Charlton v AFC Wimbledon post-match views 28/10/17

hoof_it_up_to_benty said:

Awful game - Wimbledon looked twice the size of our players

Pleased we won.

Viewfinder said:

Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.

We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.

We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.

A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.

We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.

Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.

Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.

It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.

Bauer was superb, nodding balls seven yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those seven yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.

Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.

Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of spaces, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.

Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.

Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”

dickplumb said:

Viewfinder said:

Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.

We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.

We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.

A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.

We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.

Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.

Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.

It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.

Bauer was superb, nodding balls seven yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those seven yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.

Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.

Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of spaces, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.

Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.

Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”

Nice fictional story. You should write novels.

cafcnick1992 said:

"We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling"

I don't think so viewfinder. Not at our best, but categorically not appalling.

blackpool72 said:

I don't know about every body else but this is my take on it.
Whenever we lose I go home feeling pissed off even if its a 4.3 thriller.
Whenever we win I go home happy even if it was a shite game like yesterday.
You do not get success by losing exciting games but you do by winning boring games.

This season is all about gaining promotion anything else is a bonus.
Apart from Roland selling of course

Viewfinder said:

Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.

We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.

We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.

A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.

We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.

Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.

Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.

It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.

Bauer was superb, nodding balls three yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those three yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.

Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.

Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of space, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.

Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.

Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”