The first half was one of guts and relish and hunger. Courage, fortitude, bodies on the line. I wanted our players to stand up and be counted, cross the white line, step up to the plate and approach the line of scrimmage. And I think we did that.
It's a very thin line between blazing the ball over the bar and tapping it in, and it's not a line we have crossed courageously enough or consistently enough in recent weeks. 78% of our efforts have ended up in the crowd, 12% have rolled into the keeper's cap, 5% have been patted round the post and 3.5% have worried the woodwork.
We're talking hairline margins, wafer-thin fractions, but that's what we have to overcome if we want to win f'ball'm'ches. And believe me, I want to win f'ball'm'ches.
But sometimes, despite your best efforts and your guts, determination and fiddling about with a spreadsheet on the train, you're left waiting for the officials to see what you see, and give what you think they should give. But all too often, they seem to see and give something else entirely.
For the second half we were forced to regroup, obviously. Me and the lads talked about one or two things during the break, including a book I've been reading, but also what we might do in the second half.
Belief, strength, conviction. Valour. Those are 3, maybe 4 words I like to use around about this time in the match report.
Some days you can smell it in the air, that overwhelming taste of victory, and you can really sense that you're about to turn the corner, jump the lights, cross the viaduct, climb the staircase, burn the bridges, empty the dustbins. It's so tangible you can touch it.
And then other days, it's not.