A Game of Inches

Football can be a mother**ker sometimes as we all know. Just as it can make you higher than Afroman with joy one week it can frustrate you into a week-long grump the next - spitting your dummy out and drop-kicking your cat (poor Diego). 

This weekend was a mouth-watering one for me with the Bluebirds going to Millwall live on Sky following two back-to-back wins, then there was my personal return to football action for Llantwit Fardre FC reserves after a few weeks on paternity duty. AND, for fun, the fate gods had even laid on an ‘El Clasico’ on TV that evening.

So, in the early hours of Saturday morning while changing nappies and surviving sleep deprivation, I dreamt of another gnarly City away win.

While my five year old climbed into our bed and onto my face asking me to read a Lego book at 7AM I dreamt of scoring a goal on my return for Llantwit, of FC Barcelona beating Real Madrid and then a Chinese takeaway and beer to top off a day of glory.

What transpired though was a rather grim reality on all three fronts. 

Firstly there was Cardiff City falling on old habits, playing like a bunch of pussies at Millwall. 

After their last two games they should have been confident but there was no answer to the physical battle from the hosts. 

Granted, If Adam Le Fondre had taken his chances in the first-half it would’ve been different but he didn’t and Millwall went on to bully the points out of City.

The game was dog ugly but the margins were slim.

Russell Slade, who it turns out is NOT the messiah, now has the task of stopping the players sulking about this set back and picking them up for another war against Leeds this weekend.

Do the Bluebirds believe they can get promoted? Slade needs to reboot a few of the lads brains.

Coinciding with Cardiff’s defeat was me ending up withdrawing from the Llantwit Fardre squad for the game that afternoon to help out at home – There were to be no goals. 

Then there was FC Barcelona rolling over for a tummy tickle in the ‘Clasico’ and add to that a lack of Chinese takeaway that evening and you've got a pretty weak day all round. 

As a final kick in my ballbag, that night the baby didn't feel like sleeping leaving me walking around Sunday like a goth zombie. 

I love football.