Jesmond AFC 1–2 Wednesbury Athletic: the late collapse

Match report

There was a time, not so long ago, when the football grounds of the northeast echoed with the work of men who believed that football, like the harvest, would reward patience. The belief in the game insists on continuity, that the team which works hardest, waits longest, will eventually be paid in kind, and for eighty-four minutes on Wednesday 26 August, Jesmond AFC, tenth on 42 points, appeared to be the living proof of that old faith, despite a recent run that had left them looking out of sorts. Then Wednesbury Athletic, eighth on 48 and burdened by a season of draws that had begun to feel like a personal curse, reminded everyone that faith, in football, is usually just a polite word for hope. Jesmond AFC 1, Wednesbury Athletic 2, and the resonance of that late collapse will follow the home side into the next matchday's dawn.

The first half belonged to Jesmond, though "belongong" is a word the game teaches you to use with caution. On 29 minutes, Alfie Sinclair, who had spent much of the season beating water in the mortar, produced the kind of pass that reminds you why the sport is still called beautiful, and Renan Camacã-Pereira, arriving with the timing of a man who knows exactly when the train leaves, finished with composure. One-nil at the interval: the home crowd began to hum with the particular optimism that precedes a long fall.

Wednesbury had spent the campaign drawing more than they would have liked, a habit that had hardened into a second skin, and for long stretches it seemed this would be another evening of polite handshakes. But with the clock running down and Jesmond's legs remembering the weight of the season, the visitors finally found the key. Gökhan Bezirci, who had tormented the left side for an hour, collected the ball on the turn in the 85th minute and, from an angle that invites a cross, produced instead a shot that curled with intent into the corner. One-one. The home side, suddenly giving with egg and vinegar, pushed forward, and left themselves, as teams do when hope overrides sense, open.

The final blow arrived in the 90th minute, from a set piece barely deserved and all the more painful for it. Damien Coignet swung the ball in, and Ralph Audley, who had not scored since the turn of the year, rose and headed the winner with the kind of finality that ends matches and arguments alike. Two-one. The whistle followed, as if embarrassed.

The result leaves Jesmond glancing over their shoulders at the table's underbelly, while Wednesbury have quietly rediscovered the habit of the last word. Football allows no time to lick wounds, and the lesson of this August evening, delivered cruelly, will not be forgotten quickly. The straw, as they say, has been laid on the fire; the wait begins to see who smells of smoke.