The Slow Match Report: St Mirren 1 Partick Thistle 0
After the slapstick first-half entertainment, Jags’ playoff jitters prove well-founded as Marcus thrusts the fatal blow in Paisley
In humbug or rhubarb and custard polyester they marched towards the ground. Their pace was weaker than the usual canter towards kick-off, sapped by a day of sunshine. Many cheeks were now traffic-light red and stalactites of sweat gathered on foreheads.
In the shade bestowed by the Spar minimart on Greenhill Road, a busker thrashed out When the Saints Go Marching In with startling vigour. “Jeezo,” said one crooked-backed Partick Thistle pensioner to another, “the boy must be on Viagra.” Outside the stadium, a pair of teenage lads at the other end of their supporting odyssey greeted each other. “Alright, Jack,” said one, “what do you reckon tonight, then?” “I’m shiteing it, mate”, replied Jack with a veteran’s weariness.
A 1-1 first-leg draw at Firhill had scattered doubt and left supporters in both colours none the wiser. Many Buddies felt their team had relegation on its breath. Thistle’s Championship play-off record, meanwhile, left Jags fans trembling. All spectators could do was hope and sing, and at the latter they excelled. From half an hour before kick-off, Thistle choruses spilled over stadium walls like the joyous sounds that escape from a schoolyard at playtime. For their part, St Mirren fans greeted the players with a banner that ran almost the length of the touchline and from behind the goal frenetically waved white flags. It looked as if they were surrendering a thousand times over but they sounded as though they were ready to go to war for their team, their town. Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street bellowed from the Tannoy speakers and the occasion felt now like some berserk civic celebration.
Early on and for much of the first half, it all seemed too much for St Mirren, the overwhelmed kid at his own party sent doolally by gluttonous Skittle consumption. Perilously close to goal, Tony Watt purloined the ball from Alex Gogić, the opening act of a brotherly tussle that would last all evening. From Watt’s scruffy pass, Aidan Fitzpatrick blurted out a shot that crawled wide.
After half an hour, Thistle colleague Robbie Crawford concocted a chance for himself with a segment of astute play. Home goalkeeper Ross Sinclair clumsily saved his shot as if trying to shake a wasp from his midriff. Sinclair was not alone in his bungling; a contagion of buffoonery ravaged St Mirren. Over the course of the first half, nearly all of his teammates passed straight to the opposition or out of play. Sometimes it seemed as if they were blinded by the sun or overcome by an urge to pick out friends and family in the stands, pantomime dames flinging Wagon Wheels out into the audience. “Have youse never fucking met?” howled a man close to me.
The sun lowered, lengthening shadows so that players’ legs became stilts, yet more slapstick sprinkled into the broth. At long last, St Mirren assembled an attack, their muzzle temporarily removed, culminating in Mikael Mandron slapping a shot wide. It was something, but still home boos gushed from the main stand when the referee peeped for half-time.
In a fixture of such magnitude the home side’s habitual incompetence surely couldn’t last, and so it proved. Not long after the interval, forward Jake Young jiggled through a pair of opponents and seemed to warp the ball towards goal. Josh Clarke pawed his shot over with the determination of a child leaping to free a conker from a tree. Responding, Jags forward Alex Samuel — an unyielding, sparky presence throughout, though often guilty of writhing like a Christmas cracker fortune telling fish — connived a thunderous shot of his own. Sinclair saved mightily, his first-half jitters now vanquished. Indeed, across the pitch home players found a rhythm of sorts and discernible resolution, harrying and blocking where before they had shrugged and ducked, debtors hiding behind the sofa at the doorbell’s ring.
It was, still, harsh on Thistle when the moment which made a town leap happened. With 25 minutes to go, set fair 30 yards from goal substitute Mark O’Hara hovered a free-kick towards the back post. Elongating himself as if trying to retrieve a ball stuck under a parked car, captain Marcus Fraser volleyed almost from the byline. The ball bashed the underside of the crossbar and collapsed into the net like a cudgelled piñata, unleashing bedlam across three stands. In the fourth, Thistle minds were united in a jaded thought: here we go again.
For the final quarter of the game, the visitors prodded forwards but found a St Mirren side now doughtily resolute. Gogić was unbreakable, hindering Thistle enterprise and blockading Sinclair’s goal. Where on occasion in the first half he wore the expression of a head chef ready to ladle hot soup over a hapless pot washer, now he was composure itself. In front of him, Fraser soothed and ran the ball away from peril. On those rare occasions when the Jags breached the citadel, Sinclair’s handling was masterful. With 15 minutes to go, Thistle’s Logan Chalmers dispatched goalwards a venomous free-kick from the ‘D’ on the area’s edge. As he struck the ball it made the noise of a bank vault slamming shut, yet the goalkeeper snuffed the danger.
With the game’s end near, a multi-player scrap detonated close to the rowdy North Bank corner. Referee Nick Walsh waved his yellow card defiantly, as if conducting an orchestra. Deep into injury time, Thistle won another free-kick 20 yards from goal after Watt was sandwiched by two fouls at once. Kyle Turner hit the Buddies’ steadfast wall and Walsh blew for full-time. Six thousand Buddies roared and hugged and breathed at last. Summer had arrived.
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A good read that reflects the game well. Surely there's a follow up piece about life as a Thistle fan through five consecutive playoffs? Many of us still carry the scars of Dingwall.
Great report. Great photos.