Dickov and Derby dicked on

By: Martyn | September 30th, 2009

As overjoyed as I was to do twee self-concious jigs and fist-swipes on no less than SIX occasions yesterday evening, it must be acknowledged that our visitors were more shambolic than an anti-Swiss Bedouin leader being let loose at a United Nations convention. In a game played at the sort of leisurely pace that’d make Subbuteo appear hypersonic in comparison, wee Mickey C sought to emulate ex-Internazionale striker Robbie Keane’s weekend feat by bagging himself a quad of tannoy name-bellows. City, in the home strip of chow mein Pot Noodle blue tops, white shorts and white socks, dictated the game even when County had possession. As much it sounds like we were simply colossal thus forcing our guests to cave in, that viewpoint bears only a semblance of veracity. The Rams, in their wedding-cake-icing white tops and Jackie O-shades black shorts and socks left themselves prone to humiliating food-based analogies. The outfield 10 so willingly allowed the sharp City blade to penetrate them without a hint of resistance, leaving the layer cake of one-time Cardiff bench-warmer Stephen Bywater to crumble helplessly, wholly unprotected by those in icing-white. It really was Eazy E.

BLUEBIRDS
Jones opted to deploy two wave-breakers in the centre of midfield and it worked a treat. The pair tackled, harried and (then) released others. However, Gavin Rae is more than just a sitting defensive-midfielder, so his forays forward were as frequent as ever. Stephen McPhail sat with wonderful astuteness and spread the ball about with such competence and ease that one could’ve been excused for believing Ball Boy to have ditched his famous rossonero for an evening. Two of Michael Chopra’s goals were McPhail-assisted, and the ROI midfielder so gracefully ensured that his clinical former Tyke team-mate got all the plaudits. Staying with the strikers, and I thought Jay Bothroyd to have put in a malevolent shift intent on punishing his markers. The striker, who appeared to be sporting two bottles of Listerine on his feet (Vapor SLs, apparently), cropped up on the right channel mainly and did his unselfish link-up man bit to perfection.

Returning to the midfield, and the disciplined showings of Peter Whittingham and Chris Burke must be hailed, the former in particular capping a systematically-shackled showing with a goal and an assist. The wideman from Warwickshire county refused/was told not to dribble, so aided the team’s cause greatly by passing backwards to keep Lee Croft chasing and tiring. Not only that, he was punctual when filling in for either Gavin Rae or Mark Kennedy during their advancing for long stretches. Whittingham’s opener was a tap-in set-up by fellow artisan Bothroyd, while his assist for Chopra’s first was one of stunning craftsmanship and came on the back of a spell of his left-foot incisively punishing Derby’s woeful offside trap and higgledy-piggledy shape. Blond Scot Burke meanwhile scored a goal that was preceded by a Best-like saunter, albeit against opponents who’d metaphorically gone home. City’s no. 11 must be heralded for never waning in his support of young comrade Matthews, the pair shackling Teale and totally nullifying any threat from that flank.

What of Adam Matthews then, the much-hyped youngster? Well, he’s far more sensible and accomplished at doing the defensive bits than the haphazard and grandiloquent Quinn. Whereas the Scot recruited from Motherwell in the summer will lunge in and more often than not miss the intended target of the ball, Matthews will sit and force his man (Teale) down the flank. Even if this is the favoured option of the winger, the young right-back’s pace allows him to block the inevitable cross. Alas, if I must levy one criticism in the youngster’s direction, it’s that he plays with the safety on. After a while, it became clear that even County were beginning to realise this. When every pass he makes must be a safe one, stifling these options can induce panic in the man from Swansea. This is where he notably differs from Chris Gunter, a player far more adventurous and swashbuckling at a similar age. Nevertheless, Matthews isn’t short of confidence when it comes to galloping forward and offering to attacks, and long may that continue (so long as it doesn’t hinder his tidying up role).

A feeling of caution permeated the City ranks throughout, from Bothroyd holding it in the corner rather than squaring it across the box, to Marshall taking an age in his distribution. Maybe this was Jones’s tactical master scheme; luring Derby into a false lull. The quasi-paranoia was most tangible in the melina constructed by the centre-backs and aided by the wine cork-vision of Whittingham. Whilst this at first felt right given the pessimistic air surrounding the club and its latest losing escapades, after a while it felt wholeheartedly unnecessary given the bluntness of the Derbyshire side. Ultimately of course it mattered not, but I’m convinced that were we to have played from anywhere between third and fifth gear, double figures would have been possible.

As for the aforementioned melina-instigating central defensive pairing, they had a fine game: County’s very messy consolation goal aside. The strike, which came within moments of the interval ending brought the score back to 2-1 and was abysmal from our point of view. Mark Hudson made the most lackadaisical effort to head it clear, Anthony Gerrard was rooted, and David Marshall looked frightened and abandoned on the white paint under his goal-frame. The goalkeeper failed to inspire confidence all evening and was embarrassingly shy: it all culminated in Gerrard giving Mr Mute a humiliating dressing-down (another incident later in the game saw him stroll to make a punch, forgetting in the seconds preceding his intended contact to inform Bothroyd, thus leaving himself stranded).

RAMS
The forms of computer data storage clearly have no designs on staving off the sack threat besieging their manager if this showing is anything to go on. Perhaps there was some sort of macabre pleasure to take from this for the 12 or so Derby fans who made up the away end: there sure as hell wasn’t anything else to toast. Never has the crass ’sheepshagger’ insult aimed at the Welsh people been so well, correct! We were as rampant as Norman Bates with unlimited funds to splurge in New Look against the nicely-monikered male sheep. Clough – who tries so hard to diminish the kind of aura that his father had yet succeeds only in allowing these kind of performances by maintaining such passiveness – set his side up in a formation that was somewhere between 4-4-1-1 and a 4-1-4-1.

In goal was Stephen Bywater, his green attire proving rather apt camoflauge on a forgettable evening in which I imagine conversation with his cowardly defence on the bus home was strained. The full-backs were freshly-acquired Fredrik Stoor, and Dean Moxey. The former got forward on more occasions, spooning over when well-placed to score at one point. Moxey was atrocious. He didn’t make many attempts to push up, and ability at the back that should’ve been compensating for minimal attacking prowess was distinctly lacking. Chris Burke’s simple goal was so preventable, yet Moxey was metres away from his man and resigned from trying to halt him instantaneously. Savage gave him a royally-earned piece of his mind after that incident. Dean Leacock and Shaun Barker started in the centre of defence, but Leacock was eventually forced off with injury/couldn’t be arsed continuing and was replaced by James McEveley (I thought he was Jay? He’s doing his Andrew Cole bit, presumably).

Now I thought the ball-carrying, easily-drawn-out Leacock was bad – McEveley sought to be worse. Bothroyd rendered his former Blackburn colleague’s evening a misery, and he wasn’t alone in doing so. McEveley and Barker (who had begun to look very commanding at the start of the second period, winning all his duels on the ground and in the air) failed to strike up a partnership of any kind. That 4 of the goals came via relatively docile CENTRAL through-balls from deep territory with no leopard-like pace is truly flamin’ well shocking. The duo had no clue where the other was, and neither tried to infuse any sort of shape or balance to a side that is clearly going to be in and around the drop-zone come May. Any kids in the midst of learning basic defensive drills; I implore you to watch the match highlights in order to witness how not to set up an offside trap near the halfway line, or how not to man-mark at set-pieces.

My division of County’s formation into two choices derives mainly from their 3-man centre midfield system. While it is undisputed that Robbie Savage sat at the base in a full-blown DMC position, Lee Hendrie and Jake Livermore were a little more difficult to pin down. Each took a turn to ghost in for Hulse knock-downs, but every now and again they’d both do it: therefore I’m uncertain as to who was supposed to be meandering in and when, or whether both were supposed to be doing it for the entire game but such was the tactical indiscipline on display in the County ranks that the pair defied/forgot Major Clough’s orders! Nevertheless, when one was up with Hulse (Hendrie, primarily), the other tried to thread the ball through or feed the anonymous widemen. I don’t think Lee Croft had a touch all game, while Dirk Kuyt-lookalike Gary Teale – who took the Derby set-pieces not particularly successfully as right-footed inswingers – started to try a tad in the second period (drew a saved shot, ran a few yards, crossed) after getting no space from Matthews in the first batch of forty-five.

Because Hendrie and Livermore were marked out of the game by McPhail and Rae – compounded by City constantly holding their fort with two banks of four men each whenever Derby got some ball-time – Robbie Savage saw a lot of the leather-coated balloon in space (when Chopra or Bothroyd weren’t within a whisker of his flowing locks, that is). In this Andrea Pirlo-esque quarterback role, Savage was somewhat ineffectual. It was neat now and then, and he did his wave-breaking duties when County weren’t being overloaded, but for all the time and space he saw on the ball in the first half there wasn’t a pass worth writing a poem for.

And that brings us on to poor old Rob Hulse (he was replaced late on by Dickov, and although his inclusion in my title fails to take into account the limited part the Scot played in any aspect of the game, it does make for some tasty alliteration). The forward encapsulated Derby’s growing frustration at our ball-holding, tempo-slowing tactics, but rather than respond with an increased battling attitude Robert resorted to letting Hudson marshal him all too easily. Some of the service he received was pretty dire long-ball stuff mind, and whatever scraps of that he won were never followed up ruthlessly enough: nevertheless Hulse could have done more to keep chugging, hold it up, and try and bring his fellow white shirts into play. His goal was well-taken, and it’s that aversion to profligacy that marks him out as hot property in this division.