Okay, full disclosure. It’s 8am on Saturday and I’ve only just remembered it’s my turn on the rota to do the match preview. Apologies Mr Gowers (Absolved – Ed).
So while I sit here waiting for the garage to do my MOT, my bank account effectively in their hands, I thought I’d share my Nostradamus-like vision of how tomorrow will pan out.
It’ll begin in earnest at 1.00pm, when the teams are announced. Those brave few who still harbour vague interest will look at Wolves’ team, and maybe see an odd unfamiliar name or two, with a top-half finish now all-but-confirmed yet European qualification beyond them.
For just a brief second, the old competitive juices will kick in, a distant primitive instinct, and the thought of Wolves playing slightly less than their best team will have them weighing up potential weaknesses, considering ways we might exploit them.
But only for a millisecond. Because as soon as their eyes flick to the Norwich team they’ll remember.
They’ll remember that the defence will make mistakes which are always punished in this league. They’ll remember we have nothing in midfield in front of the centre-halves protecting them from being overrun like villagers armed with sticks facing Genghis Khan’s Mongol hordes.
And in terms of creation, while God may have rested on a Sunday, we’re a seven-days-a-week operation.
Billy Gilmour will be on the team sheet. Just accept it. It’s going to happen.
For a minute, maybe two if we’re lucky, Norwich won’t be behind. We may even create a half-chance. We won’t score of course. That’s not something we do these days.
Wolves will. Before half-time. Guaranteed. And chances are it will be because we’ve conceded possession cheaply. Because that’s how our match days go.
Following the goal, any semblance of City being competitive will disappear quicker than a Brandon Williams Instagram message after he’s “had a chat with the club.”
We’ll probably make it to halftime because Wolves won’t be breaking their backs when they’re already winning their last home game of a decent season in the Sunday afternoon sun.
Within 15 minutes of the start of the second half, we’ll concede again. It’ll be sloppier than Harry Kane’s chin. We’ll shrug. The players will shrug. Dean Smith will have the decency to look mildly annoyed.
About five minutes later we’ll pick the ball out of the net again.
Some of us will muster a half-hearted “Oh FFS”. Or a gallows chuckle. But nobody will really care.
Wolves will start stroking it about, lapping up a few early Oles. Norwich Twitter will start to rumble in tepid annoyance. The tempo of the game will drop to the same as the heartbeat of a hibernating tortoise.
One of the youngsters will come on. Maybe Liam Gibbs as we haven’t seen him yet. We’ll all make noises about it at least giving us something of interest to watch. And for a minute or two we’ll be willing him on, hoping he can show some promise for next season.
Then some eejit will make a horrendous mistake that almost results in a fourth goal and we’ll forget all about the youngster and return to our bipolar state of fractious indifference.
Right at the end, a Wolves side barely even trying at this point will attempt something that’s tantamount to taking the p*** and create or take a chance that they normally wouldn’t try against even a youth team, but they’ll discover that this team is always worth testing because they’ll almost certainly fail, and a fourth will go in.
Full Time. Thank God.
Canary Call will erupt with old men, who couldn’t be there but remember John Bond, questioning where the money has gone.
Simon Lappin, or whoever, will say that they’ve never played with a footballer that doesn’t try to win every game.
Rob Butler will go wildly off-topic and start discussing what a caller is having for tea or something.
And so it goes on. And on. And on.
This is officially Schrodinger’s Football Team. Stuck in a never-ending cycle. Whilst we’re still alive and playing, we’ve also been dead for a long while.