Bleak. Bromley? Blimey!
- 6 hours ago
- 5 min read
Bromley (H) - EFL League 2 - 28th March 2026
I don't know what people are saying
Or what games their player playing
Or if they're planning same old game on me
People never knowin' where they are going or what they are showing
So come on boys, show a little love for me
'You do it. Nah, you do it.'
A distinct lack of takers in Beans Cyber HQ for this assignment. After all, how many times can you lament, castigate, bleakly chuckle, rail against, pick over the carcass or primally scream?
There are limits to the times you can 'craft' some darkness. A hundred different ways to say… 'we were shite'. Grimsby away hadn't so much plumbed the depths as embarked on Journey to the Centre of the Earth. So low that even Jules Verne had got the bends.
Bottom of League Two and Bromley roll into town like some psychotic Harlem Globetrotters. Huge, physical, brilliantly marshalled shithouses; barrelling their way to League One like an organised prison riot. And we'd benched Charlie McCann.
'Start Me Up' optimistically accompanied Niall Canavan's weirdly balletic high kick stretching as we warmed up. We'd pulled in any big lads for this in 4-4-2, a bit like the cast of Grange Hill joining up to try to sort out Gripper Stebson and his acolytes.
As the bombardment began, giants crashed against each other with juddering contact in the middle. Up front, we had Gordon and Rose, buzzing round the behemoths like irritating flies, whilst out wide Mahoney and Earing attempted to dart round the sides, prompted effectively by Ben Jackson.
Bromley (or Brom-er-lee according to their fans) juddered on as we battled and fought, showing more purpose than the last dozen games without any quality in the final ball. Still, encouraging as the home crowd began to stir. A fabulous period of pressing raised an optimistic cheer, this was all right!
'He's a bloody numb nut!' wailed an elderly gentleman behind me as Rekeem Harper gave away a possibly unnecessary foul on the edge of the box. Inevitably, Ashton Charles decided to roll one out for the showreel and arched a brilliant curler into the top corner before wheeling off to cavort with the giants.
Bromley and gloom descended. We haven't won from a losing position this season, as we listened to a deeply unconvincing 'Carnival de Bromerlee' from the sparse away end we were somewhere between forlorn hope and no hope at all.
Half-time, but somehow this felt different. Had Foles' relentless talking up of 'the lads' appetite for the fight done some good? Had Graham Coughlan performed some sort of horse-whispering with our centre halves? Had Ben Jackson had some kind of exorcism performed upon him at midnight up the Pennines, to remove whatever demon was stopping him from functioning as a footballer? Flickers and glimmers of what felt weirdly like… hope?
Well, not really. No one sane thought we'd get anything as the second half and Bromley loped out, licking their chops and ready to feast upon us. Playing some direct purposeful football which sees them deservedly top, they forced a great chance which was bravely, brilliantly saved by Wyll Stanway. Don't forget the moment boys and girls, for what happens next doesn't happen at all, if that goes in.
Remember the Connor Mahoney and Jack Earing we thought we were getting? They were beginning to get some serious joy with clever inter-passing and high tempo, simple forward play. Now they combined, Earing brilliantly setting Mahoney away who chopped, dipped, then shot, a deflection which was gleefully nodded in by Josh Gordon in front of the Holker Street End. Pandemonium.
A raw, visceral roar of hope rose around the ground. For probably the first time in this awful season, we smelt blood. By this time, we were running the legs off Bromley who brought some subs on to attempt to slow the game down and stem the tide. Every Barrow player was straining every sinew and so were the Holker Street End; loud and proud.
A corner forced as the noise swirled. Decent delivery (!) and Naz heads it back across the goal… where Danny Rose meets it first time to sweep calmly home.
AHHHHHHHYASSSSSSAHHHHHHHHHCMOOOOOONAHHHHHHHH! (and that was just the Main Stand)
Time slowed to a glacial pace, but instead of the usual panicking, you could see the more experienced lads, with MJ (who'd quietly gone about his business like a League Two Wyatt Earp all afternoon), very much to the fore. It was like having the very best of Sam Foley's qualities on the pitch rather than standing on the sidelines.
Gordon, who was reprising the relentless pestering and pressing of very first spell here was slipped through and bore down on a shell-shocked Bromley goal. Why did he pass it? No! No! What if they now went and scored?
'Ain't nobody, like Josh Gordon' sang the HSE as the whole ground attempted to lift the player and team, with BARROW! echoing out from the stand and Popular Side. Jack Earing bustled forward and was unlucky, as was Gordon with a header.
There are rare, beautiful moments of complete synergy in a football season and this was ours as Barrow kicked, bit, scratched and ran and ran and ran. Mahoney and Earing went off both having played their best games for Barrow, but Man of the Match still deservedly went to Ben Jackson's voyage of rediscovery. Every single player could have made a case though, even the subs.
To widespread delirium, it was over. Barrow, dispirited, disjointed, disinterested looking Barrow had produced a performance of the ages. The Cross Bar afterwards cast off our weekly funereal pall and echoing to overexcited kids charging around shouting while gnarled old cynics were wreathed in beaming smiles as they booked on for MK Dons. And that was just my table.
Never too high, Sam Foley was calm and positive as was Connor Mahoney, who had more than earned the right to be proud, positive and hopeful.
Can he, and they, make the Damascene change from whipping boy to talisman and save us from the abyss? Of course, nearly everyone else won, but somehow it didn't matter, as a small, long-buried flicker of hope sputtered into life.
Courage Barrow. It's down the Via Dolorosa we go next, to the corporate Golgotha that is Milton Keynes Dons away.
But this Easter, thanks to all of us, together, resurrection will remain possible.
While we can… let's keep the faith.
Oh, I believe in miracles
I believe in miracles
I believe in miracles
Don't you? Don't you?
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