Silence of the Limbs

For the rest of the population of the earth it may be extremely difficult to link one event at Wolverhampton Wanderers with another not long after at Briton Ferry Llansawel, but for me there will always be a reaffirming connection between the two of how football just is, and always is, just football.

On the 14 December 2024 I, amongst 3,000 other Ipswich fans, weary from a long and almost fruitless Premier League campaign thus far, travelled to Molineux for a battle between two sides seemingly unable to win at England’s top table.

Town’s performances had been largely good up until this point, with almost nothing to show for it. A lack of experience, a lack of quality and being far too naïve in matches was the difference between picking up a win or a draw instead of a draw and a win. Wolves, the hosts on that day, looked destined for the drop and the side to potentially save my Ipswich, who were looking a better bet for survival than fellow newly promoted sides Leicester and Southampton, despite the dismal points return.

After leading, a theme in the first half of our Premier League season, we were pegged back late in the game. Something that had almost become part of the script from August onwards. But deep into stoppage time, a delivery from the far corner at the end which we were gathered was met by Jack Taylor to head home the winner.

Carnage ensued. Limbs, as the kids call it, was in full swing with bodies flying over seats, drinks and food spilling aplenty as we celebrated a vital, late three points that we believed may really kick start our season.

As I stood with my son at Briton Ferry just a few weeks ago with around 30 fellow Bluebirds, a mere drop in the ocean compared to a 3,000 Premier League away allocation, there was not a single thought of any potential parallel with the day Town tamed the Wolves.

Nonetheless, deep into stoppage time, a delivery from the far corner at the end which we were gathered was met by Alaric Jones to head home the winner. Stop me if you’ve heard this a few paragraphs before!

As we celebrated a vital, late three points that we believed may really kick start our season – haven’t I also said that already? – in the absence of having to dodge the aerial assault of pies and bottles of coke, with no seats to fall over and an absence of worse for wear, middle aged blokes needing permission to land it is here where the incredible coincidence hit me.

What proved to be the last Ipswich away win that I witnessed last season and the first Haverfordwest away win I witnessed this season were scored at the same time, with me stood in almost the exact same spot in the ground, in the same method, to create the same outcome of an away win.

3.000 Ipswich fans or 30 Bluebirds matters not. The feeling is exactly the same. The effort of the travelling supporters, the commitment to be on the road for the day, to part with their hard-earned cash, to follow their team no matter where they are playing and regardless of whether a positive result is expected is one and the same.

So whilst it was a relative silence of the limbs as Alaric swan dived his way into both a head injury and an unforgettable last-gasp smash and grab, the message was deafening. Whatever the level. Football is football.