Release

Ipswich are building like a volcano. But instead of lava it's a big hoof of a football. Jon Rogers looks at the little Ipswich have to look back on in recent times, and how the pressure is rising.

So I was casually reading Twitter. Checking up on what people were up to (mostly using the word DISGRACE and lol), watching videos of people destroying nonsense from Trump, doing a big lol myself at a GIF of an animal doing a funny face. Then, I saw a RT to an Ipswich Star piece with a certain headline, and my imaginary tea was spat out.  It read -

ANDO: “THEIR PLAYERS WERE HAVING TIFFS AND ARGUMENTS AS WE WALKED OFF AT H/T AND WE HAD THEM ROCKED”

What?

Tiffs? Rocked? Even if they were (which they weren’t), so what? We could have had Bradley Johnson in a headlock with Wes Hoolahan while John Ruddy and Alex Neil used torture devices on his back during the whole of the half time break – they still went on to lose 3-1.

I delved deeper, came across another line, and for the second time, my invisible tea was shot across my laptop which wasn’t even in front of me. I was reading it on my phone.

“Anderson wrote his name into Blues folklore by scoring in the first leg – a goal which prompted a passionate celebration.”

FOLKLORE. An equalizer at Portman Road, which ultimately did nothing to change anything, is now FOLKLORE?  Blimey.

If a chap who wasn’t playing regularly, scores a meaningless goal puts you into FOLKLORE, I think we’re underplaying the impact Grant Holt has had. We should not only give Grant keys to The Fine City, but keys to every car and house in the city so he can roam about like he is in a real-life Grand Theft Auto game. Swapping cars when he likes, or even popping in to make a big chunky sandwich. With plenty of everything.

The fact they are using the memory of a meaningless tap-in to rally the troops shows where they are on the derby-desperation-meter. ‘And I feel for the Ipswich journo, but you can imagine the convo in the newspaper’s office between editor and writer.

Ed: I need a rally the fans piece.
Journo: OK. What about?!
Ed: Must be something. One of the goals. Jimmy Bullard’s was good wasn’t it?
Journo: Yeah but Ipswich let in fiv...I'll have a think.

And THAT’S how little they have got from us over the last ten years. Paul Anderson’s goal, which caused a mere whiff of opportunity in a two-legged game is FOLKLORE, and probably had the locals whipping up a tapestry and placing blue commemoration plaques above Ando’s house before the game kicked off again.

I was at the game where Ando scored, and the roar and celebration that came from the Ipswich fans when the ball hit the net was substantial. Like, wincing loud. And just like their goal early on in the season, it was celebrated as more of a hopeful release than anything. Like squeezing an eight year-old zit on the forehead of a diseased cow.
  
The blasting boom that echoed around Portman Road shows that they need this win on Sunday more than we do. Not in footballing terms, their season is over. But for stopping us. For personal pride. To stop the rot.  To have something. To release this pressure. Like putting a beef casserole on slow cook for a decade.
If they win, they will be dining out on this for months.

So we’ve got to be on it, from the moment we start – unlike Newcastle at home, to the last few seconds, unlike Newcastle away. 

Ipswich fans are hoping, praying and crossing everything they have for a win. And one day, that win  will come. 

Because whoever does score the winner for Ipswich when they beat us again, be prepared for a tickertape parade through the streets of Ipswich.  

On a flying car. 

In the year 2098.