Darlington 1 Hinckley United 1

Our quest to uncover the romance of the FA Cup in humdrum towns of the north series continues today with Darlington’s fourth qualifying round tie with Hinckley United. I’d already been to Halifax and found little evidence to suggest that the World’s Greatest Cup Competition™ was in rude health, but decided to give it another chance in the north-east. Also, it turns out Darlo filled the three criterion I set when Boston are at home - nearest, easiest, cheapest. 

Unfortunately, the only “romance” I experienced during the entire day was two Chavs necking on the station platform. After a storming first 15 minutes, in which both goals were scored, what little sense of occasion quickly drained away as Darlo squandered chance after chance to avert a tricky-looking replay in Leicestershire, to the infuriation of the 1,100 home fans who had spread themselves thinly around their massive stadium. 

It’s deliciously appropriate their home is named the Northern Echo Arena. It’s like the doting mother who’s bought their toddler a coat to grow into - but the poor tyke is barely out of nappies and the coat is XXXXXXL. Three sides of the 25,000 all-seater were not even in use, with the crowd spaced out along one side and a small pocket of 83 Hinckley fans in one corner. No wonder the girl in the ticket booth laughed when I said I didn’t mind which stand I sat in - I didn’t have much choice. 

It’s a beautifully-designed arena and in a great location, but quite what Mr Reynolds was thinking when this place was opened must be a festering sore for all those who turn up week-in week-out. They were in League Two at the time and had they reached the Premier League it might all have been ok. They didn’t and fell through the trap door into the Conference in 2010, leaving the place looking unmistakably like a white, cantilevered elephant with a decent selection of pies. Somehow I don’t think the Lady Gaga and Madonna tribute singer (yes, both) performing there next week will be a sell-out either. 

I didn’t know that Darlo had parted company with manager Mark Cooper earlier in the week and made a mental note to read up on the teams I was about to watch in future. The mustachioed bloke next to me had clearly been waiting all week to sound off about how the board was too hasty to part company with the man who had delivered the FA Trophy last season and wasn’t anticipating the silent, politely nodding ignorance of a man who had never even set foot in the town of Darlington, let alone his beloved football club. Thankfully, his real friends arrived and I scooted off to another empty row of seats. Incidentally, the FA Trophy seems to be a real attraction round here, with a group of young fans pestering the security guard to pop in and see it in the reception as though it were the Elgin Marbles or Tutankhamen.

Anyway, down to the business of the cup, and having settled into my seat, the match started with a purpose and decent level of entertainment. Five minutes in, Darlo’s John Campbell picked out Ryan Bowman from the left and, still with a lot of work to do, Bowman immaculately brought the ball under his spell and whipped it into the bottom left corner to set the Quakers on course for round one. 

But five minutes later, the Conference North visitors struck back. There had already been a number of mis-placed passes to irritate the locals and when Hinckley broke through the middle, Sam Belcher worked a yard of space on the edge of the box and steered the ball into the bottom corner to equalise. I reclined and even started to feel pleased with myself with the choice of game after such a bright start. The travelling supporters were also great value - sure, you couldn’t understand much of the mush of inebriated syllables they were bellowing out - but they outsung the home fans and made great use of the echoing acoustics of the stadium. 

Sadly for me, the remainder of the afternoon was a let-down. The game faded badly and fizzled out like a firework in Balotelli’s bathroom. Darlo, overseen by caretaker manager Craig Liddle, stuck gamely to their passing style but the direction was more often than not backwards, to the chagrin of the home support who would have happily seen more route one to avoid having to do it all over again in the replay. 

Darlo had the chances, notably in the second-half, but couldn’t break down a stubborn Hinckley rearguard. Campbell, James Hatch and sub James Gray all went close but there was a resignation that this affair would end in a draw long before the final whistle allowed everyone to return somewhere warm. 

So, that was Darlington. If nothing else, another place seen, another experience had...

Next Match: Boston United travel to Solihull Moors on Saturday 

Bradford City 2 Northampton Town 1

With Boston United back at York Street, my attentions turned back to local football and I was racking my brains in the week to remember which prominent Yorkshire grounds I hadn't visited. The list is dwindling, with Leeds United, Bradford City and Hull City the only three League ones I hadn't ticked off. When you factor in all the tinpot non-league ones in recent years, it's been a nice little tour of God's own country.

Bradford and Hull were at home but since payday seemed an age away and I'd just had to buy some shiny, expensive new work shoes in one of those “don't-want-to-but-at-the-end-of-the-day-very-necessary” purchases, I stepped out into the beautiful sunshine and headed to the cheaper option at Valley Parade.

In what is becoming a seemingly weekly occurrence round these parts, the trains were delayed because of some unspecified malfunction. Gangs of scallies roam the railways at night, digging up copper wire, tampering with signals and putting their feet on the carriage upholstery because they have nothing better to do and it forced me to travel to Bradford Interchange rather than the nearer Forster Square. Ho hum.

It did, however, give me chance to stroll through Bradford, which is actually a very nice place – well, at least when the sun is shining on it. For a Saturday, it was eerily quiet though. Valley Parade is a handsome venue too, with the neat Kop and Main stand towering over the rest of the ground, which is a bit shabby in places but still one of the finest in League Two.

I took my chances at the ticket office and asked the nice girl for the best seat she could do, shoving twenty notes in her direction and taking my chances. She did me proud, as I was in the main stand on the half-way line about ten rows back, with a superb view and out of the glare of the low-flying autumn sun.

It was that awkward moment when you find yourself sat amongst life-long City season ticket holders who made no effort to hide their astonishment when looking round to see someone new, different and potentially dangerous seated in their secure enclave. I'm sure they're all very nice, but I did spend the afternoon staring at my shoes and scrolling awkwardly through United Live.

When Bradford games appear on the Football League Show, the ground looks reasonably full. It isn't. The upper tier behind the goal was sparsely populated and I didn't really understand why the one above me was open at all. I counted about ten people sat up there. Of course, City's spectacular plummet from the heady heights of the Premier League and Intertoto Cup ties with Zenit St Petersburg to the cusp of the non-league is well documented and after such a sustained period of misery, you have to credit the fans for turning up at all.

The Bantams had made their customary shaky start to the season and were third from bottom (90 out of 92) at the start of play. Their opponents, Northampton, weren't a great deal better and with a depressing sense of inevitability, the first-half was just dreadful. The standard of League Two evidently hasn't altered much from Boston's five years there and both teams seemed bereft of confidence, creativity and an ability to string more than four passes together. Just as I remember it really.

The home fans, many of whom will remember the times when the country's finest were put to the sword here, seemed to respond enthusiastically to even the most elementary piece of skill, which I found a little sad. Don't applaud the defender for hacking the ball out of play 25 yards from his own goal, it's his job whether he plays in the Champions League or the Sunday League.

It did sum up the slim pickings of the opening 45 minutes though, during which the only opening came when Bradford's Michael Bryan, with a thunderbolt from the blue, rattled the crossbar. The bloke behind me, who was generally annoying, eased his boredom by bellowing at Northampton manager Gary Johnson for straying out of his technical area. I have never understood this – it's not as though stepping over the white line cleverly overcomes some sort of invisible sound shield and means all your players can suddenly hear your instructions. Who cares if he's two feet closer?

The game came to life when Michael Jacobs put Northampton in front with a screamer, which I'd wager home goalkeeper Matt Duke didn't even spot. It was the first time all afternoon I noticed the pocket of away fans crammed into one end of the Midland Road Stand opposite.

But, unlike nearly every home game those around me could recall, Bradford mounted a comeback. Andy Holt handled Bryan's cross and stand-in captain Craig Fagan slotted into the roof of the net after what seemed an age of time-wasting shenanigans from the Cobblers defenders.

Given a fresh lease of life, Bradford surged forward and won it when Kyel Reid swung in an immaculate far-post cross and James Hanson stooped to head in. The ground drew a collective sigh of relief – after all, the three points had taken them to the heady heights of 20^th. Happy Days.

Next Match: Boston United are again at home this Saturday, so I shall seek action up here. The fourth qualifying round of the FA Cup is firmly on the agenda. The following week, United travel to Solihull Moors.

Histon 1 Boston United 3

The bad news, as regular readers of this blog will already know, was that United had crashed out of the FA Cup in embarrassing circumstances last week. The unexpected good news was that this match at Histon, scheduled for a midweek and thus totally impossible for me to get to, was sensibly brought forward - it was what you would call a bonus away day. 

Histon is a village and, inevitably, nigh on impossible to get to. When I checked the train times it struck me with fear. Leeds to Peterborough, change and go to Ely, enjoy the beautiful cathedral city for a grand total of four minutes before getting on the train to Cambridge. Enjoy the beautiful university city for a grand total of eight minutes, get on the Guided Busway to Histon. Locate the ground. Seemed like a bit of a faff to me and I wasn’t entirely sure what a Guided Busway did. It was also fifty pounds into the coffers of Network Rail before I’d even set foot in Histon. 

I did the sensible thing. I dialled for J for James Broughton. Well I tried calling his mobile but got the unpaid bill tone, then I called his girlfriend’s phone and got the busy tone. Then I left two Facebook messages. Then I texted his girlfriend and asked for Mr Broughton to call me. And then he did, but I was in the pub. And then I put a deposit on an express carrier pigeon to Lincoln and printed out the Google Maps instructions to hold in it’s beak, scribbling a coded sequence of hieroglyphics about my train times on the back. But then I got hold of him and a dastardly travel plan involving Newark North Gate and a KFC bargain bucket was put in place.

Considering how complicated making the arrangements had been, the journey to Histon was a smooth as the Fonz holding a pint of Boddingtons and we arrived at the quaint Bridge Road ground shortly after 1pm. Instructed to head in through the away turnstiles by the car park steward, us early Pilgrims gained entry through an open gate. This was where we were instructed to go, and I was wondering at the time why no money was exchanged. Odd, but nobody asked for my £3 student fare so they didn’t get it. Free football is always lovely. 

Although a relatively local game, it appeared that last week’s trouncing at Altrincham had taken some impact on the travelling numbers (just over 100, I’d guess) and the pre-match outlook in the bar was very cautious. We made a pact to sing defiantly whatever the outcome - thankfully the “Loyal Supporters” chant, the surefire sign of true desperation, wasn’t required as United produced probably their best performance of the campaign so far.

Not that it seemed that way when Daniel Sparkes brilliantly found the bottom corner to put Histon in front after only eight minutes. The memories of seven days earlier came flooding back and we were very quiet afterwards. Histon, having slipped down from the Conference after a couple of barnstorming years, were bumbling along with a young team and started the match below Boston following a patchy start. 

But once Marc Newsham had fired home the equaliser from the penalty spot on 16 minutes - after Jay Dowie handled - United were dominant and slowly ground down their opponents, whose inexperience would eventually show. It was a notable occasion for Paul Bastock as the legendary goalkeeper started his 650th game for the Pilgrims. What a phenomenal achievement - I sincerely hope they name a road or something in his honour, or erect some kind of monument in the newly-designed Market Place. Perhaps Batemans could brew something in his name, or we could have another testimonial!

The second-half was one-way traffic. Although not out of the game, the nerves seemed to seize Histon’s attacking play and Bazza probably could have counted his touches after the break on one of his massive, gloved hands. Chances came and went regularly and a second was just inevitable. In the end it was Danny Sleath, still at the club and back in the starting XI with a commanding performance, who blasted us in front and Gaffer Lee made the points secure with a header, which squirmed between the keeper’s legs, five minutes later. 

A funny moment came when one of the stewards warned Mr Walden against the heinous crime of banging the corrugated iron roof on the stand. Although literally everyone was doing it, Scotty, with his Inbetweeners “I Love Clunge” t-shirt, was singled out and asked: “How would you like it if I came into your living room and started doing that?” “He doesn’t live in a house, he lives out in the fields,” someone quipped to general uproar. What a jobsworth. I wonder how they coped when Leeds United came here in the FA Cup! 

We were back in Newark by 6.30, scorching up the A1 in eager anticipation of Mr Hammond’s new speed limit and I bunked on an early train. Seizing my opportunity to dash through an open ticket barrier at Leeds station, having got home before my booked train had even left North Gate, I smiled and recalled Mr Broughton’s reaction to the day’s events - ‘the job’s a good ‘un...”

Next Match: With Boston United at home to Workington next Saturday, I shall seek my football fix in Yorkshire once more.   

         

  

Altrincham 6 Boston United 1

A result like this usually comes along once in a season - a complete off-day and an embarrassing scoreline that sits as an anomaly in the result list. You expect it and it’s just a case of when it will happen. Examples from the recent past included the 4-0 drubbing away at Droylsden last season, ending a lengthy unbeaten run, and the twin 5-0 beatings by Nantwich Town two years before that. Unfortunately for us, we’ve now had two embarrassments in the same week. 

5.25pm and I’m sat at Altrincham tram stop being drenched by the Manchester perma-drizzle. Through fogged-up glasses, I’m picking away at the bag of cold chips which was meant to offer some consolation after a result in which we were lucky to score one and even more lucky to concede just the six. It was the kind of grey northern scene that once inspired Lowry. 

The day had started brightly - I had the Yorkshire Post front page, had enjoyed being fed and watered by Ilkley Brewery the night before as reward for writing an article on them and I genuinely believed England would beat France and reach the Rugby World Cup semi-finals. I was wrong - they were 16-0 behind at half-time and from that point on, the day went downhill faster than an extra in Cool Runnings. 

Altrincham was one of the few suburban Manchester grounds I haven’t been too and we hadn’t played them competitively for over a decade. They’d obviously stored up a great deal of resentment for us and unleashed it all on one afternoon. But for Paul Bastock, the width of the crossbar and some shoddy finishing, it could have been a record defeat, at least one in double figures. Only we could make Altrincham look like Barcelona. 

The friendly chap in the club shop said before kick-off that they would have taken a draw and, knowing that confidence would no doubt be a little fragile from the midweek cup defeat at Kidsgrove, I would have gladly shaken his hand, signed a contract and walked off with a point. I doubt he would have accepted those terms at the final whistle. 

Moss Lane is one of the better equipped venues in the league - although Altrincham have just dropped down from the Conference, so this isn’t really a surprise - though some of our following balked at the £13 entry fee. I knew there was a good reason for not ceremonially cutting up my student card after leaving Sheffield and here it was, a fiver off. The ground reminded me and Pickwell of somewhere else we’d visited, but neither of us could put our finger on it. It wasn’t dissimilar to Gainsborough actually, but with blue replaced by red and several advertising boards for manutd.com 

The shit had clearly hit the fan after Tuesday night’s debacle and Gaffer Lee rotated the squad. Danny Sleath is clearly on the brink of leaving for a Conference club but had been made to travel to Manchester and made to warm-up in the interests of club discipline. He wasn’t even in the squad and it looks as though another of our leading lights is about to walk through the exit door. There were other changes as well.  

The hundred or so travelling fans squeezed into a corner but early, vocal optimism soon turned into stunned silence. On the quarter-hour (or 14 minutes and 30 seconds to be precise - the Golden Goal competition winner obviously had to have an exact to-the-second ticket match to win the prize), Damian Reeves beat Kevin Austin to the ball and opened the scoring. 

The hosts were clearly acclimatized to the unrelenting rain and started moving the ball around brilliantly on a slick surface. It was 2-0 shortly afterwards when James Lawrie drilled home a low shot and we were starting to fear the worst. Boston, by contrast, were happy to lump the ball forward and had no joy and a meagre solitary chance in the opening half. 

Altrincham had four or five other chances to add to their lead and obviously scented blood. It took just 50 seconds after the break to settle the contest, when Reeves scored his second on the rebound, after Bazza had saved from Lawrie. 3-0. Ryan Semple and Jason Lee added a bit of spark for United and there was a brief flicker of optimism when the Gaffer volleyed home superbly on 65 minutes. Could the improbable comeback happen? 

No. Altrincham could have been eight or nine in front by this point and they eventually broke through again - Reeves completed his hat-trick, then ex-Man United trainee Michael Twiss and Astley Mulholland gave the scoreline the one-sided complexion it deserved. 

The difference between those other heavy defeats and this one was the absence of defiance from the supporters. At Droylsden and Nantwich we thought “f**k it” and bounced around and kept singing as the goals mounted against us. Here, we could do little else but laugh at our own ineptitude - at one point cheering each pass to the rafters - and stare on in the knowledge that the most miserable day of the season was now behind us. Surely? 

Next Match: A rearrangement following our cup exit means an unexpected away to Histon next Saturday.     

  

Huddersfield Town 2 Bradford City 2

(Bradford won 4-3 on penalties. There was no extra time because nobody wanted it...)

I had been intending to head to Kidsgrove Athletic for United’s (ultimately ill-fated) cup replay but after a hard day delivering news to the people of North Yorkshire, thought better of it. Thankfully, Andrew was heading to the Galpharm and asked if I wanted to tag along again. Huddersfield Town. Bradford City. Terriers. Bantams. Yorkshire Football Derby. Sounded tasty. Admittedly, it was in the Johnstone’s Paint Dulux Durex Tampax Tinpot Trophy but YORKSHIRE FOOTBALL WAR??? Yes please. 

Because the kids who come along to JPT games aren’t allowed to stay up past 9.30, or are all subject to ASBO curfews and will self-destruct if not home before dark, this match kicked off at 7pm. This presented a little problem for all those in the 10,000+ crowd who, you know, work for a living and the snarled up M62 traffic meant many missed the kick-off. I think we did well to get to our seats (which were the nearest available, no time to be fussy over it) at 7.10, though it was slightly worse than the other Saturday.

By twenty past, the lure of pastry products proved too strong for the hard-working hacks and I went on a little scouting mission. I came back with a Chicken Balti and a Cheese and Onion slab. Andrew described the balti as “magma” coated in impenetrable pastry from which only heat can escape, not light. Mind was even more special. It was a rectangle of puff pastry filled with an oozing substance which was advertised as cheese and onion, but was more likely setting concrete and semtex congealing with monkey semen and something else that doesn’t even appear on the Periodic Table. With a hint of onion. When I tried to pour on some tomato ketchup, the sachet splurged onto my suit trousers - fucking hell. 

We hadn’t missed much by arriving late - the first-half was characterised by sloppiness and mistakes from both teams, with genuine openings few and far between. It’s almost like this competition is last on the series of priorities. The greater entertainment was the chants bouncing between the two sets of supporters far away to our right. Bradford’s 2,500 in the Pink Link (chuckle) Stand were fantastic and the louder of the two by some way. The home fans, smug in their 36-game unbeaten league run and genuine chance of reaching the Championship this season, simply replied that Bradford were going down. It could happen to be fair, there have rarely been such dramatic declines and now they 90th out of the 92. Imagine that lot in the non-league. Crazy. 

We were already in the queue for the obligatory half-time pint of lukewarm Tetley's when the best chance of the half occurred - Lee Novak prodded in a header from Alan Lee, only to see it chalked off (incorrectly) by the linesman’s flag. It must have been the wrong decision, as the video replays on the concourse froze at the  moment of impact for about two minutes so that everyone in the pie queue could share in the great injustice. At this point, we realised we that the TV monitor we were staring fixedly at was uncomfortably close to the men’s toilets and we were holding pints as though watching blokes emerge zipping up their trousers was an acceptable form of entertainment in Huddersfield on a Tuesday night. 

Mercifully, the second-half exploded into life and another 2-2 draw unfolded. Bradford opened the scoring ten minutes in as Anthony Kay plonked the ball past his own keeper from a devilish free-kick which he had conceded. Not a great couple of minutes for the half-time sub. The Pink Link went mental and at least one fan was dragged away by the army of stewards. 

The lead lasted just seven minutes - Tommy Miller scored his first goal in Huddersfield colours from the penalty spot after Guy Branston manhandled Peter Clarke at a corner. 1-1. Now both sets of fans were going hammer and tongs, and this hitherto forgettable game was igniting nicely. But Bradford had some resolve and restored the lead two minutes later. Big centre-back Luke Oliver was allowed the freedom of West Yorkshire to storm in and head the visitors into the lead again. More mental-ness. 

The pendulum swung back and Huddersfield’s equaliser seemed inevitable - League One class was starting to prevail. Sure enough, Peter Clarke smashed home a volley from eight yards out for two-apiece shortly afterwards and this match was becoming a carbon copy of the classic I witnessed in this competition at Hillsborough this time last year. 

Huddersfield saw a good half-dozen chances go begging in the closing stages and we went to penalties. This was annoying, as both me and Andrew really wanted to go home. I also wanted to visit the Hudders kebab house to get the taste of cheese, cum and onion out of my mouth. Kay completed a miserable night for himself by blazing his spot-kick into the deserted Fantastic Media (chuckle) Stand. Perhaps he’ll be ostracised for his sins like Jamie McCombe. Tommy Miller had earlier missed and so the night belonged to ice-cool Bradford, who might be starting to think of Wembley already. 

Next Match: Back on the road with Boston on Saturday, with Altrincham the destination.    

FC Halifax Town 2 Tadcaster Albion 1

About this time of year, I like to go and search for the romance of the FA Cup. Just take a check on the pulse of the World’s Greatest Cup Competition™ and ensure it’s still alive and kicking in the post-halcyon age of sponsorship by Budweiser, second string sides, empty stadiums and coverage on ITV. 

Last year, I was rewarded with a good old-fashioned, pulsating cup tie between Sheffield FC and Northwich Victoria, which ended two-apiece. Romance found in Dronfield. With Boston again drawn at home, I decided the cheapest and most accessible tie in my area was at The Shay, so headed there. This one wasn’t quite up to the entertainment standards of 12 months ago, but was still a good watch and, in the end, a little soul-crushing. 

There’s probably a boffin somewhere with the statistical evidence to back this up, but while once in a while there is a genuine cupset to remind us just how good football can be, most of the time the bigger boys will prevail. This was awful for Tadcaster Albion - the side from the nice little village just outside York where John Smiths is brewed who play in the Northern Counties East League Premier, three steps below Halifax - who will doubtless be described as ‘plucky’ in the press tomorrow. They were more than ‘plucky’ - they were simply brilliant. They battled like Trojans right until the end and deserved at least a replay. Which made their stoppage time defeat all the harder to stomach. 

Boston are scheduled to travel to The Shay on Easter Monday next year and since I have absolutely no idea where I’ll be at that time, I decided to tick the place off the list now. I suspect it will be a bezerk day out when April 9th finally rolls round. What’s more, the unexpected Indian Summer just begged you to get outside and on a train to some football. I most certainly didn’t expect to be watching  match in October wearing shorts and shades, with the scent of Ambre Solaire in my nostrils.

Sun bronzing my face in the impressive and very new main stand, the romance of the cup seemed very much alive as Taddy made a confident start. I noted that Kevin Holsgrove was making his debut for Halifax, barely two weeks after he left York Street saying that the long drives from Merseyside were affecting his performances. The bloke behind me kept calling him Kevin Holster for some reason. But then this was the guy who wondered why Tadcaster were taking their time over goal kicks and set-pieces - “are they playing for the draw?” Well, obviously yes my friend - did you expect them to play a 4-2-4, attack flat-out and lose 6-0? What’s more, a replay would probably keep them in the black for the next five years. 

Taddy scored on the half-hour as Carl Stewart headed in from a corner and their small pocket of supporters at the far end of the stand went ballistic as though they had, well not won the cup, but sniffed a giantkilling. The players were naturally delighted - they’d probably been promised a lifetime’s supply of bitter or something. It was 1-0 at the break but miraculous that Halifax hadn’t scored. They created chance after chance - a dark blue wave - but Taddy goalkeeper Arran Reid was inspired, saving not only from Halifax attackers but also the defenders who often seemed determined to put the ball past him. 

The natives were angry at the turnaround. One took it upon himself to bellow his thoughts down a megaphone from the centre of the main stand which was pretty hilarious. Would hate to have a season ticket in front of him. At one point, the megaphone started playing pre-recorded chants like a ringtone on a nineties mobile phone. The atmosphere was pretty subdued throughout but that was a bit extreme. 

The second-half wasn’t much better for Halifax and, with every scuffed shot or cross hacked clear by Taddy’s  heroic defence, you sensed that they might hold on to the slender advantage. I had visions of the Emirates-inspired ‘We Believe in Neil’ (Aspin, the manager) banner in front of me, obviously the manager’s personal barometer of fan sentiment positioned as it was right behind the home dugout, being unceremoniously ripped down as the cup dream fizzled out. 

Sadly, it wasn’t necessary. With nine to play, and the brilliant sunshine finally fading, sub James Dean soared above some leaden-legged Taddy defenders to equalise. Still, a replay seemed the likely, and fairest, result until the hosts won another corner, their 22nd of the game, in the 93rd minute. It unfolded in torturous slow motion - Holsgrove for once got the ball out of his feet and crossed, Scott McManus steamed in, connected sweetly with his noggin and killed the Tadcaster dream. 

I couldn’t even summon the energy to applaud. Unlucky Taddy.

Next Match: Boston had a similarly frustrating afternoon, being held 0-0 at home by Kidsgrove Athletic, so the replay on Tuesday night is the next target.