Bradford Bulls' Championship Adventure

Can't play Rugby League because my knees have gone (and I'm a massive wimp); haven't managed to persuade anyone to give me a job in the sport (yet); but I can write nonsense.. so nonsense I shall write. After three decades of watching Bradford Northern/Bulls - it's all ended in a right mess. Where do we go from here?

[wobblyheadedbull]

The Only Way Is Up (literally)

I don’t think any of us can pretend we aren’t glad that’s over.

In all but name, it was over after the Toulouse game, and I don’t mind admitting to feeling relieved at being two hundred miles away from the next three fixtures.

If I’m totally honest, it was sometime in May I’d have turned away, were it not for some twisted sense of obligation, and an excuse to spend the afternoons with family - to paraphrase the words said to me on Twitter a few weeks later - those two hours on a terrace were ruining my whole weekend.

While relegation may have been mathematically confirmed on 6th August, for all real purposes our season ended a month earlier in Halifax, and a decent barrister could probably persuade twelve of England’s finest there was a case for it being over at Easter.

No matter how deep your passion, that’s a testing length of time to suffer through and still have any sort of relationship - and the relationship wasn’t exactly running smooth at the start.

However, whether it be love or addiction, when you’re in, you’re in - whatever warning signs may burn themselves into your eyes, you’ll always find reasons to keep things going - and even in this darkest of years there’s been enough to pull us through.

The passion of that opening game, all the way back at Craven Park; the unexpected felling of Toulouse; another great day-out at Trailfinders; the romping Odsal victories over Batley & Dewsbury; that night in Blackpool; the final day demolition of Rochdale. Seeing the emerging careers of Bentley, Ryan, Lilley, Oledski; Peltier’s barrelling; the growth of Keyes. Visits to lesser trodden grounds; chat with less met fans. Even the comedy moments - such as the hour long first half at Spotland, or Shaun Robinson’s swan dive - gave the season something for the memories.

That’s not to paint rainbows over craters, of course, it’s been grim. Any season with fifteen miserable weeks, punctuated only by a single flurry against the division’s other relegated side; four months with only bad press releases, misprinted shirts, and a swirling sense of doom-laden paranoia for company. We’ve had a lot of rough seasons of late, still, at the end of year dinner this one would be strong contender for the main prize.

But it’s done, the important thing is that it’s done.

I’m comfortable with relegation - obviously every step back offers concern, but morally League 1 is where we belong, and practically it might just be where we need to be; so long as our latest owners are true to their words, able in their activities, and stable enough in their resources - which I’ve given up on second guessing, and can only let time tell that tale as it sees fit.

I’m comfortable with losing our best squad members - sad to see them go, of course, but it’s the nature of our place in the world, and I’d be disappointed in their ambition should they have chosen to stay; if there’s one thing I still have faith in with this club, it’s the ability to keep producing talented young Rugby League players.

I’m even a little excited about League 1; new opponents, new grounds, life outside the M62 comfort zone. I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime; I hoped so hard I wouldn’t; but life is pretty pointless if you just keep having the same experiences over and over again - change is good every so often.

Alright, I’ve obviously dropped my spectacles in the rose paint there, but I guess what I’m saying is - it’s been a properly crap season, but we have to let it go; draw a line; move on; look forward; find the love again.

We’ve got the seeds of a squad already planted: Hallas, Oakes, Kirk, Chisholm; should all compete pretty strongly in the League 1 melee; Butterworth & Hodgson have already begun being broken into grown-up rugby, with this Wilson character sounding like potential from the off.

It’s not much, admittedly, but with four months until kick-off it’s already more players than we had four weeks before the start of this season - it’s a planned start, and not a desperate scramble to catch-up; which for Bradford Bulls is a rare thing indeed.

2017 hasn’t been fun; I’ve been critical, frustrated, angry, and upset - and, no, I have not been quiet about it. For that I make not one apology - this hobby is important to me; for right, or for wrong, I am invested, and I want the good feelings back.

I guess this is me saying; all that is forgotten now. All past critique, all old pleading, all done disappointments. As of today my only concern is the next; the build; the regroup; the return.

That’s not to say blind faith; that would be nonsense - but let’s call it a new hope, shall we.

Worked out OK for George Lucas.

Come on you Bulls; bring on 2018

[wobblyheadedbull]

The Wood from the rotten trees.

And so we stand, here, on the brink of the most important seven weeks in the club’s blah blah blah blah blah…

Two things could happen in the next two months for our Bradford Bulls.

We could miraculously win seven games in a row while seeing Swinton and Oldham lose every one of theirs - the odds of which happening are similar to the odds of Jennifer Lawrence knocking on my door to say there’s a private jet waiting on Morrisons car-park to take us for an unforgettable night in Bangkok, before waking up, hangover free, on a yacht filled with puppies.

Or one, or all, of those things could fail to happen - the odds of which are similar to the odds of my next cup of tea tasting of tea.

If the second happens early enough there may be a genuine case for saving a bit of cash, and avoiding the risk of unnecessary injuries to tired human beings, by just not turning up to the games which follow.

The worst part is, thanks to the powers-that-be’s failure to make decisions, or properly plan ahead even a few months, we’re even denied any real excitement, or a chance to fully wallow in our misery - in all possibility we’re just one official statement away from having completely wasted our time, money, energy, and emotion for the entire season.

Which isn’t exactly an ideal sentence to be written about any professional sport.

That, combined with an enforced inability to consider anything truly meaningful about our specific club, turns me to think about the wider game for a moment.

As we all saw, Mr Nigel Wood’s wages were inexplicably published last week. I didn’t write down the figure, as much as I didn’t take it as gospel, but the upshot is that the game’s CEO seems to earn an amount of money considered by some to be pretty eye-opening.

Not eye-opening because it’s a particularly unusual salary size for the CEO of a business with the notoriety and turnover of Rugby League, or for a person at such level in professional sport - but eye-opening because it equates to roughly the entire annual wage bill of your average Championship club.

I hasten to clarify that statement isn’t based on any verified facts or figures, but on a quick beermat calculation - considering seventy percent of the game’s second tier is part-time though, I’m confident it can’t be too far out.

One man at the top is paid enough to keep a club afloat in a league where many clubs are one bad month away from total disintegration - which would be fine, if the evidence was there to suggest it was being well earned.

I’ve gone done some thinking about that.

Rugby League in the UK in 2017 has seen:

A World Club Series in which almost all NRL sides flat out refused to take part.

A World Cup year in which England’s entire preparation has been a one off game against Samoa watched by an international TV audience of four figures.

A season where the above happened because no television company deemed the international game worthy of paying actual money for.

An antipodean World Cup year in which the international programme for the four years between that and the domestic World Cup has so far been announced as ‘we’ll probably play New Zealand’.

A season in which a club was arbitrarily, and undeservedly, kept in one division ‘for the good of the game’ only to be given a points deduction large enough to virtually ensure they finished in relegation position seven months later anyway.

A season in which we reach August without knowing the league format for the following year.

A season in which a Top 5 side are unable to yet clarify if they’ll have a home stadium next year.

A season (or so) in which at least four second tier clubs have declared, or demonstrated, that they are one unpaid bill away from extinction.

A season in which Super League’s only remaining successful expansion club is now facing relegation; all three Cumbrian clubs are outside the top two divisions; London are Championship and playing on a park, Sheffield are homeless and hand-to-mouth; and the game’s second competitive French club are denied the opportunity to battle for promotion because match scheduling allowed an already qualified team to save themselves some travel costs (perhaps, allegedly, maybe, etc).

A season in which salary cap and League 1 promotion rules were changed purely for the advantage of a rich club from another continent with careless disregard for any potential detriment to existing heartland clubs.

A season in which League 1 was rendered virtually pointless for many by the above.

A season in which the general playing standard has been absolutely held up by less than four clubs, whilst viewers are treated to knock-on-athons in about sixty percent of games.

A season in which refereeing standards are crippled by a series of experienced retirees citing poor treatment by their employers, and a failure to recruit at anything like the necessary volume has forced inexperienced officials to be dragged through the ranks, giving rise to unprecedented levels of ‘gamesmanship’ and its close cousin cheating.

A season in which not enough quality players, or revenue, are been brought into the sport to sustain a functional reserve grade league - forcing a dual reg / loan system which is remorselessly eroding the game outside its ‘elite’ level on a week-by-week basis.

On the other hand - Magic Weekend was a great occasion, Summer Bash looked good for at least two hours, and the Grand Final will probably sell out.

Actually, that’s harsh; I’d argue with twelve teams in each division, the teams at the top and the closeness throughout the ranks suggests this is the most competitive and equal the game has been in a long time - which probably explains all the rumours it’ll change next year, because we can’t have that.

What has befallen our club is pretty crap, and nobody’s fault but our own - what is befalling the sport at large, I think there’s perhaps a man who has a few hundred thousand explanations to offer.

I can’t help but feel if there isn’t radical change made very quickly, history will see Bradford Bulls, not as the black sheep, but as the fallen fruit of a rotten tree - and for a sport with all the potential of Rugby League, that would be unforgivable.

Which is all a very wordy way of saying, it’s gonna take a lot of Wine Gums before I summon much enthusiasm for the climax of the 2017 season - whatever league we wind up playing in, I can only hope 2018 is significantly better in so many ways.

Because I refuse to spend my middle-age Sundays washing the car.

[wobblyheadedbull]

A Little Respect

There’s little point writing about results for the moment; it’s too miserable, and thanks to the RFL’s making-it-up-as-they-go-along business model, we don’t know if they really matter or not anyway.

The transfer deadline has come and gone with only three bus tickets to Leeds, and another recognisably named antipodean sat on the payroll in visa limbo, to show for it.

That just leaves us, calmly reclined, as our ship cruises inevitably around the rings of our ocean’s latest whirlpool, with only divine intervention left to hope for.

Well, we’re not entirely calm - if the noises which surround me on the terraces, and scroll across my screens, are anything to go by - we seem to have a lot to say, and not a great deal of it is very attractive.

There’s a lot to be proud of as a Bradford Bulls supporter in 2017.

No, bear with me, I can justify that outrageous claim.

I don’t mean to be proud of the club - though there are undoubtedly people within the Odsal camp who deserve a great deal of respect - the club itself has some way to go to regain a sense of true pride.

I don’t even mean to be proud of the sport - as great as it can be, and as much as all who risk their safety for it should be honoured - it’s been behaving like a drunken wazzock for far too long now.

I mean to be proud of ourselves. Proud to be part of an undiminishable (real word, honest) travelling army who’ve stuck by a stricken club, and each other, despite a hundred reasons in as many months not to. We sing, we smile, we raise the banners, and we are - quite rightly - very loud, and very proud of who we are, and what we’ve kept alive over the last few years.

Which is why it grates so much when I see/hear that pride spill over into something else, and with things the way they are as we amble towards the death of the season, I only see it getting worse the more critical the situation becomes. So, if I may, I’d like to state the obvious for a paragraph.

There is no RFL conspiracy for, or against, Bradford. The Bulls are not more important than the other clubs on our fixture list. Nobody owes us anything. Nobody should be grateful to us for anything. No allowances should be made for our situation, that is entirely of our own doing. The sport of Rugby League does not need our club, if we were to disappear, the game would simply add a line to the history books and carry on.

We are not losing games due to referees. The standard of refereeing in the Championship is not high, of that we can agree, but incorrect decisions against our team have nothing to do with any anti-Bulls agenda, and everything to do with the facts that the RFL have simultaneously failed to recruit, or to retain, top quality officials. This means referees are rushed through the ranks to fill Super League demand, naturally lowering the level of experience and ability in the lower divisions to the point that I fully expect some League 1 games are officiated by putting pink shirts on passing labradors and hoping for the best. If the referee is performing poorly it’s probably because they have a decade’s less experience than most of the players around them, not because they hate our team.

The RFL has no responsibility to, and absolutely should not, save the Bulls should they finish this season in the relegation positions. Past achievements, current travelling crowds, and the consistent production of future international players are all greatly impressive things, but are utterly irrelevant to what division we should be playing in next year. If we finish top, we’d expect to be promoted, if we finish bottom we should expect to be relegated. It really is as simple as that.

And most importantly, let’s stop looking down our noses and telling other clubs’ supporters they need us, can we? It’s as nauseating as it is incorrect.

We’re talking about clubs who’ve consistently been handed the splintery end of the stick with every reorganisation and policy change since the term Super League was first written down by a giddy man with a yellow Sharpie.

Clubs who have had their own rising and falling, by-and-large without a fraction of the resource and opportunity handed to ours from the pockets of Mr Murdoch. Yep, the five-figure pay-day when the Bulls (or Hull K.R.) come round to play is no doubt a welcome boost for all, but they existed perfectly well for plenty of time without it, and they’ll continue to do so if it goes away - while we on the other hand have repeatedly sent small businesses to the wall, and essentially defrauded the taxpayer, with barely an acknowledgement or apology.

Clubs who’ve thrown money they don’t have into our bottomless bucket when things first hit the fan.

Clubs who build their training schedules around the work and family patterns of thirty or so men and still manage to put together performances which leave our full-time team sat on their arses and sucking their thumbs.

Clubs who’ve earned, through shear hard work and thrifty management, the right to be where they are - rather than be gifted it because the governing body couldn’t be bothered with the extra work any other option would have created for them.

These clubs don’t need us, they don’t owe us, they are not inferior to us, and that we have the audacity to address them with anything other than humility, gratitude, and respect is unfathomable; to see/hear so many outbursts of outright arrogant contempt is enough to reintroduce me to my breakfast.

As the next two months pass by, our team will either miraculously save themselves or march directly towards a bottom of the division finish - after that it is out of our hands. Either way we’ll stay loud, proud, and we’ll support our young team to the very last hooter. We don’t need to be doing it with chips on our shoulders, and we don’t need to be lashing out at others as we go - we should be better than that, bigger than that, and it’s certainly going to be a lot more fun if the other clubs’ fans don’t hate us while we do it.

Or maybe I’m just a balding old hippy - I did have a chai tea the other day, who knows what the side effects of that are - I’ll get some ale down me tonight, just to be safe.

See you at Odsal, humble, but probably hungover.

[wobblyheadedbull]

A rumoured safety net, is not a safety net.

‘The Bulls won’t go down regardless; they’ll be saved by a restructure.’

It was easy for this nameless claim - the sort which in any other sport would be far-fetched at best - to become accepted pretty much as fact throughout the Rugby League world.

It had a lot going for it: the residual arrogance of the Mighty Bulls’ fans (I have it too, deep down, it’s a tough thing to shake); the general contempt of those in rival colours, born from seeing the last five years from the outside; the clear financial argument for keeping those five figure paydays when Bradford come to town; the continued logic of last year’s ‘best interest of the sport’ argument; and the unshakeable knowledge that our governing body are simply making it up as they go along.

All it took was a few rumours of insider knowledge, off the record second hand quotes, and a severe lack of clarity from the RFL - and, shameful as it may be, it was all but bound to be true.

Except, it might not be - in fact Mr Rimmer has said outright it isn’t, not that an RFL representative saying something outright means anything, but it’s more than has been said the other way.

I’m not going to guess, we’ve all got about as much chance of pre-empting what the RFL’s next move will be as we have of being prepared if goldfish take up arms to displace us from the top of the food chain. The important thing is that we stop blindly wandering towards the unfathomable, and accept that there as a very real likelihood finishing in the bottom two of 2017’s Championship will see us beginning 2018 in League 1.

In fact, right now, based on all actual concrete facts, admissible evidence, and Vulcan logic - this is the most likely outcome by such a distance that scientists would have already dismissed the others.

So the next two months are really, really, serious.

Bradford have nine games left to play this season, those will be against: Batley (twice), Swinton (twice), Oldham, Dewsbury, Rochdale, Sheffield, and either Toulouse or Halifax.

We have to win - at minimum - six of those games, more likely seven or eight.

We’ve won six games so far this season, each against one of those teams, but on the other hand, only Batley and Swinton have yet to beat us.

There is enough data to cobble together the conclusion of possibility; the Bradford Bulls absolutely can still save themselves from the drop by the end of this season.

The odds, however, are not good - no matter how you calculate them.

Giving up and accepting it, letting our club’s future fall into the hands of tight lipped men and last minute votes, is not an option. At this stage, even after everything, all we have left to do is fight for our lives, again.

Nine cup finals; nine sudden death shoot outs; nine chances to do something incredible; nine opportunities for catastrophe.

Tell you what, you can’t go claiming every minute doesn’t matter when you’re a Bulls fan, well, not for a few weeks yet, at least.

Deep breaths.

Here we go…

[wobblyheadedbull]

Gotta catch ‘em all...

Aargh!

Aaaaaargh!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarggggghhhhh!!!



We lost to Oldham because they outmuscled us; we lost to Rochdale because they outsmarted us; we lost to Featherstone because they out, well, they out-everythinged us.

We lost to Halifax because we couldn’t keep hold of the damn ball.

The standard of Rugby League in the current Championship is not high - hell, the standard in Super League outside the top few teams is nothing to shout about - and Bradford Bulls’ embryonic mob did not lose to Halifax because they weren’t as talented, or as able, as them - man to man I’d be comfortable to say the lads in black & off-black were every bit the equals, if not the betters, of those hooped in blue & white this Sunday.

The result came out as it did because in an eighty minute game our Bulls completed less sets than you can count on one foot. The opportunity to reach positive points was lost, not with a bang and a crash, but with a slip, and a fumble, and another, and again, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and…

Basically we were bad at catching, and it’s close cousin, not-dropping.

Obviously that final ankle skimmer is the one which sticks sharpest in the mind, but truth be told, as I stood, open-jawed, gawping back at Ethan Ryan through the clear space which had opened up between us; seeing that leathery egg tumble clumsily shinward - it was not dramatic exasperation I felt, but weary acceptance - of course that’s what would happen, we’d spent a whole afternoon bumbling the ball to the floor, why should that change just because the hooter had sounded and there were no more chances? There was no force in the universe strong enough to buck that particular trend and let us walk out of The Shay with proper smiles on our faces.

Nearly thirty hours later it still smarts, not that we were beaten, but that we beat ourselves.

I still see effort, I still see ability, and I still see a team who are absolutely capable of doing themselves the honour of keeping afloat by merit, regardless of the decisions made around them.

But I sure see a team who need to spend most of the next six days throwing balls at each other until they’re capable of plucking them safely from the air while asleep, or sky-diving, or both.

Six games from ten - minimum - now needed.

It’s on the brink of impossible.

But is is possible.

It is.

[wobblyheadedbull]

Yes!!! Nooo. What?! Arghh!!

Oh, sweet fate! Thy fickle destiny which giveth with the right, and taketh the very same moment with the left. Why dost thou test us in such rapid regularity? What cruel amusement doth it bring to contorted wont? Can’t thou bring forth the uplifting beams of a spring just once, without dashing such dreams away before that same heartbeat concludes? What wicked tyranny, such vicious brutality. You perplex me, vex me, perhaps thou shall wreck me. Oh, bitter sweet fate.

When was there a tragedy better suited to the bard?

A win, a glorious, comprehensive win; moreover a performance, from shirt one to forty; forwards laying down their markers; a young half-back stepping up to offer fresh glimpses of his abilities; a three man left edge to be envious of. Ninety nine problems, but still being on negative points due to a large sanction ain’t one - not anymore. Zero achieved, zero party, actual hopes of positive points.

But, obviously, Dewsbury & Swinton both do the same; sliding away the goalposts in perfect counterbalance to our little advance.

Still… movement.

Then Mr McGuire says a naughty word and we lose Lilley for the momentous game looming at the end of the week - while at the same time we’re strongly linked to Willie Tonga, like a new experienced signing could actually happen.

The RFL finally get round to their disciplinary meeting from two weeks ago and put Scott in the cooler for a fortnight - pretty much simultaneously with negotiations that bring Ashley Gibson into our squad.

While pen is going to paper on a second signing, in the hefty shape of Damian Sironen, a few miles away the aforementioned Jordan is putting in a second half performance which seems almost certain to lift him away from us for good.

I have no clue how to feel; it’s been a good week in so many ways; and a crappy one in exactly proportional measures. Unbelievable. If there is a higher being, of whatever ilk, that being is having themselves quite the giggle over our hallowed hole at the end of the M606.

Perhaps some comfort can be taken from the fact that, when all is settled, we find ourselves in the most familiar possible position - with a team full of possibilities, infected by inconsistencies, marching towards an immovable deadline in an attempt to overcome odds and achieve the vital, but almost impossible, with - everybody sing-a-long now… no experienced organisational half-back.

Such a catchy refrain.

Experience elsewhere is coming in, while the youthful team members - last Sunday at least - look to be stepping up and showing their true potential, and without too much rose-tint on the specs the pseudo-derby on Sunday looks, if you squint, perhaps winnable - it’s so tempting to believe, but so difficult without that driver in the middle.

At this point, more than ever, I have no idea how to feel about, or what to expect from, the very near future. I don’t know if we’re better off now than seven days ago, or worse. I don’t know if my hopes have come alive, or my doubts have been cemented. I don’t know. I. Just. Don’t. Know.

I’m just gonna eat chicken burgers, shout sarcasm over Sky commentary, and drink beer.

Until Sunday, whatever that will be.

[wobblyheadedbull]

First Steps

It’s been a good week, I think.

Not because of the Rochdale game, obviously; I’m not even sure the Hornets players could truly have walked away from that feeling fully fuzzy, what with the distasteful tactics employed throughout. Which was smart play, admittedly, but perhaps as unnecessary as it was unseemly, they’d likely have won even in an honourable contest.

No, that result was as difficult to choke down as any we’ve endured so far, and another rung for us to clatter through. Getting worked up about results is all starting to feel pretty pointless though - while, of course, there’s always room for miracles - the end of 2017 looks almost sure to be a mathematical fall or a bureaucratic safety net.

When you also come to terms with the reality that we’re not losing through lack of effort, but for lack of ability, it’s not even slightly satisfying, or fair, to criticise either.

And I do believe that to be the case; I’ve seen Bradford teams play without effort, hell, I’ve seen Bradford teams lie back and think of Ilkley, as passive as a cloud.

That’s not what I see on this year’s pitches; aside from the odd player who seemingly apply themselves with all the vigour of a semi-inflated novelty Li-Lo, I see a Bulls team who really are trying to win games.

What they lack is not effort, but smarts, ripened ability, or confidence. To expect these elements to fall in line on the back of a two month losing streak, a negative points haul, and enough pressure to destabilise a volcano, is as unrealistic as it is unfair.

So I see no reason to dwell too much on results, unless there’s a positive to dwell on, then we dwell the crap out of it, dwell like we’ve never dwelled before, to the dwellfinity, and beyond.


Hopefully after Oldham, which I’m not going to allow myself to expect to win - history shows in big neon letters that would be a foolish act - but with an opponent in a lull, playing on a four day turnaround, on a part-time schedule, on our own turf; the odds are as in our favour as they might ever be.

This hasn’t been a good week because of anything on the pitch; it’s been, quite remarkably, a good week because of things off it. Namely this, this and (should it be genuine) this.

Combined with Mick Gledhill’s refreshing interviews and the T&A/Toovey love affair which is generating articles featuring actual opinions and information for the first time since the referendum (possibly the Scottish one) and it finally, astonishingly, feels like the club want to talk.

It’s good to talk.

The focus group, while it’ll always have its critics, felt huge to me. A fan forum is fine, it’s public and everyone feels involved, but can be essentially a performance. Taking time to listen, properly listen, to a close group of supporters - that’s an essential step. Of course the proof will be in the listening, the understanding, and the acting - but I stopped believing that even the opportunity would come, so to see it so suddenly, well, I’d go so far to say it’s heartwarming.

To see what appears to be a decent set of answers to an impassioned fan interview gives another lift. It might not be the full and detailed outlining of plans and assurances we’ve been craving quite yet, but it’s leaps and bounds better than the silence we’ve been straining towards so far.



Finally, the stadium policy perhaps suggests that listening has already commenced, but more than that, it’s a clear, professional, and reasonable policy announced clearly by the club in response to supporter disgruntlement and enquiry - which is a planet sized improvement on the original no food statement which popped up a fortnight ago.

I’ve criticised, plentifully, so I’ll applaud; whatever alteration or implementation has begun at Odsal in the last week or so - well, it feels like baby’s first steps; teenager’s first kiss; parents’ first full night’s sleep - and has honestly left me feeling as good as a win would.

Feel better if it was alongside a win though…

To Odsal then, with hope in our hearts, and pasties in our reasonably sized packs!

[wobblyheadedbull]

Comfort Eating

I thought seriously about not going on Sunday, not for long, but the idea definitely took a turn through my mind. I tried to rein it in, but this food ban thing really twisted my knickers. Talk of folk staying away, or even turning away at the gate, hasn’t done much to smooth them out either.

I’m not going to rant on, I’ve deleted a few impassioned paragraphs but when it comes down to it I don’t really feel angry anymore, I feel tired, and a little sad. In the end it’s just the latest example of an incident which sits somewhere between another cackhandled PR situation, or a contemptuous mistruth, and after that away kit nonsense I’m running out of benefits left to give the doubt.

Safety and security are important, nobody who’s opened their eyes over the last few months can argue against that - and I think we’re all good with bag searches; pat downs, or even a metal detector or two. Saying no to cans & bottles is standard; unsealed liquids, well Odsal isn’t exactly a passenger jet, but at least there’s a precedent of some sort; food threat, however, simply isn’t a thing.

Headingley let food in, Etihad let food in, Wembley let food in - and that place is more fort than stadium - even Ryanair will let me take a couple of homemade ham butties and a scotch egg onboard.

Ironically, of all the randomly selected stadia quickly Google-checked, the only other place I’ve found which expressly disallows outside food is Spotland - so at least we’re prepared.

They don’t make any pretence about safety though, they simply say its not welcome, which, honestly, is fair enough. You wouldn’t sit down in Wetherspoons and start working through a crate of Aldi lager after all - you might bring some milk for the baby mind, but assuming there’s a sensible approach to that sort of thing I don’t think anybody could criticise a business for protecting its interests, so long as it’s honest about it. I would like to believe there’s a spreadsheet somewhere which maps increased concession monies against lost gate receipts though - even if there isn’t an axis for long-term good will.

That said, I’m willing to take the official line that this was a ban advised by the police / security agency if that’s what’s given. I’d be pretty keen to hear an explanation of why my sausage rolls are dangerous directly from them though - rather than force an already beleaguered club to shove out an unpopular news nugget and then try to hide it under re-tweets and stonewalling.


It’s back to the old echo I guess - honesty is usually the best policy, that, and proper information, proper answers; doubt and confusion only lead to anger and mistrust, and we sure ain’t in a position to be fostering any of that. Maybe this will all slide conveniently under a carpet, but I have a feeling it might float to the surface again before the next home game - as people will want to know if they can bring a couple of cold drumsticks, or a bag of of julienned carrots, as is their taste. I guess it’ll be a tester, with attendances being the stake. I just hope to the bottom of my heart that we pass.

I’m glad I did go on Sunday though, because - with a little time to reflect, it wasn’t that bad a game.

Frustrating, without a doubt, really frustrating - with Featherstone clearly a little off their best we had every chance to take the points, and at half-time even looked like we might.

We lost because we tried too hard, if anything - so many tackle counts cut short though panic - a little calm and confidence and we’d have had it. Well - calm, confidence, and literally anybody being near Lilley when he made his half-breaks, perhaps.

We didn’t get hammered though, and were in the game right up until the last fifteen minutes before it faded away. It felt better than the last afternoons at Crown Flatt or Post Office Road, that’s for certain - and not to forget this was top four opposition, and us playing with one half-back and a rear guard not much older then my nose hairs.

Yes, it was an annoying loss, a far from good enough performance, and another week lost from an ever-shortening window - but on the field did nothing to diminish my fragile hopes, and only served for me as a reminder of how achingly close we are, as a team, to pulling it all together and getting this job done.

I’ll be heading to Rochdale in a state of utter trepidation, but certainly not without belief.

I guess the latest news is that Geoff Toovey’s got his visa and is now officially head-coach. All-in-all there doesn’t seem too much to say about that, it’s a piece of paper which makes all the difference of a 21st Century wedding certificate - we’ve already been doing it, everybody knows we’ve already been doing it, its just now we’re fine to talk about it around Grandma, and people are going to expect us to breed something sooner rather than later.

That said, I’m a fan of his early media rounds, he talks well and answers what he’s asked with a tone that feels like honesty. Let’s just hope on Sunday we can hear a smile, rather than how excuses sound in a new accent.

Tell you what though, after the last eight weeks of unpleasant post-match Beattie’s had to shoulder, if we do hit zero points on Toovey’s first official game, I think he’ll owe that assistant a pint or four.

I think maybe a few people do anyway.

See you at Spotland (bring your suncream - leave your Lunchables at home).

[wobblyheadedbull]

But...

We’ve all been there.

You’ve been on a bit of a down streak, things haven’t been going so well, a lot of disappointments.

Then, out of nowhere you have a great night, I mean, really great. You don’t fall in love at first sight, or win a rocket-ship or anything like that, but you have a grand old time and you come out feeling like a rockstar.

The feeling lasts all week, you’re walking on the moon, there’s another weekend to look forward to, it’s going to be a party, you’re going to have a good time.

The day comes, you’ve got this, you’re out, it happens, the only thing that can, you… you strut!

And right away someone spots your weakness, runs right up, and punts you in the soft and squishies with all the force of a cannonball.

———

I suppose we should get angry and blame someone; the ref? the players? the coaches? the owners? the shithouse tactics of a couple of Dewsbury bad eggs? the weather? Theresa May? Donald Trump? the sunshine? the moonlight? the good times? the boogie?

None of that feels right anymore; I don’t feel like blaming anyone, I don’t feel angry anymore.

I just feel sad.

Eight days ago we saw a completely different team play. Same shirts, same names, same dodgy tattoos, but completely different - one with heart, and self-belief, and real fight. Today that was maintained for approximately twenty minutes before tumbling through errors and frustration into complete capitulation.

Eight days ago we held the division’s dominant force to one point; today we fell apart at first challenge from the season’s strugglers; a team who’d only managed two wins in fourteen games; a team who’ve struggled to field seventeen players at some points this year.

Yes, there were some injuries and sore bodies, but surely not enough to justify a collapse of that magnitude?

Reflecting a few hours later, I don’t even think there was a real lack of effort; there were some awful mistakes, a couple of regrettable individual performances - and I think Mr Caro owes Mr Thomas a three course Nandos for hanging him out to dry in the back corner like that - but over all it was the fact that heads dropped at the first sign of things not going to script, the evaporation of confidence at the first few set-backs, the disappearance of fight before the battle was even in full swing.

Talent and passion aside, that’s not how a team saves themselves from a fast approaching drop.

We now sit - sixteen games played, five wins achieved, five more needed before we even have a shout of hauling ourselves to safety, fourteen games remaining - and one of our stronger team-sheets just got rolled over by the worst team in the competition, while riding on a wave of confidence.

It’s not impossible, not for a couple of months yet, but by anybody’s maths it doesn’t look good.

With relegation now looking less of a threat and more of a likelihood, my immediate survival instinct was to clamour towards Chalmers and Lowe for some reassurance that there are contingency plans if we do go down - or towards the RFL to make their damn decisions about next year’s league formatting - I wanted an adult to hold my hand and tell me it was all going to be ok.

But I know by now the first isn’t going to happen, and if I’m honest I fear the second - artificial unearned protection - just as much as I fear the drop. Any restructure that protected Bradford and didn’t offer the same to every current Championship member and the two who top League One would be an embarrassment I’m not sure I could ever fully recover from.

Besides, though the craving is still there, those aren’t the right things to be asking, yet. What needs asking now is only this - how do we make this team; the bruised, the battered, the naive, and the inexperienced, believe in themselves, and each other, enough to drag us out of this mess - and how do we do it soon?

The ability is there, we’ve seen it, but we’re quickly running out of time.

Answers on a postcard?

[wobblyheadedbull]

This is Why We Do It.

This is why we keep buying tickets, wearing colours, and singing songs; through administrations, relegations, and liquidations; mismanagement, misguidance, and misinformation; poverty, controversy, and shambling calamity.

We call out, criticise, question and chastise, but we keep turning up.

We do it because of nights like this; not for trophies, gloating, or record breaking – though nobody is saying those things aren’t nice – but for the moments, the emotions, the unity, of times like Saturday.

Win, lose, or draw – Summer Bash was always going to be our day, the fans that is. From midday onwards defiantly optimistic Bulls supporters trickled into Bloomfield Road’s north end, enjoying the to-ing and fro-ing of the afternoon’s games, pushing aside thoughts of the potential trampling the evening seemed likely to bring.

On cue, just as London began their mauling of Featherstone, the now traditional proud parade arrived, beginning to bubble the tepid stadium toward the boil; intoxicating the atmosphere with a potential, a naïve belief that, just maybe, something special could happen for us; despite the odds. The same sort of tummy tingle you get from a scratch-card, nobody really thinks it’s about to turn them into a yacht owner, but y’know, maybe…

That team sheet actually looked pretty good, after all.

Half-time of Broncos v Rovers and the Bulls take a walk on the pitch, greeted from the stands like returning lunar-landers, they humbly acknowledge the adulation.

This is different, somebody’s hit a reset button, the last four weeks haven’t happened, today stands alone – or at least that’s what we’re convincing ourselves, minute by minute, pint by pint.

Then it’s time; kick-off approaches; Bulls fans dash about giving out coloured paper, a Blue Peter pre-match, bringing the red, amber, and black stand to a fever; the players take the field; the heavens open; the ancient gods are building the scene for a momentous tragedy – every right-thinking witness is holding their breath in pathetic anticipation of the crushing wave of devastation about to break over the fragile bubble of collective optimism those long suffering fans have generated through sheer blinkered, baseless, hope.

Except it never comes.

From one to seventeen our Bulls deliver the performance of the season, not just individually but as a team, as a unit.

I’ll rage against the misuse of English terms on most occasions, but it feels apt to say that on Saturday we literally watched a different team from the beaten and directionless kids who’ve struggled through the rest of May. This team were confident, practiced, unwavering, and committed. They were passionate but they were composed, and they were the equals, at every step, of their table topping opponents.

They fought through the rain, threw themselves without pause into every play, and they went toe-to-toe from minute one to eighty.

Even poor Oscar Thomas, target of the Robin’s boot, hoping they could wear down resistance by forcing weather-aided mistakes – victim three times of the ploy – didn’t let his head drop after his fumbles; a marked difference from the downhearted faces we’ve seen so commonly in recent games.

For eighty minutes fans and players were finally a unit, suffering every blow together, bellowing with shared joy at every surge. Emotions crested and crashed, hopes swelled and punctured, the pendulum swung back and forth – it was exhausting, it was exhilarating, but ultimately it was united.

As the hooter sounded, that point, that single point which could be so critical in the long run - nobody will say it didn’t sting – but it didn’t matter a jot, not for more than a moment, because we had something much more important – we had our Bulls back.

We’d seen the potential, the commitment, and we’d seen what – together – this club could be again; not next season, not in ten years, but right now.

Survival is a massive challenge from here, absolutely herculean, but after slowly sinking into despondent pessimism for so long – we now know we can do it.

It’s hyperbolic, and it probably sounds ridiculous, a little sad even, to anyone looking in from the outside, but just as it was starting to feel as though it were all falling away – again – Saturday night gave us our Bradford Bulls back.

What happens next is impossible to tell, and recent history teaches us, quite firmly, not to expect things to go too well for too long - but what could happen next…

…anything could happen next - and that’s a great feeling.

[wobblyheadedbull]

If It Digs, It's A Spade

I’ve played along with this charade so far, but I think it’s time we stop pretending - whatever the authorities might be led to believe - that our man-in-waiting isn’t already coaching the Bradford Bulls.

It’s important we do this, not in the interest of causing any administrative awkwardness, or blowing any whistles, but so we can start having the proper discussion, the elephant in the room one, the increasingly urgent great stinking wooly mammoth looming over our continual head-in-the-sand pretence that it’ll all get better when that darned visa comes through.

Our Bradford Bulls coach is quite possibly already in place, and it doesn’t seem to be going well.

It’s not the results, in a pure win/loss sense we’re only really a game or so off budget, it’s the catastrophic dip in energy that is causing the real consternation on the Odsal terraces.

Two months ago we had ourselves an inexperienced gang of kids who were full of fight and self belief - and putting in performances to match. They were making mistakes, many mistakes, but they were digging in to push past them and defy the stacked odds.

Today we have a down-and-out collective operating without confidence, hope, organisation, or any sort of basic defence

I understand the back-and-forth of loan players is disruptive, and injuries add to the issues, but what sort of fighting-for-survival close-knit passion-filled squadron of fresh-to-the-frontline lads get perceptively worse at almost every fundamental element of the game as the most important season of their lives so far goes on?

How, with all that motivation to channel, have heads gone down so quickly?

It’s always easy to look to the coach when things aren’t going right, but in this case, where else can we reasonably look?

You could suggest recruitment, but - while it may not be ideal - we have recruited, by hook or by crook the team has been strengthened as the season has gone on.

Aside from Moore, Bentley and Oakes, Sunday’s team was as strong as any we’ve fielded this year, if not more so - and how many clubs can say they’re only missing three first choice players at this stage in the season?

Other clubs have already begun making changes to revive their fortunes, we’re still pretending we’re waiting for our knight in antipodean armour - despite the fact he moved in months ago. Will an official piece of paper fix everything? Last I checked government documents can’t hold the defensive line for you.

Of course, I could be wrong. That chap I see on the pitch, talking to players, shouting instructions - before, during, and after every game, might just be an enthusiastic tourist enjoying an extended stay at his own expense in the internationally famous resort of Bradford, West Yorkshire. In which case I offer my unreserved apologies and withdraw all the above immediately and without prejudice.

Probably not though, eh?

None of this is a call for the man’s head, far from it, in reality we’ve had four unacceptable performances, three of which were against top four opposition. Chopping blocks would be quite the overreaction at this point.

With so much at stake though, seems daft to be letting an administrative technicality rob us of the ability to be having this conversation, before it’s too late. Bradford have already had more than enough administrative problems for anybody’s comfort.

It’s Summer Bash time, our time, our day, I’m wishing away the working week with gusto, and I hope Saturday gives us a much needed miracle, renders every word above redundant, and leaves egg dripping from my face.

I’ll take that with glee, but if we don’t get miracles at the weekend, I’ll accept a bit of honesty in the week.

[wobblyheadedbull]

We get knocked down, but...

Last Sunday at Belle Vue felt like something had changed.

Up to Easter we saw mixed fortunes for our Bulls; more wins than many had dared hope for, a couple of losses which didn’t really tally with the paperwork. What we, in the most part, agreed up on, was the passion, commitment, and raw fighting spirit we had in our arsenal this year - times were rough, but they were exciting, and we were all in this together.

Through smart borrowing and cobbled deals we’d added enough to our enthusiastic youth to build a - wafer thin - competitive first choice squad which could, and should, comfortably lift us through the RFL enforced handicap and into a place of safety by the time September rolled around.

We knew this wouldn’t be an easy season, and certainly not a glamorous one, but - regardless of what was, or wasn’t, going on in the office rooms - there was a general feeling of wellness with the pitch side of things.

The egg and bunny weekend came, our loanees were recalled, and the fragility of our situation was laid bare over a barren four day turn around - we were disappointed, but not entirely disheartened, we’d just have to dig deeper and, together, keep fighting.

The tanking in Toulouse hurt a little more, but no team has yet brought a two point souvenir back from that trip, and with injuries stretching our squad even thinner, it was difficult to justify too much added concern.

Then, as part-time strugglers Sheffield Eagles tore us apart at their temporary home last Sunday, the only thing that could be felt was concern.

The team we’d seen claw themselves up to -2pts in less than a third of season were simply no longer there. No organisation, no confidence, no spirit, no luck, no fight - just a cloudy sense of malaise, and inevitable defeat.

Keyes and Thomas did what they could to create and control, but nothing was coming off, their combination of inexperience and poor fortune saw balls go to ground and plays come to nothing; while an unrelenting battering from the opposition chipped away at hope and confidence alike.

Forwards were out-muscled, backs were out-thought, and we were left with nothing to respond with but mistakes. Captain Pryce put in little physically, and less inspirationally - separating himself from a few of the regular under-post gatherings, nothing to say, no way to help; even the ever solid Moore seemed at a loss of how to pull things back together.

The late burst of scores were enough to remind that ability was there somewhere, but not to excuse the great tardiness of its appearance.

In short, and to a man, the bright eyes were gone, replaced with the pleading expression of those out of their depth and starting to sink.

The terraces were different too. Of course the songs stayed loud and proud, but the joyful banter had been quickly replaced with gallows humour - while the quieter mutterings were back to frustration and blame. The unity was evaporating while disquiet and, in some corners flat out abuse, settled back in.

Bradford fans walked away from that broken down old ground, mentally calculating when, or if, the next win might come - and in the days that followed - we reacquainted ourselves with the old resignation to failure; to continued decline; to yet another fall towards Hell - our whatever the RFL decide to call the third tier of next year’s competition.

Assuming there is a third tier of next year’s competition.

Three days it lasted - three days of snippy internet comments, accusation levelling, and ugly frustration kicked out in whatever direction felt best. Faced with only a silent void, Bulls fans had no option but assume the worst and let their reinvigorated worry echo around. There’s no money; the owners don’t care; we’re just seeing out the season to make up the numbers; nothing has changed; nothing will ever change; why won’t anything ever go right for us; think of the children, won’t somebody think of the children!

And other assorted wailings.

Then Wednesday afternoon - an astonishment of correctly written online statements:

Lilley is back, a one month lone with no recall option.

We’ll take that; thought Leeds might be wanting to hang on to him for a few weeks more at very least.

Oledski too, same terms.

Eh? But he’s been playing first team at Leeds, he’s been talk of the town, and what about that dual-reg thing with Featherstone? No, shush, just accept it and smile.

And they’re bringing a mate - Cam Smith, no not that one, but he still sounds handy, and the Rhinos certainly haven’t been sending us turkeys up to now. Those three combined with Hallas, and talk that Peltier might be due back and the spine of the team starts to look just strong enough again, maybe - at least enough to bring the optimism levels up a few notches.

Moreover - while the Bulls’ owners may remain annoyingly silent in most respects - to pull off such a quick response to the season’s low point (so far) is encouraging - to know they’re really working behind the scenes and have somehow managed to talk our oldest rivals out of a small but significant portion of their talent pool - and steered them away from the grasp of more current rivals, who arguably have a much stronger claim on these resources than us - is even impressive.

I’ll criticise, so it’s only stands fair I should credit - kudos guys - short of any proper full season signings of the same quality, this is the best and only response we needed after last Sunday.

Of course, a month-long borrow is a sticking plaster, this one covers three games, two of which the odds are massively stacked against us - and the key will be what happens once this time is served, but at least we’re still fighting; still trying to put a team out who have a chance… well, at least we’re still trying in general.

I, for one, feel a lot better than I did at the start of last week.

Bring on the Broncos!

[wobblyheadedbull]

Don’t Panic!

I wasn’t surprised by the result in Toulouse, and I’m not that concerned about it either.

We flew over a team of twenty year olds, with no experienced organisational half-back, a jumbled three-quarter line of lads in approximations of their specialised positions - if they even have one yet - and a pack lighter than a box of dry tea bags. They faced a fully professional, experienced, and settled Toulouse, unbeaten at home - even against Hull K.R. - who currently sit second in the table and are beginning to be whispered about as promotion hopefuls.

A big loss is always disappointing, but its hard to argue this one wasn’t on the cards.

There’s an air of panic settled around the Bulls in recent weeks which I’m not sure is entirely just, yet. We’re five wins from twelve - enough to put us in sixth place without the points deduction, If you look at the table and imagine us right in the middle of it, the results in general sit about right - two losses to bottom half opposition we should have beaten, one win against top half opposition who should have hammered us, and the rest fall as they’re mathematically supposed to.

Some of this urgency is coming from the idea we’re half-way through the season, with only eleven league games to go - and still sitting nervously off the bottom of the ladder on minus two points - which is an understandable perspective.

Let’s assume for the moment that’s correct, that our season does end in eleven games - say we pick up the same wins in our remaining return fixtures - Sheffield, Dewsbury, Batley, Swinton - four wins; eight points; season finishes with Bulls on six points. Dewsbury are still looking for their second win of the year, so the same logic takes them to a four point finish, and Swinton should be expected to make eight. Close, but not quite enough for safety.

Except the season doesn’t end there, does it? Points carry over into the Championship Shield and we’re given seven more games - in which we can reasonably be expected to win four, while our nearest rivals should be struggling to take more then one or two.  So even with absolutely no measurable upturn in fortune at all, our Bradford Bulls stand in good odds to skip those relegation spots and earn a continued stay in the Championship for 2018. Assuming there still is a Championship in 2018 of course, for who knows what league formatting lunacy will be pushed through this summer - but regardless of what nonsense the sport does to itself, the important thing for any self-respecting Bulls fan must be that the club earns whatever place it occupies, and is not gifted it on some pretence of history, catchment area, or legacy.

Of course, these theorised results are all just that, theory, and with our loanees gone, this shambling debacle over Chisholm dragging on, and the persistent concern that Moore might be seeing out much of the season at Her Majesty’s Pleasure - it is easy to get a little worried our form from the first dozen games may prove to be unsustainable.

The Widnes dual-reg deal, as philosophically opposed to it as I may be, is at least a step towards new blood. Though, for all the will in the world, seems likely to simply bring more apprentices to our squad - we can only hope some of those are 7ft tall, 19stone, and cross-bred with pit-bulls - or there’s a couple of wonder-kid halves in the mix. Though you’d probably expect if they were, given Widnes’ current position, they’d be on the first team bus by now.

We need strength and experience up front, that’s beyond doubt - especially as injuries mount - but what isn’t being talked about enough is the urgent and desperate need for an organisational half-back.

Which feels familiar.

Keyes & Thomas, for all they might become, cannot offer that yet; Pryce simply won’t; Chisholm - should he ever arrive - might have a little something special, but he’s a Rangi Chase, not a Luke Gale (oh, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone). Lilley was, but if Lilley isn’t coming back, we need somebody to pick-up that role, and we need them two weeks ago.

If/when we lose Scott Moore, without the right recruitment, we’re left with a very enthusiastic, and very passionate, team of headless baby chickens - and, as adorable as baby chickens might be, they don’t tend to win many Rugby League games - and it’s very sad watching them run round without heads on.

I’m not panicking yet, in fact, I’m greatly buoyed and incredibly proud of what our club has achieved on the field over the last three months - and I think it’s important that in all the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth we take a bit of time to acknowledge how phenomenal some of that has been.

A loss to Eagles tomorrow though, and my nerves will start tingling a little - then, setting aside the London game and Summer Bash, which would be incredible scalps but would certainly be off-script, I make it we have until the start of June to bolster that squad, in whatever way possible, particularly in those key positions around the pack and the pivots.

if that doesn’t happen, then - I don’t know about you - but, I think a little panic may start to become appropriate.

Until then though - to Belle Vue, and... no, let’s not jinx it... to Belle Vue!

[wobblyheadedbull]

Under Pressure

Easter was disappointing for all of us, but ultimately nobody can say the results were unexpected. Two top-half opponents in four days; a narrow-ish loss at home on the Friday, a first-half pummelling away on the Monday - remove the blinkered optimism of fandom and it wouldn’t exactly have taken Nostradamus to have nailed both outcomes in a pre-Easter League Express column.

We didn’t hit zero by Easter, but that’s life, and there’s no point dwelling on it.

For me, the one image that keeps coming back from that weekend is Beattie’s post-match interview on the Monday - regardless of the whats and hows of what was asked and what was answered - in that few minute clip I saw a man under pressure, and it didn’t sit right with me.

So much so, I found myself compelled to make a graphic; yeah that’s right, BBC, bet you want to hire me know, don’t you? Look at my graphic!

I’m most proud of the way the red text doesn’t quite stand-out enough in some places to be truly readable. I’m also not completely sure it will be viewable in some media when people read this - so, for the benefit of the graphically bereft, it’s a bull with two geezers stood next to it, over various parts of the image I’ve written the words ‘Fans’, ‘Players’, ‘Coaches’ and ‘Owners’ - close you’re eyes, you’ll see it; it’s beautiful.

Right, this is my incredibly insightful, and wonderfully apt, representation of our Bradford Bulls at this moment in time - or perhaps any moment in time, but I’m not a time traveller, I’m just an occasional graphic maker.

So here’s the science bit - when pressure must be applied to gain results, where do you direct it? I’ve already discussed, at length and with a small amount of bile, how it should not be applied to the fans - who are your legs, they hold you up, quite literally support you - this might get you a bit of momentum in the short term, but at some point they’re just going to buckle, break, or give up completely. So, pressure has no place being applied here - I think that’s an easy argument.

What about the players, them chaps who make up the body of your bull? Well, probably stands to reason that if you want a bull to move, you give it a bit of a nudge in the hind, y’know, there’s a lot of weight in that body, a bit of encouragement could go a long way - too much though, and you’re going to break a spine, or just - as the urban legend suggests is possible - tip the whole thing over.

Really though, should there be any true pressure placed on the 2017 Bradford Bulls’ players? Nah, mate. Children and conscripts called into an office and told the survival of the club, at least at its current level, is in their hands. “Sorry about the total lack of experience or preparation lads, but we expect you to sort this out for everyone.”; not a chance.

Aside from one or two who probably have a higher wage to justify - the only pressure placed on any kid in a Bradford shirt this year should be to show why they’re getting picked ahead of the guys in the year below. As much as it pains me to see basic mistakes made on the field, I’m not even sure it’s completely fair to expect a fifteen stone nineteen year old, who signed their first professional contract just after Christmas, to keep his composure while three guys ten years older, who’ve been on the prison steroids, bear down on them - certainly not every time. Of course I want a perfect error free performance, we all do, but to echo Beattie - that’s not going to happen this year; fact.

This team can play rugby, we’ve seen them do it, and they’ll win more games, but they’re not going to do it under the weight of unreasonable expectation.

Then we’ve got the coaches, the head of our Bull, the guiders of the body - and yeah, there must be a bit of pressure here, that’s only natural if you want the body looking after properly.

Except, we’re in a bit of a weird situation at Odsal - we have one guy, a head coach, no doubt offered a head coach’s wage, with all the experience of a head coach - who’s living as a tourist with absolutely no pressure or responsibility whatsoever, because he’s not officially allowed to work. Then you’ve got another guy, who’s been told to ‘fill in’, had it made clear that the job isn’t his - likely salaried to reflect that - then shoved in front of the world and lumped with every ounce of pressure to achieve, and every grain of responsibility to do that. 

Our Mr Beattie is in one of two positions - either he’s been given the crappy end of a job which, once visas finally do come through, will be stripped from him, along with all credit for the work he’s done - or he’s the public face for another man’s unauthorised work, and having to answer for that work to the public. Oh, and in either scenario he has no control of spending or recruitment whatsoever. For me the mere fact Mr Beattie still shows up on gamedays after this saga has dragged on so long is testament to his character and a credit to how much he cares; until such a day that he gets the head-coach’s parking space, he should basically be thanked for being there and asked if he wants the last Rolo every week. Mr Toovey - he should be under some pressure, if and whenever he starts work;  there’s no doubt cheaper coaches around.

Nope, in the current Bradford Bulls set-up there is one place, and one place only, that any pressure should reasonably be applied by anyone - and that’s to the guys holding the rope, the purse-strings, and the keys to the farm. The guys who bid against several others to take control, to take responsibility, and to achieve something with this club. The guys who are in charge of staffing, recruitment, budgets, planning.

Nobody sees them though - or hears from them - and they live far far away, and their life just goes back to normal if this all goes wonky again at the end of the year - so, y’know, no worries and all that.

So long as we’re not taking our frustrations out on teenagers with nervous catching hands, or guys with temporary kit bags, or each other - united we stand, etc - because, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think things should sit so un-right that we have to be making graphics, that takes too much time and I’ve got two episodes of Better Call Saul to catch up on. Tomorrow is Toulouse, perhaps the only league game I’ll miss this year - because France costs lots of dosh and the food is too salty - but it seems there’s a good few hundred who won’t let that stop ‘em, because those legs have to keep carrying this team, whether the farmer keeps feeding it or not. I hope we get zero, I also hope every part of our Bull has a jolly good weekend whether we do or not, because by-eck most of its parts have earned it.

[wobblyheadedbull]

A Begging Letter

I’m upset we came up short last night against Halifax, of course I am, especially because the game was fully winnable, and it was only our own shambling errors which denied a magical, memorable evening as we achieved zero points under the Odsal floodlights. Of course I’m upset about that. But these setbacks are the very nature of sport, I was over it by this morning - aside from the obvious expectation that nineteen lads based around West Yorkshire are doing about twenty hours of catching practice before Monday.

What will take longer to get over is the stomach churning amateurism that’s tumbled out of the back offices over the last forty eight hours - stoking the never extinguished fear that we might still not yet be in safe hands. First we announce Chisholm has signed, prompting an immediate response from Sheffield Eagles expressing bewilderment at this development and citing illegal approach - cue the sort of embarrassing statement tennis we remember from a time not so long before, and everyone plunged into mud waiting for the RFL to decide who started it, and send them to bed with no supper.

If the Bulls are in the right when the laundry is washed and dried, and this is just a cash grab move from a Sheffield who are upset about how things have worked out, then so be it - who’s at fault in that relationship I really don’t care about at this stage, so long as it’s not an omen of how professional that player may act while in Bulls’ employ - but even then, are we really in a position where we can afford not be dotting Is and crossing Ts with every move we make? Let it not be forgotten how lucky (some may use a less kind word) we are to be where we are, and how precarious our right (if any can be defended) to stay really must be. If it turns out our Bradford really have steamed in and rushed a signing with scant regard for rules or protocol - resulting in fines, points deductions, or whatever other creative new hindrance to the club can be imagined - then sackings will be the least that could be expected, heads on nine foot spikes would perhaps be an option. Then this thing happens with the replica shirts - arriving less than an hour before Easter Friday kick-off and rushed to the shop-floor to sate the long unfed demands of an already queuing and excited faithful fanbase - except something isn’t quite right, the away shirt, it doesn’t look like the away shirt the team wore at Oldham, or the one in all the pictures used to market said shirt, which is... not right. Of course, nothing is said by the club - perhaps nobody will notice, they’re sort of similar, apart from the almost total lack of those prominent grey Vs - is anybody really that fussy anyway? Well, a few eagle-eyed cherry’s did notice, and to social media they did take this discovery.

Still... silence. Then, a statement is made, huzzah! We love a good statement; rushed out - typos and all - and written in the sort of haphazard english you’d expect from someone who’s been dragged from their raging hangover and ordered to ‘sort this out, now’.

We are told ‘No, guys, you don’t understand... these shirts are correct because they come from Fiji, those ones the team wore at Oldham, and in all those pictures you’ve seen, those were temporary shirts while we waited - you’ll see, the next time the team wears the away kit, it’ll look just like these.’ And we were all completely satisfied and issued a round of ‘Hey, that’s cool guys, we’re having eggs if you wanna pop round for a shard of chocolate and a cuppa?’ Except, obviously not. Now, some have reacted to this with questions; Why didn’t you mention any of this temporary kit thing before you let us get all upset? Why all the marketing pictures then? Is it April 1st by any chance? - and of course, the biggy - Wait, have you just brazenly, openly, and directly lied to your paying supporters to cover up your own monumental cock-up and failure to address it before it got out of control?

Now me, I’m a benefit of the doubt kind of guy, so my questions run more along the lines of - Why wasn’t this all communicated upfront, you know, being that literally the only thing we’ve asked of the club in return for our continued, loyal, paying support is clear, honest, and upfront communication? Now, I think my question is serious enough - but that one from the other guys, well, I’d say the bad answer to that might be a deal breaker. I love this club; I love supporting it; it’s a valued part of my life; I will be at Post Office Road on Monday, still hoping I might get a good memory out of that place. This is why I beg.

I’ve asked before - repeatedly, publicly, annoyingly - now I beg - for two things. 1. I beg you to start talking to us. We’re not enemies, we’re in this together, treat us with the respect that relationship deserves, and just start being honest and open with us. We understand things don’t happen overnight, we’d have waited until September for shirts to buy if you’d talked to us about why that had to be. We don’t want to be opposition, we want to be united. We want you to forewarn us, not react to appease us. We want you to include us, not avoid us. We just want you to talk to us, like adults, with honesty, and clarity, and respect. Please. 2. I beg you to employ quality control, and pride from the top to the bottom of this club. This doesn’t take much money, it takes a little time, but mostly it takes a commitment. Whether it be the ordering of shirts; the signing of players; the making of statements; ensuring the ballboys are paying attention to the game and don’t need to be whistled at by the referee; clearly marking which seats are reserved for loyal members and which ones folk who are just avoiding the rain can sit in; stopping my nephew asking why the billboards along Rooley Avenue look like they’re from a post-apocalyptic world; those bloody obsolete tannoy posts obstructing the bloody view every bloody week for no bloody reason. Our Bradford Bulls - please - let us all be one team, and let us all have our pride in that again. I beg you.

[wobblyheadedbull]

Bring On The Bank Holidays!

This Sunday was all round significantly better than last, and the relief around Odsal was palpable as the team clambered at second attempt to minus two league points - leaving a ‘zero by Easter’ target still tantalisingly possible, even if the upcoming opposition do look a little daunting from some angles.

It was still by no means a complete performance, with periods of questionable defence allowing a couple of soft tries from Sheffield, and a number of penalties which - while perhaps played for by the Eagles - need to be stamped out before they turn a game against us; but there was a lot of good out there, and what good there was, was very good indeed. Not least the defence of five consecutive sets - as we’re reliably informed by a local statto (Mick Gledhill) - added to which there were some finely worked tries, solid team work, and some outstanding individual performances.

The fuss since the hooter has all been about James Bentley, and absolutely deservedly so, after an eighty minute performance which firmly marked him out as the next Whitehead or Bateman - and it’s tempting to say even that would be down-playing him. The recently turned back-rower wasn’t the only player to glow a little on that Odsal turf though; Caro, Ryan, Oakes, and Campbell formed an excellent keen running three-quarter line, now with added support-play the likes of which has been missing from Bulls teams for far too long; Pryce is starting to get a little more stuck in, and Lilley yet again added the organisation. Scott Moore played his now traditional role of team anchor, holding everything together; Daniel Murray showed a return to the strength we saw a fortnight ago; Kirk seems to have a little more potential week-on-week, and James Davies, while clearly a little rusty, looked big enough and interesting enough to bring something to the picnic.

Then there was Oscar Thomas - again - returning after two weeks injured and the only evidence of any cobwebs were two appallingly fielded high kicks in the opening sets of the game. It’s a long time since I’ve seen a player in who’s game you can so clearly see the practice and effort he must be putting in. His in-play kicking is better; his positioning, dummy running, and support play are all improved; he tackles with more confidence and more effect; he unleashed a pair of sublime quick passes which led directly to tries three and four - and that’s not even to mention that he’s developed some sort of laser-guided goal-kicking technique, which is no mean-feat in the Odsal swirl. This is the second time this season I’ve felt the need to spend a paragraph or so evangelising about Mr Thomas, and I don’t feel unjustified in that for a second - he may still be a long way from the best player in red, amber and black right now, but at this rate of diligent improvement, well, who knows…

There’s some stuff to feel good about from above too - while Lowe’s frustratingly hyped piece in the T&A/Bulletin turned out to be just your run-of-the-mill programme filler - it was followed a little later by this interview - which for me is a large step closer to the honest and open communication I’ve been harping on about since day dot of the new regime.

Today it’s been announced that the replica shirts will be here in time for Good Friday; sounds from all around suggest the lagging visa my soon follow suit, and there’s even rumours we’ve dropped an offer on the table to bring fan-favourite Dane Chisholm back into the fold - which if nothing else would provide a bit of depth in the squad and excitement on the terraces.

If we can get tickets for Featherstone on-sale in the next forty eight hours it might even be safe to consider it a generally excellent week in the world of our Bradford Bulls.

The really work, though, starts here.

No more bottom half of the table opposition; two games in four days against in-form third & forth placers- both having toppled London in recent weeks - and, what from the outside looks like, the almost certain recall of Jordan Lilley by Leeds Rhinos, at least for this weekend  - the final step to zero points seems twenty foot high and covered in grease.

Friday night at Odsal could be a magical evening under the floodlights, with a crowd of five thousand or more there to witness it - but the logic all says otherwise. Friday night at Odsal could represent one of the most genuinely glorious moments for Rugby League in Bradford this decade - but we’ll need the fight we saw at Hull K.R.; the confidence from the Toulouse game; the mercilessness of the second half against Dewsbury; and the individual form we watched Sunday just gone.

It could happen though, couldn’t it?

Bring on the Bank Holidays!

[wobblyheadedbull]

Beating Sheffield Has Never Been More Important...

Last Sunday was tough to take, but I don’t think many of us could, deep down, say we didn’t see it coming. Sporting fans all over the world know the story like the back of their own eyelids - a team begin putting a few results together; some strong performances - at least for sections of games - confidence grows; expectation builds; the sun comes out; an away game, travellers buoyant with self-belief; perfectly winnable; team goal peaking over the horizon…

…then they blow it.

Whether it be falling to complacency, or tripping under pressure; eyes off the ball, a reality check from an opposition with their own script, or just an unfortunate cocktail of circumstance conspiring against us - the upshot is that the Bradford Bulls’ proud march towards zero was halted, at least temporarily, in Stalybridge.

Both performance and result were upsetting on the day; the realisation that we’re suddenly a third of the way through the season and still on minus four feels altogether more serious - especially when you consider that, between now and June, five of our seven fixtures are against top five opposition.

Beating Sheffield has never been more important.

What has, for me, maintained hope and belief of a quick return to winning scores, is the honest and contrite attitude which has flowed openly from all sides of the Bulls camp since the frustration of that final hooter. No excuses, no bad-day-at-the-office, just a pure and simple ‘not good enough, sorry, will fix this’ from coach, team, and individuals alike.

So long as actions match words, that is exactly the attitude I’ve been waiting for from a Bulls team.

Away from the pitch has been a week of weird dripping progress.

We can now pre-order both home & away shirts, but it’ll be another three weeks before they arrive; there’s some 2017 training gear in the shop, but the pictures of it aren’t too exciting; we now have a full list of Summer Bash ticket details, via Hull K.R.; we’ve got a new prop, on a 4 week trial.

There’s even a long awaited direct message from Graham Lowe to the fans… if they buy today’s Telegraph & Argus for 65p.

As a frugal non-Bradford resident I’ll have to wait in hope its given out at the game again tomorrow but, from the teaser paragraphs, I’m hoping its worth the wait.

That’s genuine too, please do not read into it a sarcasm which is not there. I know I’m guilty of writing a few paragraphs which suggest I’m somehow against the club, unnecessarily critical, or even downright trouble-causing - none of those things are my intention - I live in a constant state of hope that we really are all in this together, with the same passions and the same goals - despite several seasons of indications to the contrary - I’ve just been let down too much to put paranoia in a box anymore - I need the reassurance.

Right now though, on-the-field is way too important to be much distracted by anything off it - against a backdrop of uncertainty as to the RFL’s intentions for the 2018 season structure, the only way our club has any control over its continued professional existence is to eat away at those six points between us and Swinton - and a home game against a depleted Eagles is - on paper- our best chance of getting that back on track in the next eight weeks.

Last Sunday I, quite foolishly, sauntered up to Bowerfold with a spring in my step; tomorrow I’ll descend the steps at Odsal with a knot in my stomach.

I’ll say this - whatever the troubles that caused it - it’s not a boring season.