeat at the Racecourse: Half-positive thinking from Wales?

(Well, you weren't expecting us to win a game played at Wrexham and shown on Setanta, were you?)

Bizarre home victory against Eastbourne

(Oxford defence needs work).

Defeat at Home to Weymouth

Defeat at Barrow

Image courtesy of Image*After.

Pre-season

A blog of pictures and few words, but here are some before we go:

So, this first picture: Court Place Farm, a summer's evening, the hopes of a new season have been gently warmed by the sun that now starts to sink behind the trees sheltering the ground from the city around it. The world of Oxford United Football Club is again, delivered for us anew.

Physically we’re closer to the players, but somehow they seem small, as something bigger takes place around us. The course of the game is secondary to the fact that we’re here. The novelty of unfamiliar faces playing in familiar shirts. We try to discern which of these faces will become well-known to us on the back pages of papers, captured in moments of triumph, and which will be a small mugshot at the bottom of the page next to the story of their loan deal to Brackley.

A regular fixture in our pre-season, it’s as the moment after waking, opening your eyes with the world pleasantly out of focus and dreamlike. Worries about what the season will bring, what tension may be in store, are too far away and unreal. How can cold February away days in Kettering exist when the world is like this? We turn the radio back off for five minutes more so that we can doze and enjoy imagining possibilities a little longer.

So, this first picture: Court Place Farm, pre-season, where we can come each year to rediscover our faith, before reality rudely reimposes itself.

The Occasional Pen Portrait

Luke Foster: ''And I within, who came at the wrong time - either too soon, or after it was all too late.'

Mark Creighton: 'This strange hulking presence gnawing its meat was like nothing she had ever imagined, and she felt a profound admiration and pity for the lonely creature.'

Danny Bulman and Simon Clist: 'To antiquity we grant the indulgence of making the origins of cities more impressive by commingling the human with the divine...'

Sam Deering: 'Don't give a damn, what I wanted was to go in the Metro.'

Matt Green: ‘I gave them happiness, but I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me. Not quite, not yet.’



James Constable: 'Awake, my soul, and with the sun, Thy daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth ...'



Billy Turley: ‘Melodrama is perennial and the craving for it is perennial and must be satisfied.’

Darren Patterson's sacking: '...if one holds his state based on these arms, he will stand neither firm nor safe...'

James Clarke: ‘It’s time to demythologize an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars.'




[Images on this page courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with kind permission]

Other writing

The intensity of spectating: 'There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream...'

Troubled memories: 'We can never go back, that much is certain. The past is still too close to us.'

Miracles in football: 'It is strange a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the perusal of these wonderful histories, that such prodigious events never happen in our days.’

Television and non-league football: '...what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter to deliver a sermon from the Book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of Super Sunday?'

Hyping non-league football: '... a high-tempo montage of balls hitting the back of the net, fans gasping, and players celebrating...'

Conversations about football: 'I think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves.'

The Manor Ground and Minchery Farm: '...exiled on the edge of the city, isolated and exposed to the elements, the stadium looming defiantly over the land around it.'

Reading match reports: 'For the first time in his experience of writing reports, he discovers that words do not necessarily work, that it is possible for them to obscure the things they are trying to say.'

'Moments' in matches: ‘My moments, her moments. The dog’s moments.’

Superstition and ritual: 'Themes considered include faith, foresight (and the lack thereof), betrayal, inevitability, intoxication, and madness.'

Seasons in the season: ‘It becomes increasingly easy in urban life to ignore their extreme humours, but in those days winter and summer dominated our every action, broke into our homes, conscripted our thoughts, ruled our games, and ordered our lives.’

Pre-season: '...Court Place Farm, a summer's evening, the hopes of a new season have been gently warmed by the sun that now starts to sink behind the trees sheltering the ground from the city around it.'

Image acknowledgements for this page (by post link):

'Miracles in football' image: 'The Resurrection of Lazarus' by Bonnat, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.

'Superstition and ritual' image: from 'Darwin and after Darwin' by John Romanes, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.

All others WAOU original material.