Normal

As Jeremy Sarmiento lay buried amongst his teammates amidst the bedlam of the 97^th minute of Ipswich 3 Southampton 2, I was kind of hysterical. My mouth was making noises that were part ecstatic scream, part laughter, part almost sobs. I was rocking forward and back, embracing others, punching the air, everything.

It was one of several games we won last season through some strange charismatic energy. We had not played well, Southampton had dominated our midfield for an hour, cut through our lines with ease and should have been more than one goal up. But from the moment Ali Al-Hamadi’s shot struck the post in the 66th minute, everything was pure energy and momentum.

Sarmiento’s winner was a fitting conclusion. Jeremy was a player of moments and momentum. He looked lost when he started games (and he still isn’t starting regularly for Burnley this season). In all honesty, his general play ranged between ineffectual and quite bright, no more. He just had this knack for drama. Things dropped to him – the rebound at Leicester, the headed assist against Bristol City, that goal. He was the epitome of what went right for us last season. This aura, this energy that bound manager, players and fans. It was magic, you know.

Thanks to the magic we barely ever did what normal teams do – leave points on the table. We suffered six losses in the league last season and deserved all of them. We won and drew 40 times and more than a handful of opposition teams came away wondering how on Earth we’d bested them.

I think we all knew that somehow maintaining that spell would be vital to our chances this season. Its effects would need to be extended over new players and take effect in new scenarios. The class of 23-24 would somehow have to persuade their new colleagues, their replacements, that Kieran McKenna was not just a normal manager, Ipswich was not just a normal football club.

As “Tall Paul” Onuachu, the worst striker seen at Portman Road all season, bundled home a rebound to give Southampton a late lead on Saturday, the magic seemed a long long way away. This felt like a normal football team lurching its way to a disastrous defeat after an adequate performance against an inferior side.

The kind of thing that happens to ordinary football teams all the time. We missed a couple of presentable chances, then conceded to the opposition’s first, rather tame, shot on our goal. We equalised and then missed more presentable chances. No outrageous misses but opportunities spurned. The longer we went without the lead, the more the desperation of the situation weighed on us. We got more and more frenetic, our decision-making deteriorated. The longer the killer blow eluded us, the less able we were to produce one. The punchline was inevitable.

The feeling at the final whistle was dejection and resignation. I’m sure I’ll bounce back (as is the nature of the football fan), but as I trudged down the steps from the West Stand Upper Tier I found myself (uncharacteristically) muttering “I suppose that’s that then”. I probably should have expected nothing different. We rode our way through the Championship with this enchanted cloak of invincibility, but the Premier League is where magic goes to die. Any belief you had at the beginning gets sharply crushed by the efficient dominance of not just the division’s elite but also its middle class. The identity you constructed in iconic games, battles for the ages, disappears as you upgrade the ones who were there with new ones who just couldn’t possibly get it.

By the time you find a fixture where you’re actually mildly superior to the opposition, it’s such a narrow escape window, there’s so little margin for error, it’s easy to get frozen by anxiety. I went into the Southampton game fearful that the three points were a must have. Points we’d otherwise have to wrestle off a West Ham or an Aston Villa (or heaven forfend, a Bournemouth). I knew we were never going to be so superior that Southampton couldn’t touch us even if they got a bit of variance go their way. It transpired just like in my nightmares – an afternoon of impotent huffing and puffing, settled by the more relaxed side (with less riding on the game) simply taking the opportunity our restlessness provided them. Devastating.

By the time Aston Villa rolls around on the 15^th February, I’m sure I will have cobbled together some belief from somewhere. Doing so is a matter of duty for fans and players alike. There is nothing to do but fight to the end, nothing to be gained by resigning ourselves to our fate and refusing to keep going. Fourteen games remain and McKenna’s teams have fought their way out of similar moments of disillusionment about our chances in both 2023 (Bristol Rovers) and 2024 (Preston North End). I am already cheered by the thought of Julio Enciso improving our capacity to keep the ball in the opposition half and Alex Palmer hopefully keeping a few more shots out of our net.

But right now though it’s still hard to shake the sad feeling that the magic has slipped away and we’re left with just a normal team, playing to its ability and that simply won’t be enough for another miracle.

Julio Enciso v Southampton

Minutes 89

Shots 6

Accurate passes 40/52 (77%)

xG 0.41

Shot accuracy 2/4 (50%)

Touches 85

Touches in opposition box 2

Successful dribbles 6/9 (66%)

Passes into final third 8

Accurate crosses 1/2 (50%)

Accurate long balls 1/2 (50%)

Duels won 11/23

Tackles 1

Interceptions 1