A Good Friday at the Cross

What a difference a week makes in football. Last Saturday night, I drunkenly stumbled from the Carlisle grounds in need of a pint, the Hawaiian shirt a reminder of a day that started to the sound of Summer Holidays and ended with many City players shadows of their normal selves. Questions were being asked of John Caulfield and his tactical decisions;Dan Murray is many things but midfield enforcer he is not. Not to mention lumping the ball into the box worried the low flying seagulls more than ten man Bray. The three points more huff and puff than tiki taka.
Fast forward six days and I soberly joined an official crowd of 5,104 (plus the VAT) who all walked away in agreement of one thing; you can’t beat the Cross on Good Friday.
This was the best football we have played under Johnny C and resurrected a belief in him that should never have been in doubt. Despite missing the calming influence of Colin Healy in midfield, a man who evokes more religious devotion from me than the love child of Jehovah and the Easter Bunny, City completely dominated possession from the first minute. While Buckley was industrious and Dunleavy intelligent , it was man of the match Miller who really pulled the strings. That old cliche about class being permanent rang true last night. This was the Miller of his youth, that lit up European nights at Celtic Park and moved to Old Trafford. In a league where it can often be fast and furious in the middle of the park, he had what seemed like an eternity on the ball, picking and probing at the Derry defence. With the boozers shut, he had crates of ‘Miller time’. (Sorry about that one) With Caulfield finally seeing the irrationality of kicking it over the head of the league’s most technically proficient footballer, spaces began to appear, many at the feet of the rampaging Ross Gaynor. The first two times an inability to lift his head left the crowd frustrated, the third time he got lucky but he really made his own. His first cross blocked, he was then brilliantly tackled but instead of cursing the aforementioned, he sprung to his feet where the ball broke for him and in one touch he left one defender on his ‘Derryair’ in the penalty area and finally decided to pick out John O Flynn for one of his easiest goals in a City shirt. The dominance continued, Miller let fly with an effort reminiscent of his one international goal against Sweden all those years ago. Unfortunately this time the Shed’s pantomime villain, Ger Doherty, was equal to it with a brilliant save. Moments later Doherty tipped over from Dunleavy with Gaynor’s spectacular effort from the resultant corner blazing over. Six minutes from half time and the second came. Darren Dennehy’s header from a corner from the right was going in,Karl Sheppard, standing on the goal line, decided to cash in his goal bonus, confusing the pa system in the process.
The second half saw Derry come into it, as you would expect. Peter ‘pizza hut’ Hutton clearly gave them a hot and spicy with all the sides at half time. Cork City remained in charge of proceedings, goalkeeper McNulty not having to make a save of note and you always felt the rebels could up the ante. When they did it lead to a wonderful third goal. John Kavanagh played a perfectly we7ghted ball for Billy Dennehy down the right wing where he crossed it perfectly for Sheppard who volleyed accurately into the corner of Doherty’s net.
All that was left was for a cameo from new cult hero, Kieran Djalili and for Derry’s Patrick McEleney to hit the bar with what would have been a goal of the season contender.
We joined the crowd filing out into the cold Good Friday night without overhearing one player being crucified (last one) and without needing a pint, thankfully. It was the most satisfied I have felt leaving a football match in a very long time. Three points, three goals, a clean sheet, a large crowd and stellar signing really shining.The only gripe being yet another abject refereeing performance in our league.
Equally as heartwarming as the performance, was the conversation overheard by the three generations of the one family standing behind me. It was clearly the first game the third generation had been brought to, the father lovingly highlighting every instance well occasionally reminiscing with his own father about his first game in the early nineties. That summed up everything about being a football fan, passed from generation to generation and was the cherry, on the icing of the hot cross bun(that one doesn’t really work, does it?)