Dead Rubbers

I have never been a friendlies guy. Even when I was younger with fewer responsibilities and an even greater obsession you could not persuade to go and watch non-competitive pre-season games. As much as I like watching footballers do impressive things with a football, it is drama I really crave, the way tension builds up in a crucial game and finally bursts as it concludes. Football is made by context, by the place the individual game holds in the broader flow of events, the ways in builds into its annual crescendo.

Hypothetically, games are supposed to peak in meaning and emotion as we get towards the end of the season, though in truth for Ipswich has never usually been the case. Of our previous 10 seasons only in three did we have anything to play for on the final day. In each of the other seven, including the last time we were relegated in 2019, we had at least five or six springtime dead rubbers.

That the seven that lay in front of us this season seems a lot is about anti-climax. This year was the exciting pay off after two exhilarating promotions and it doesn’t feel right that it should conclude with us going through the motions for nearly one fifth of our games. So lost am I amongst this extended aimless post-season that a small (delusional) part of me continues to default to improbable calculations in my head as to what it would take for a “they would make movies about it” escape.

So, as a coping strategy, I made a list in advance of Chelsea away, for which I had purchased tickets with the typically optimistic assumption that we might still be in touch with Wolves (now top of the 5-game form table). I call it the “Things that would lighten up this purgatory a bit” list.

A Home Win (or Two?!)

God, it has been grim to rock up to Portman Road for a variety of different, but similar, defeats. The narrow ones where we were impotent (Crystal Palace, Brighton, Southampton, Wolves), the heavy ones where we seemed to crumble in spurts (Newcastle, Manchester City, Spurs, Forest). Our points return away from home (now 14 from 16) is respectable for a relegation fight. It is the 7 from 16 at Portman Road that has killed us. This feels unusual and unfair, given how staid the atmosphere is at most other grounds in the division. You would imagine we’d derive some benefit from like, you know, singing and stuff, but apparently it is more effective to politely applaud better footballers.

The obvious question is whether we just set up a bit more sensibly on the road, with the five at the back and the deeper backline. Yet when we have done that at home (Bournemouth, Brighton, second half against Wolves) it hasn’t worked particularly well. In truth, there are things about away games – the sense of collective togetherness between players and supporters, the way every tackle and clearance gets celebrated, the focus required when you are in enemy territory – that just aren’t replicable at home. It just feels different to defend your penalty area on foreign ground. Certainly the vibe was different at Stamford Bridge as compared to Wolves, even though the points weren’t nearly so urgent.

Anyway, if we could find a way of winning at least a game at home, so I don’t have to trudge down the West Stand steps three more times after watching some away fans having a lovely old time, that would be greeeeeeeat.  

A Bit of Pride/Spirit

I suppose this one is obvious. When a football club claims your loyalty it can’t rest on the team always being good. There has to be a broader feeling of pride and sometimes that needs to come from everybody giving a shit even when there’s no reason to. I have watched Ipswich teams grimly play out dead seasons with one eye firmly on the beach and another on their next pay day far far away from Suffolk. I would prefer not to again.

The baseline here is that I would like to see us approach every game like the points and the performance still matter. And we certainly managed that on Saturday. Nothing beachy about the stout 5-3-2 with Leif Davis and Axel Tuanzebe sticking doggedly to their wingers, Ben Johnson, Julio Enciso and George Hirst pressing gamely and scurrying back out of possession, Sam Morsy relentlessly shadowing Cole Palmer.

It was heartening stuff even before we opened the scoring. Six more at this level of effort and determination and the remaining month in this league won’t drag too much. Though the danger there is that you get a brief dead cat bounce and then the next kicking drains all the fight out of you (hello, up coming fixtures with Arsenal and Newcastle).

Some Individuals Showing Things (for the future)

When you get relegated from the richest league in the world your squad immediately looks quite ephemeral. The club has never invested more in a group of players but far more than any other summer you’re aware just how many of them will be long gone by the time we next play a game that means anything. So there’s a caveat to “individuals showing things”. Some of them are not going to be here next season, so it isn’t particularly gratifying if they turn it on. Julio Enciso’s end product is by the by, as is his infuriating refusal to take care of the ball in possession, because neither will be our benefit/problem next season.

Amongst the players you imagine will line up for us next season, it was good to see Jack Clarke making an excellent decision on the edge of the opposition penalty area for the second goal, something he’s struggled with over the season. Clarke drove forward on to his left foot, checked back inside to avoid having to do anything with his weaker foot, committed two players who assumed he was winding up a shot, then took both out of the game with a backheel chop to Enciso in space.

Elsewhere, the man I presume will be our starting number nine next season had a good game. Though we’ve sometimes struggled to make good use of George Hirst from the bench, he has never looked out of place in our starting eleven and didn’t here. He elegantly rolled his marker to gain territory before playing the crucial pass for the first goal, sliding Ben Johnson in to cross for Enciso. Johnson was another who seems to have got more grip of his role as the season has gone on, though you imagine he’ll form part of a back four rather than a five next year.  

I spent a lot of the second half watching Sam Morsy battle Cole Palmer. There’s been some talk that next season might be one too many for Skip but he was mostly a match for an elite attacking midfielder in this one. He’s irreplaceable off the pitch and with Jens Cajuste and Kalvin Phillips returning to their parent clubs, talk of discarding a third senior midfielder is surely precipitous. Plenty of life in the old dog at Stamford Bridge.

There were in general enough positive individual performances here to make you ever so slightly wistful about whether things could have been different. Don’t worry, a home game will be along shortly to dispel that feeling.

 Some Impressive Opposition

I suppose this one is contradictory. Generally speaking I am pretty grudging about any aesthetic pleasure derived from watching footballing greatness against us. “Come to Portman Road on a Saturday and you’ll see the best” should mean us, not Kevin De Bruyne, thank you very much. That said, now the stakes are pride and not points, that position loosens somewhat. I was relieved that it was Gabriel Martinelli running at Leif Davis away at Arsenal, but I wouldn’t mind seeing Bukayo Saka in the flesh at Portman Road.

Chelsea’s weird collection of players didn’t really scratch the itch much. Cole Palmer is the special one but isn’t in great form and Morsy seemed to keep him mostly under control. Frankly, Wolves’ midfield was more impressive than Enzo Fernandez and Moises Caicedo. Pedro Neto is generally a lovely footballer to watch but I thought Johnson and Tuanzebe had him and Marc Cucurella largely under control. As at Portman Road, Cucurella was too busy perfecting his aggro-whiney shithouse-soft boi game to play much football. I pondered whether his abrasiveness would, Mauricio Taricco-style, be charming if he played for my team, but concluded that he’s not nearly enjoyable enough as an actual footballer for it to work.

So, it was left to Chelsea’s sub bench to do something that might get a neutral off their seat. Jadon Sancho seems like he’s going to have one of those frustrating careers where you spend every year thinking this is the one where he finally finds that elite consistency but just never really does, rather like another Chelsea player with outrageously good technique – Joe Cole. Still, it was a lovely hit for the equaliser and at least it took a worldie to take a rare win from us.

See New Places

Stamford Bridge was one to tick off. I’m at 56 of 92 now. I will briefly make it to 57 as I have a ticket for our visit to Goodison Park, before dropping back again when Everton rudely move house (Brentford and Colchester United have robbed me in a similar manner).

On the walk from Fulham Broadway tube to the stadium it was fascinating to see the road littered with influencers recording their vlogs, which I guess is life for fans of these super clubs. Then past the hotel Ken Bates built, which I suppose is somewhat of a historical landmark in the commercialisation of English football.

Into the away end, which had the classic cramped feeling you get from old grounds. Like at The Valley and Carrow Road you sneak in from one narrow entrance wondering how the hell you’d possibly get out of there was a fire. Apparently even the billions of Russian public wealth looted by Roman Abramovich couldn’t increase the Shed End’s physical footprint. £7, seven English pounds, for a can of London Pride, a beer I can’t remember seeing for sale anywhere else for quite some time. Then a lovely view of the football, undisturbed by any unwelcome noise from the home fans. Usually I’d say West London is the worst London, but even the District Line could not spoil a rather enjoyable 90 minutes of football.

Finish 18^th

Look, it doesn’t really matter but it does sort of feel like justice to finish above Leicester and claim bragging rights amongst the promoted trio. Sure it didn’t do Luton any good but, really, we would have had the title last year if Leicester had played by the spending rules (which we managed to despite having one third of their budget). So, being the best of the worst is at least something.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got!