On occasion, assuming you’re of sound mind, you’ll find yourself wondering why you bother. Why do you spend so much money, expel so much effort, give up so many hours and days of your life to travel to towns you’d otherwise never entertain the idea of visiting? Usually, that occasion is Gillingham away.
Each visit follows the same weary pattern. Hampered by swirling wind neither side manages to find anything approaching competent continuity. Passes stutter and miss their target, and when spells of actual football do materialise they lack a decent final ball. At times today both teams were trying to slow down a game that was already barely moving; it was like taking a break from pushing a milk-float uphill. It was a fucking insult to everyone who’d paid to watch.
Gillingham were effective at getting the ball into the box; be it from corners, from long-throws or general play. But that was it. Every single delivery was fielded by the Rovers back-line or goalkeeper. The hosts had no shot to speak of.
Lucky for them, Rovers were only really competent in two of the field’s thirds. Dominant in defence, adept at moving the ball through midfield, they too failed to trouble the ‘keeper. Tommy Rowe blazed a first-half effort over, and pulled a second-half shot just wide, but the best chance came in injury-time. Rodney Kongolo’s low cross found Alfie May unmarked at the back post, but he fluffed his touch; the chance went, as did the game.
by Glen Wilson