Leicester Forest East Services is a necessary but uninspiring watering hole. For longer journeys to Sheffield or Leeds, it’s a convenient half-way point whereas it’s close enough to all the major East Midlands hubs that you can stop for coffee confident that it won’t jeopardise your arrival in time for kick-off.
But it knows its strength is its geography, it doesn’t require a Pret a Manger with its flatbread wraps, you won’t get a sniff of Leon’s Korean mayonnaise and latticed waffle fries; you get what you’re given and you’ll like it.
On Saturday morning, we were in the coffee queue surrounded by Oxford, Orient, Brighton Bradford and Sheffield Wednesday fans. Service stations on match day might be my favourite place in the world. It was like the cantina scene from Star Wars with a motley array of vagabonds and mercenaries collecting their burgers, cokes and ice vanilla lattes.
Two women in front made their order and paid, before cutting back in to add a couple of bottles of water they’d forgotten.
“Do you mind if we jump in and pay for these?” one said, “It’s OK, we’re Oxford fans too, we’re going to the game.”
It was an odd way to break a melancholic fever that’s surrounded me recently. The extended international break hasn’t helped, but my malaise isn’t because of a confected addiction to football. It’s more because the walls seem to be closing in on the global omni-crisis we’ve been in for the last decade; tech barons, climate catastrophe, war, authoritarian regimes, grifters dressed in Sports Direct’s finest pretending to be ‘defending are nation’.
The woman in the queue was right, ‘we’re Oxford fans too’ is a shorthand; cutting in was a break of protocol, but our wider shared values allowed us to find a solution to our mutual benefit; it was trivial, but it was also real and human. It’s how 90% of life is, despite what social media polemists tell us.
League One has revealed itself in stages; the games have been staccato; just seven in eight weeks, the visit of Burton and its half-full away end a few weeks ago was the first sign that we were back in the lower league, on Saturday the temperature dropped ten degrees, an early reminder of the onset of winter.
The change in weather was part of a very welcome, broader familiarity; Meadow Lane is careful balance of the traditional and the modern. Through one of its open corners you can see the City Ground, while Trent Bridge isn’t far away. It’s part of the community and it’s been like this for over 160 years. It’s also another reminder of the utter shame that the City of Oxford needs a judicial review to get just one facility like this, which is, let’s remember, smaller than the smallest of those three stadiums.
Despite the early kick-off, we filled the away end with people and noise as the home fans dribbled in. For them, this is routine, their match days have been honed, they can step into the ground at a moment convenient to them. I wondered whether this was even more acute for County, given its proximity to Forest, because you can’t support them for the glory. Supporting County must be about community, family, friends and tradition, the real stuff. For Notts County fans, Meadow Lane must be entwined in their being, I enjoyed the warmth of its glow.
For us, life is anything but routine; new manager, transfer embargo, relegation, new stadium, new chairman. This extended pre-amble to the season, encouraging though it’s been, still doesn’t feel like we’ve hit a sustained rhythm. Nothing has been stress-tested; the return after the international break, the onslaught of fixtures, the reaction to any injuries or a couple of results that don’t go our way. It’s probably the nature of football that we’re always anticipating when the fall will come.
As the players emerged, the PA played Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes; Oxford fans sang along, filling the stadium with a chorus of ‘Oh Gatlin O’Donkor’. As it subsided, O’Donkor appeared from the tunnel and climbed into the dugout, oblivious to it all.
The players huddled in front of the away end while the referee and home players waited to start; a show of hubris and strength, controlling the narrative of the game; a platform on which to perform.
From kick-off, we dominated every aspect of the opening exchanges, attacking down the flanks, controlling midfield, out-muscling their muted attack. Tyler Goodrham should have finished a slick move but tried to over-finesse his finish. Peter Kioso, piled into one of his all-action sliding challenges taking both ball and player. As the County player winced on the floor, Kioso stood over him like Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston in 1965. We were utterly dominant in every department.
The breakthrough after 19 minutes, was more about what had come before. County’s shaken defence played from the back, while Tyler Goodrham and Mark Harris prowled in front of them. They never looked comfortable, so when keeper James Belshaw lost control scuffed it into the path of Harris, it was a simple side-foot into the empty net for 1-0.
Were we too dominant? The half had been relentless pressure and forward motion, there’d been no rest bite, no opportunity to sit and absorb the game. The onus had been on us to carry the momentum of the game, but it meant there’d been no breather. We continued to pile forward with Missanga and Dembele a constant threat down the flanks. Half-time came, it’d been the most dominant first-half away performance for years.
County made a triple substitution during the break which finally encouraged some kind of fightback. The new threat put us on the back foot, but we seemed able to absorb the pressure even though at 1-0 we were always vulnerable.
The rain cascaded down, soaking into tired limbs and making it harder to break free of the growing pressure. But, with them having little to offer up front, the half became a slower chug; it probably felt more comfortable on the pitch than it did in the stands. We weren’t as fluid, but their threat was still limited.
Aaron Ramsey introduced Kai Andrews, Leo Snowden and Gatlin O’Donkor around the hour mark; a refreshing of our front line rather than a bolstering of the defence. I’m still not sure if Ramsey is a tactical genius or a lucky general, but I’ll take either.
The impact was instant, we suddenly looked in control again, O’Donkor battering County’s back line, Snowden dancing down the win, Andrews shuttling and recycling the ball away from danger.
With two minutes to go, the ball fell to Luka Lynch from a clearance. Lynch broke free, racing past the half-way line. Andrews joined him on the left, Cameron Brannagan scampered down his right. Neither felt a great option; ‘Just run’ I screamed imploring him take the territory and run the clock down. Lynch looked up, he could have gone for goal but instead played the ball to Brannagan.
My sprawling ecosystem of prejudice presented itself in a moment; Brannagan’s not the player he was, Brannagan’s not mobile, Brannagan might be coming to the end of his career. All things that have been debated openly in recent weeks.
As the ball entered his orbit, my brain was convinced he’d have nothing left after his sixty-yard lung busting run. It rolled into his path and across his body allowing him to hit it first time clean beyond Belshaw and into the net. I slipped into that fuzzy reverie, my shattered preconceptions clattering on the floor, when I looked up Brannagan was knee sliding towards the away end. His face seemed different, less of the justified arrogance of his past, more a knowing smile, a conspiracy; he may not be the player he was, but with age and fatherhood and the history he has; he’s not the man he was either. As the players started back for the half-way line, Brannagan gulped in a lungful of air, he’d been at his limits, but he’d still delivered.
Their late consolation didn’t bring any late panic, no final scramble for the points. The performance was complete and assured. As I headed for the exit, I saw the two women from the Leicester Forest East coffee queue, broad smiles on the faces, singing about Cameron Brannagan’s magic hat and enjoying the procession of players and backroom staff being shoved forward for the rabbit punch celebration at the end.
Nobody is talking about promotion; too much can go wrong and too much uncertainty lies ahead. But, in a world of endless upheaval and threat, enjoying the moment, in the moment, is still the sweetest thing of all.