Eastbourne Castled by Chelmsford's 1-2-3
Third from bottom against third from top ended up as we might have expected, but it wasn't entirely smooth sailing for the visitors.
The atmosphere on the Eastbourne Borough supporters online forum has, of late, been somewhat fatalistic. When one fan pitched up there a few weeks ago to ask why it fallen so quiet, the responses received were telling. “There is still a glimmer of hope but I think the majority of us have given up”, one person wrote. “What is there to talk about? Nothing but doom and gloom. No idea how to win”, said another. They've already rolled the dice and brought in a new manager, but there doesn't seem to have been much appreciable improvement.
Going into their weekend match against Chelmsford City, there’s little cause for optimism. Eastbourne Borough have been playing in the National League South—with three years out, a division higher in the National League—for twenty years now, but it seems that this time may be coming to an end. Third from bottom in the table, six points adrift from safety, and with time now starting to run out, perhaps this is a chapter in the club's history that is almost over.
On this particular Saturday, it's third from bottom against third from top. This afternoon's opponents are Chelmsford City. They don't have much chance of catching the division's runaway leaders Yeovil Town, and this leaves them in a slightly unusual position. Even with six play-off places up for grabs, this division is tight enough for them to need to keep winning. A failure to maintain that concentration could yet cost them dear.
The first thing to remember about Eastbourne's ground is that it's close enough to the perimeter of Eastbourne itself to be closer to another railway station than the one in the town centre. But on a grey, drizzly Saturday morning I'm setting off with enough time to take in the town centre and a couple of other local landmarks before actually taking in the football itself. I've been here before, but—as with Hastings a week earlier—it's been more than ten years since the last time.
Eastbourne has changed, since I was last here. There's a new cinema next to the railway station while the old one rots a short walk away, and outside the station entrance is a confusingly paved crossing that isn't entirely clear about when you're on the pavement and when you're on the road. Walking down to the seafront, there's a bit of culture war going on. Outside Barclays Bank, there's a pro-Palestinian demonstration, while a hundred yards or so up the road, a surprisingly young man who bears a passing resemblance to Thomas Skinner is imploring passers-by to “stop thinking of yourselves” and embrace Christianity instead . I'm reminded of the end scene from the wonderful Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson, in which two Salvation Army bands try to outdo each other by playing increasingly cacophonous dins.
En route, I pause to give a beggar a couple of pounds in change. Having taken in some sea air, I see him again on my back. He's alternately making squeaking and fart noises while cackling loudly to himself by this time. This, I take it as read, is confirmation that he's spent that couple of quid I gave him very wisely indeed. I hope the rest of his afternoon was as much fun as that snapshot of it seemed to be. The Christian guy isn't having quite such a great time. By the time I pass him again, it seems that the batteries in his microphone may have run out and he's resorted to shouting his exhortations to revel in the glory of God.
The train journey on to Pevensey & Westham is slightly unnerving. The train carriage is empty apart from me and another young man, who is proudly boasting on his mobile phone to have knocked someone out the night before, before banging his head into the kerb so many times that “you could see the bone in his nose”. He is, apparently, awaiting a call from Sussex Police. I wonder to myself how much of this story might be somewhat embellished, but I'm certainly not going take the chance of asking him. I value my own nose too much.
Pevensey and Westham are picturesque twin villages, the sort of location that plays well with tourists, but on this Saturday afternoon it's pretty much deserted. I wander up to the castle—fortifications are something of a speciality along this stretch of the coast—and then into a pub for a pre-match pint. There is still a big part of me which feels as though my Saturday afternoon football experiences are not like other people's.
Pevensey Castle was built in around 290 AD, and its current condition can be traced to having been left abandoned from the end of the sixteenth century until 1925. Perhaps, as a Verulamian, I'm more difficult to please than most visitors when it comes to history. My home city's roots stretch back 250 years earlier than this. It's pleasant enough, but I don't really have the time to sit back and take in the stillness and calm. Not when there's non-league football to watch.
It's a twenty minute walk up a country lane before I reach the ground itself. Priory Lane is, if nothing else, unusual. For one thing, the lack of tall buildings around it lends the impression that you're teetering on the edge of the very planet itself. Were I ever to be converted to becoming a flat earther, here is where that journey would most likely begin. For the first time this season, I have to go to a separate booth to buy a ticket with a QR code that gets scanned on the turnstile. A failure to buy in advance means that I'm stung for eighteen quid for all this.
Once inside, the atmosphere seems fairly convivial, especially considering the state in which the home team finds itself at the moment. A covered terrace runs three-quarters the length of one side of the pitch and behind one goal. Behind the other is a structure with a low covered terrace underneath and what may or may not be some sort of executive boxes above it. There's a net behind the goal at that end, presumably to prevent errant shots from smashing the windows. As the teams take to the pitch two lines of small children stand waving flags, which all feels like something of an overstatement.
There can be no sugar-coating it. The first 45 minutes is the worst half of football I've seen in the flesh by some distance. It starts with a flourish. Eastbourne burst through within the first two minutes and the Chelmsford goalkeeper Henry Gray makes an excellent save. Less than five minutes later a downward header from a corner is similarly well-saved. Good job someone was awake.
For a while, Eastbourne have something to feel encouraged about, but broadly speaking, it's scrappy and messy. The ball spends considerably more time in the air than on the ground, and there are mistakes aplenty. While this might not be too surprising for Eastbourne it's considerably more surprising to find Chelmsford joining in that fun too, with a full gamut of misplaced passes, bad ball control and other basic errors. By half time, my record of not having attended a goalless draw in almost 15 years is looking distinctly shaky.
Before kick-off, I'd wandered over to the smoker and vapers’ corner, and was surprised to see two young lads who hadn't been let into the ground. They didn't even seem to fully understand why this is. By the time I get back there at half time, their numbers have swollen to eight and they've been watching the first half through the gap in the fencing. I stop and ask them what happened, and they don't really know.
There's been no hint of trouble anywhere—I’ve been into Eastbourne and Westham, and got to the ground about twenty minutes before kick-off—yet here they are, prevented from being let in to watch their team after having made a not insubstantial journey down from Essex. I offer my sympathies. I could be wrong about this, but I get no impression whatsoever that they're out to cause any trouble. It's another reminder that this country really does seem to hate its young people, at times.
Chelmsford emerge for the second half like they've been given a rocket up the backside during the interval. They're better organised, more disciplined, and it only takes them seven minutes to break the deadlock, George Alexander finishing tidily from Josh Castiglione's through ball. It's pretty simple, really, when it comes, a reminder of the gulf between the two teams after a tepid first half performance.
And this is probably the point about teams that are struggling near the bottom of the table. Eastbourne started brightly, and although the first half was pretty rancid all round, they went in at half-time level, having had the better of the chances that had been available. It’s not that they can’t play football. Central defender and non-league journeyman Moussa Diarra is on loan for them from Barnet and is an especially imposing presence in their back line.
But with the opening goal, it feels as though the colour drains from their faces. They don't have much in response beyond launching long ball after long ball towards the Chelmsford goal, and as the second half progresses it feels increasingly as though that's all they've got. I'm here as a neutral, and by the time they've been playing for an hour, I want to holler at them myself. For God's sake! Stop whomping the ball up in the air! You've got a completely flat 3g pitch! Just stop it!
With just over twenty minutes left to play Charlie Ruff drives in a second, and the game is put out of Eastbourne’s sight. The exodus begins, of supporters slowly trudging towards the exit. I’m behind the goal that Chelmsford are attacking by stoppage-time, and with the changing rooms built into the stand behind the goal, I watch the five minutes added on near the travelling supporters. The lads I spoke to at half-time are in the ground by now and, you’ll be completely unsurprised to hear, are no trouble whatsoever.
They even get to see some not insignificant action themselves. First, the Eastbourne defender Alex Finney yanks Chelmsford’s Ody Alfa back and is sent off for his trouble. He disappears down the tunnel, and five seconds later there’s a solid ‘THUMP’ from inside, which only causes even more laughter from the travelling supporters. A steward, possibly braver than you or I, walks down there to investigate. And then from the free-kick, Samir Carruthers chips the ball over the wall and Anthony Wordsworth volleys the ball in to put the icing on their afternoon out. It is, I have to admit, probably the best goal I’ve seen all season in the flesh. The final whistle blows a few seconds later.
In the bar after the match, the atmosphere amongst the home supporters feels surprisingly sanguine. Perhaps they’ve already passed through the six other stages of grief and have already arrived at acceptance with a third of the season left to play. And it is fair to say that they’re little worse off by 5.00 than they were at 3.00. The bottom six in the division have picked up one point between them this afternoon.
Eastbourne are still six points adrift of safety. They’ve just got one less match to haul themselves clear. I do have to admit, I was surprised to be reminded last week that this club is in the National League South relegation places. But having seen them play, now, I’m somewhat less so. Despite all of this, there were 1,409 present for this match. That sort of support probably deserves better, but it will have to wait for another day.
When I get home, I’m still thinking about those travelling supporters. Regular readers of this site will already be aware that I’m very familiar with two clubs in this division, Worthing (my current home town) and St Albans City (the home until I was almost thirty). Both teams have entertained Chelmsford in the last couple of months, so I have a quick look on the forum threads for these matches to see if there was any misbehaviour at them, but nothing.
Chelmsford brought a large support a long way down to the Sussex coast for this match, but the way those young lads were treated plays on my mind all the way back to West Sussex. I’ve been watching non-league football for so long that my first experience of Chelmsford City was at New Writtle Street, the ground they left in 1997. It may well be that there’s something I don’t know about, but I saw no good reason why they shouldn’t have been allowed into this ground. They certainly took their exclusion better than I would have done at that age, though it should probably be added that their mood was probably lightened by the fact that their team was winning at the time. For all that shaky first 45 minutes, the win, as things turned out, was never really that much in doubt.
