Another Trip To Boston…..

My ninth season as a Poacher was interrupted early on by several big events in my personal life. I was studying to become a clinical hypnotherapist and discovered that my course clashed with home ties against Notts County, Hartlepool and promoted Accrington Stanley. The only home game my course allowed me to attend in the first three months was Walsall and sadly that clashed with my brothers wedding at which I would be best man. Four early season games that I’d have to miss as well as an away trip to Stockport I’d pencilled in as a good one for Poacher to go to.

Thankfully the FA stepped in and helped me out. Both our clashes with Hartlepool and Accrington coincided with England games and our matches were moved to a Friday night. I was happy I’d get to see Accrington as they’d had a rough fifty-four years and I expected a relatively easy tie for the Imps.

Still we kicked off with a 1-1 draw against Notts County whilst I sat in a classroom in Brough, East Yorkshire learning how to make lifelong smokers give up their dirty habit. I did off course have my mobile phone in my pocket which vibrated every time there was some news! A week or so later I also missed a 2-2 draw at home with Walsall as I stood on a lectern in a church near Boston giving a reading at our kids wedding. I believe it was somewhere between the words ‘you will feel no rain’ and ‘together forever joined in love’ that my trouser pocket vibrated wildly to inform me we’d gone 2-0 up. By the time I stood at the bar merrily purchasing my first vodka and red bull of many I was alerted to the final 2-2 scoreline by yet another massage on my outer thigh.

In between we had a big friendly with Liverpool. Considering most people I work with had no interest in Lincoln City it was surprising how many people I didn’t know very well sidled up to me in the weeks before and asked how ‘the mascot thing’ was going. At first I didn’t put two and two together, I just thought somehow I’d finally convinced people I was a minor celebrity. I was just about to call Ant and Dec about going into the jungle when those same people saw me again and generally enquired as to whether I could get tickets for the Liverpool game. The penny dropped but my kinder side didn’t so I trundled on down to Sincil Bank to get hold of something like fifteen tickets. I didn’t tell those people who wanted them that they were on free sale and plenty were available. If they thought I was doing something good for them that meant I had a good deed in my back pocket in return.

The game itself was a bit of a nonentity for me, which is a shame. I know a lot of mascots revel in the limelight and love the big stage, but as this wasn’t competitive I couldn’t get excited. That hardly changed when I ran out in front of eight thousand fans making as much noise as a set of traffic lights.

Liverpool had brought a few first teamers including Jan Kronkamp, Robbie Fowler, Salif Daiao and Mark Gonzalez. I knew Robbie was an obvious target for a bit of banter, so I made my way over to him for a kick about. The Liverpool lads had a bit of a chuckle and passed me the ball a few times which I thought was excellent, with Salif Daiao looking at me as if he’d never seen a mascot before. I enjoyed the incredulous look on his face when he passed me the ball almost as if he thought I was a new Liverpool signing.

The Liverpool team were visiting on the back of our sale of Jack Hobbs to them, a deal they were able to hijack when Arsenal refused to include a money spinning friendly in their purchase of him. Liverpool were here as a kind gesture for us nurturing a talented lad from the age of nine. Robbie Fowler wasn’t in the same charitable mood.

I made my way to him and held my hand out for a shake. I’m not a big Robbie fan and I never have been but I did want to shake his hand because he’s a star and it looks good. If anyone shows interest in a mascot there’s always two questions ‘ever had a fight’ and ‘ever met anyone famous’. I planned to just answer one of those with Robbie. He may have fancied answering the other question as he suddenly came over all aggressive. ‘F**k off mate, we doing the warm up’ was his response to my attempted handshake. Which was, I thought, very rude and grammatically incorrect. So I told him. ‘Come on Robbie don’t be a miserable sod, shake my hand’, choosing not to mention his poor grasp of the English language. Luckily for me he didn’t back his scouse accent up with some scouser scuffling and he shook my hand with a smile.

I missed most of the game as the same fifteen people I got tickets for also wanted autographs so I hung around the exit waiting for the substituted stars to try and leave early. I collared Robbie again for a signing session and surprisingly he was still a miserable sod to me even out of the suit. I’m informed the game ended 2-1 to Liverpool but that didn’t matter. The club had received some good publicity for the game and I’d received some kudos for fraternising with the famous faces of the premier league. Everyone’s a winner.

The real winner was Lincoln City FC. Jack Hobbs fee was swelled by many thousands of pounds with the appearance of Liverpool and a lot of local kids got to see some real stars. Rafa Benitez was exemplary all the way through the game signing autographs rather than watching his team. If more of the big boys acted in a responsible manner like the Liverpool squad and officials then League Two wouldn’t be so cash starved. Lincoln is a good way off the beaten track with Notts Forest the only big club close by. These days they are not the same crowd draw they used to be as European Champions so clubs like us need the odd big side to make a sacrifice and come down the A46 to help us out.

The Poacher road show still hadn’t kicked off during a league game by the time we travelled to Field Mill, Mansfield. By then I was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms from live football. My symptoms included not being able to differentiate between new signings Adie Moses and Ryan Amoo, constant chatter about The Premiership and spending Saturday afternoon’s texting Radio Lincolnshire my view of a game I wasn’t attending. When the dependable Stimmo asked me if I fancied going to watch us and ‘Town’ I was ready to bite his hand off. I even offered to drive.

Geographically Mansfield is closer to us than any other league ground, and yet it doesn’t feel like a local derby. They hate Notts County and as you may well have guessed we hate Grimsby and Boston. Even travelling there you can’t help feeling you’ve driven further than you have. The safe flat roads of Lincolnshire are replaced by the hills and bends of Nottinghamshire, and the accent changes from farmer to miner in twenty easy miles.

Casey had come to the game with a mate of his and we met up in ‘The Early Doors’, which is a Tom Cobleigh style pub just down an embankment from the ground. He had travelled without a ticket but had been assured that he could pay on the Mansfield turnstile and move across to the City fans. Sadly for him this wasn’t the case and along with thirty other Imps fans he was thrown out of the ground after paying at the Mansfield turnstile. I was okay, as I’d gone through the usual correct routes for our tickets. Casey and the throng of wronged Imps fans weren’t reimbursed, nor were they compensated in any way. In response to demands for their money back at least Mansfield called the police, and all the fans were escorted back to the Early Doors to wait for the train home. Casey wasn’t getting a train though; we’d agreed to give him a lift, which he would doubtlessly regret.

On the pitch I was looking forward to seeing Mansfield Town mascot ‘Sammy The Stag’. They had got a new guy in the suit and that was good news for me given my history with the old mascot, but I shouldn’t have really anticipated anything. He walked across to his own fans, waved and disappeared back down the tunnel. At least his no show confirmed my suspicions… I was a good mascot! My other suspicions were also soon confirmed and that was that we are a good side. We ran out 4-2 winners with my new hero Jamie Forrester scoring a hat trick.

I can’t say Casey was too impressed with my blow-by-blow account of the game on the way home. He fell asleep just as I recounted our fourth just after half time and I had to content myself with a drunk Stimmo and Radio Lincolnshire’s post match commentary.

One of my first home games of the new season was against Milton Keynes Dons. Up until that point we were unbeaten and MK Dons were riding high. I hoped to cause a few ripples with my programme notes that contained a thinly veiled attack on the Dons supposed heritage. I focused on local derby games and settling old scores, and remarked that Boston Utd should have a score to settle with Wimbledon but wouldn’t be able to as they were currently playing in the southern league south. I expect the Dons were used to that sort of negativity by now having been a franchise football club for a few years before relegation down to us.

I was only just getting back into my stride as Poacher and felt I was perhaps beginning to lose a bit of the passion. My passion for the club wasn’t diminished at all but my passion for stinking at every home game after going out and not getting any thanks at all was beginning to tell. James Lazenby often thanked me which was nice, but I wondered if I was getting a little mascot weary.

I’d been a bit put out a few days before the game. The directors of a local building firm had sponsored the game and the club had asked me if I minded giving up the suit for the day so the sponsor could have a go doing Poacher. To say I was a bit put out was an understatement I was incensed. I felt upset and undermined, and I felt that the club were looking to put the importance of certain people into a simple matter of pounds and pence. I didn’t draw money into the club, but Mr Builder did and therefore his needs mattered more than mine. This wasn’t the case at all and never has been at Lincoln so after I politely refused saying that ‘the integrity of the character might be undermined’ the case was closed. James Lazenby agreed with me and no more was said. This came on the back of me finding out that a member of bar staff had been paid twenty quid to do Poacher in my absence which also shook my resolution to carry on as mascot. It’s a real slap in the chops when you discover that someone has been paid to do exactly the same job you have done for free for nine years. I worked it out, and at twenty quid a game I’d been done out of four thousand four hundred quid. Once again I was overreacting in the worst way. Laze explained that in desperation to get someone in Poacher for a photo shoot they had to splash out the cash. He followed this up with a heartfelt thank you for what I do for the club. To me that was worth four thousand quid of anyone’s money.

My resolve was tested prior to kick off. In the week James Lazenby had asked me if I knew anyone who’d be willing to wear ‘Splat The Cats’ uniform to promote a local building society. Under normal circumstances I’d see which of my mates was nicest to me in the week and then offer them the chance to blag a couple of free tickets. However my Dad contacted me the same night to talk to me about a retired gent called Ken Eades. Ken was a big and slightly eccentric City fan first and a retired schoolteacher second. He was one of the people I regularly bumped into in the bar before the game and one of the few people who had a point of view I respected when it came to discussing City. Ken is a touch eccentric, and a proper character, he took a bedraggled Chicken hat to every game as a mascot and I suspected he’d make a great Splat The Cat. I offered him the chance immediately for two reasons, one to fill the suit and secondly to make a City fan very happy. I knew how happy I was being this close to the action and thought after all those years of loyal service Ken deserved the same.

I met him in the bar before hand where he was having a few stiff whiskeys to pluck up some Dutch courage. I plucked him from the safety of his seat and the comfort of his beverage and took him round through the side entrance for his big moment. We went into my changing rooms to find his suit and get him fitted up for the show.

Unfortunately no one had told me that the suit wasn’t there. Nor was it going to be there at any point during the day. Splats owners had chosen to hold off on the promotional bit for a few weeks in midweek. I found James and enquired to the suits whereabouts.

‘Not coming mate, sorry’. Kens face fell but he took his disappointment wonderfully. James indicated that Ken would still receive a free ticket but that was inconsequential as Ken held a season ticket anyway. He was forlornly taken round to his seat in the Co-op stand and I’m told he sat silently through the game for the first time in his life.

As I changed I got a clear picture of how lucky I was to do the job despite the set backs before kick off. I could just be another Ken figure sat in the stands wishing I could be so much more, but I wasn’t. I went out that day with a renewed vigour for my voluntary position. It all went well and loads of fans asked me to go to Boston as they had done earlier in the year at the Rushden home game. Again I felt touched that these people considered me an important part of that match day experience and I said yes. Apprehension washed over me as I remembered the shirt-stealing incident from the year before, but could I let my fans down? Nope.

During the second half I was changed and watching the game with Casey. Dons’ striker Izzie Mcleod deliberately handled the ball and was sent off for a second bookable offence. Initially he wouldn’t come off the pitch choosing to stand and argue with the referee. I always wonder why players do this because its not as if the referee is going to have an overpaid cheat spitting and swearing in his face and then say ‘oh, seeing as you’re such a charmer I’ll change my decision’. I’ll be honest its actually a source of irritation for me. As Mcleod came off he was heckled by a few Imps fans and chose to have his say in return. It was my second season of standing by the tunnel and that meant that Mcleod would walk past me and down the tunnel. Once again I saw the red mist and was just about to tell the departing player what I thought. Luckily for me Casey had also seen the red mist and he dived over my shoulder with a few choice words. I underlined his statement by saying something along the lines of ‘yeah’ and I thought that was that. Sadly not so. Mcleod pushed away his coach and started out on a journey that would in a few seconds lead him to Casey. A security man stepped in the way to prevent trouble, but I made a mental note to myself. Players look a lot smaller on the pitch than they do off it, and at six foot plus Mcleod was an imposing figure. His impact was even more imposing as his penalty prior to being sent off sent us to a 3-2 defeat.

A week later I made my second trip to Boston this time on a Tuesday night. I took a different route that led me right into the heart of Boston, and I even took the suit in my car. Last seasons poor turnout from the home fans had led to my decision to brave walking through the town with a bitter rivals mascot on my back. I wasn’t completely unprotected though as I took Casey and his mate Scott to the game for back up.

We parked close to the town centre and as a complete surprise to me Casey and Scott disappeared to a local pub leaving me to lug my bag a half-mile to the ground. To further add to my precarious situation I had worn a short sleeved T-shirt that clearly revealed my Imps tattoo. I dodged down a few narrow side streets and crossed a main road to get to the ground. I can’t help but admit I was surprised to see a main road running through Boston designed to carry two lanes of traffic. I could only assume that to aid their technological development the town council were employing especially big horse and carts.

I needn’t have worried about my identity being revealed and me getting a kicking. Once again home fans were conspicuous by their absence and I latched on to a few away fans to get safely round to the car park.

Steve, otherwise known as the Boston Panther met me at the player’s entrance. Since last seasons shirt pinching scare I had made quite good friends with him, exchanging texts and a few phone calls. Despite the rivalry between us it’s always nice to have a contact at another club, mainly to promote my image of being ‘on the inside’. I got a few titbits from him and sounded knowledgeable at work when Boston related topics came up. Anyhow I deposited my suit in the washroom we changed in the year before, underlining the fact I didn’t want to find two Boston shirts in my bag afterwards. After all Andrex is only two quid for four rolls so it wasn’t like I needed them.

We once again had a drink in the home bar and again I was hit by its friendliness. A couple of hardened home fans met Steve and we had a chat about our prospects. They seemed to think we were in for a big win and I agreed. Boston were in a terrible state, skint and featuring a manager on trial for fraud. We on the other hand appeared to be in a strong position second in the league looking for a win that would send us top.

After a couple of swift halves (four poured into two pint glasses) we shuffled along the green-carpeted corridor and into the changing rooms. I saw the same old faces that I had the year before, as if the game were taking place the week after. I got changed and found the same jailer guarding the caged tunnel area that led to the ground.

Once out on the pitch I opted to make a few Steve Evans based jokes. He’d been involved I a fraud that’d netted Boston £323,000 they should have given the taxman. Using that money they elevated themselves from Northern Premier League to Football League in a few seasons. The FA found out and Evans was banned from football for two years. Two years later he returned to his job, but now the CPS wanted their slice and he was arrested and sent to trial. The verdict was a few weeks away and rumours were strong he was going down. I found a small stand for the disabled supporters that had a caged across the front of it to protect them from stray balls. I squeezed my suit down the row and grabbed the bars as if I were in prison. It was obvious that this was an attempt at humour and one I found immensely amusing. The travelling fans didn’t agree and I heard no laughs.

Its sometimes hard to judge what will be funny at what won’t in a mascot suit. I could picture myself and if I thought about Evans as well it would have at least raised a grin. Perhaps our fans weren’t thinking of Evans. Perhaps they were wondering why their mascot was sitting in a disabled hut virtually out of sight alongside two wheel chair bound hostile Pilgrim fans. I got out and got down to what I do best, geeing up our fans.

The Boston mascot had a similarly poor thought out plan at making the home fans laugh, he launched yet another attack on me. I would have assumed after failing twice at home and once at Sincil Bank last year he’d have learnt his lesson but apparently he was only just warming up. As I stood with my back to him lapping up the cheers of our fans he grabbed me from behind and tried to ground me. It wasn’t a successful or noteworthy attack as I shook him off and politely asked him to not try it again. I wasn’t particularly offended; I just didn’t want to have to get involved in a play scuffle that may result in trouble from the stewards.

I wasn’t completely convinced he wouldn’t try it again though so I climbed into our stand and got in amongst the fans. There’s no way he’d get me in there, so I made my way along the front row shaking hands, patting backs and generally trying to stir up some passions. It seemed my evasion method wasn’t entirely successful though because although I avoided the Panther I didn’t avoid the gaze of those pesky stewards. I’d just grabbed a kid’s sausage roll when two stewards came into the crowd and ushered me towards the gate leading back onto the pitch. I made the little jump of about two feet from stand to pitch level and re-entered the York Street turf.

No sooner had I got back on the pitch than the Panther came across for a chat. We pushed our heads together and had a quick chat about the atmosphere in the stand. He joked we had more fans than they did; I told him in all seriousness we didn’t outnumber them. I can’t for the life of me even begin to think what it looked like we were doing. I suppose we may have looked as if we were kissing or maybe even having a confrontation. Most fans assumed it was the latter.

We parted ways and I turned back to our fans. The Panther decided he wanted another bite of the cherry and confirmed most fans idea we were having a few harsh words. He jumped me from behind yet again and tried to pull down my shorts. Unfortunately for him he lost his footing and I wrestled him to the ground. By now I’d had enough of his petulant play fights so I held him down and sat my bum right on his Panther nose. I writhed around for a good twenty seconds screaming ‘owned’ as loud as I could so he could hear it. The titters of laughter soon rose to a mini crescendo and I jumped up confident I’d settled our score once and for all.

There were no sideshows or events on the field this time round so I made my way back to the changing room well before kick off. I knew the tunnel wouldn’t house me going one way and the teams coming the other, so if I waited I’d have to stand close to the home fans whilst the teams took to the field. I remembered being spat and and I couldn’t face that again so an early change was required. I wasn’t due out at half time so my latest outing at Boston was over.

The game was once again poor. We lost 1-0 thanks to ex Imp Franny Greens weak goal, we had a good strike disallowed and Lee Beevers managed to miss when glancing it in with his belly would have sufficed. The jailer also told me off before getting to our fans for taking a picture on my mobile phone. ‘No photo’s please mate’ he requested. I replied ‘I’m texting my Dad’ whilst thinking ‘why would the flash come on for a text?’ He accepted my excuse, probably because mobile telephones haven’t hit Boston yet. They only got channel five last year.

I saw Ken Eades in the stand with his chicken hat ensconced firmly on his greying head. He had put the disappointment from the week before behind him, but my guilt was beginning to weigh me down. I wanted to give him what I’d promised him, so I told him to keep the home game with Hartlepool free. I had a plan.

The ride home was predictably miserable as we lamented our luck. Scott and Casey hadn’t got into any trouble so we all piled in the car for a depressing ride home, made worse by me leaving my new glasses case at York Street. Steve offered to bring it out to me but I refused, as I couldn’t bear to see his smiling face beaming at the unlikely win. I had my victory having rubbed his lips and my bum and I didn’t want a little thing like losing the game to take that away from me.

Driving into Boston I’d be surprised at the wide roads housing no traffic, but on the way out I saw another picture. Masses of away fans getting out of the town caused bottlenecks all around and I’ve never been able to hold my temper in the car. I almost cleaned up a cyclist on the outside lane when trying to edge my way through a yellow box junction. He took one look in the car and then thought twice about speaking up thus proving my theory about taking muscle to away games is a good one. I got home around 11.30pm unhappy and dreading the ribbing at work the next day. My workplace was full of anti-Lincoln fans, which I guess is usual for a small City like us. I worked with two Arsenal fans, a West Ham fan and a Hamilton Academicals fan that between them had probably chalked up fifteen games as fans of their club in twenty years. This blasé attitude to football always fails to impress me as I fail to see why local men can’t support their local side, especially when it’s a side playing good football successfully. I did receive the stick I expected to which I always retort ‘at least I watch my side live’. I run out winner every time.