August

[Sweder]

That's right folks.
Except the scoreline doesn't tell the tale, not nearly.
This was, in football parleance, a two- nil HAMMERING.
Stan Bowles, Terry Venables, Gerry Francis, Andy Lynham . . . your boys . . . well, they didn't show up, really.

I showed up, with 42 goal-less minutes of the first half gone forever.
Delayed at work till some ungodly hour I abandoned my truck in the Rook's car park and raced to the wall of the ground. I managed to scale a pile of sand bags (the ground is undergoing extensive renovation at this time) and peer over said wall just in time to witness the events of the 43rd minute.

Off trudged some fellow in a blue and white hoopy shirt as another chap in a black and red stripy shirt lined up what must have been a penalty.
Whump! Roar!!!
As the Mighty Coleman would have said: Won Nil!

At half time I gained access (for a fiver) to the West Stand - the only end or side of the ground actually open to supporters. Rangers fans mixed with Rooks fans, plastic beakers brimming with cheap lager changed hands at an alarming rate, fed to the amiable throng by a human chain from the bar. I queued up for coffee and chips, overhearing a number of conversations suggesting that the penalty was a soft one, the dismissal even more so. I surmised that Lewes had ridden a tsunami of luck in the first 45 and settled down with my bag of cholesterol doused in vinegar and salt for what would no doubt be a one-way siege ending in glorious failure.

I was right on both counts - I just had the teams transposed.
Lewes played with verve, vigour and authority, pinging long-range passes to feet, passing and moving with deft skill and alarming pace. The visitors lumbered woefully about, looking like a collection of journeymen thrown together at the last minute . . . which, er, I'm told is pretty much what QPR are these days.

Six minutes into the second half a succession of corners in favour of the home side led to goal number two, crashed into the top corner by the diminutive Rooks number 17. The London day-trippers watched in numbed silence, the Rooks fans equally quiet, partly out of respect for the grieving but mostly from shock. I could barely believe my eyes as the half wore on; Rangers were lucky to survive two further close calls before the hour, one a lethal free kick from the edge of the Dee that caressed the axis of upright and crossbar before stinging the hands of a young spectator behind the goal.

'Come on, give us one for the trip 'ome!' bellowed a hoop-clad supporter, more in sorrow than in anger. It was never on the cards. Rangers did venture across the half way line a few times late on, but aimless balls lumped in the general direction of the Lewes area were never going to trouble a team coming off the back of a 4 - 2 drubbing of neighbours Worthing.

As full time approached I overheard a large northern man in a white tracksuit talking to a marshal. He wanted to know who the Lewes number four was. The steward enquired as to who was asking.
'I'm a scout for Leeds United'
To be honest I couldn't think why you'd make such a claim unless it were true.
'Came here to watch a player' he muttered, 'but you've some team 'ere.'

That we have, good sir.
Now bog off oop north and leave our players alone.

In the grand scheme of things the result means little. No doubt Rangers fielded a number of new signings yet to find their feet along with a few talented youth team players. It comes as no consolation to their supporters to know that they played like strangers and were undone by simple speed and commitment by a team dwelling several layers below them in the football firmament.