At last. It’s almost 80 days since Bradford City last kicked a ball in anger. That’s eleven weeks without competitive football. I’m not counting England’s showing at the European Championships, because that wasn’t competitive football. That was a bunch of highly paid and highly spoiled individuals collectively soiling themselves in the face of a bit of adversity.
Despite the lack of things to talk about on the pitch regarding City, there has been plenty happening off it to keep us tuned in. The close season has been full of change, and after years of serene steadiness, it felt startling and alien. The comfortable Phil Parkinson-shaped bubble was popped and everything was shaken up. It was time to move on, whether we liked it or not, to pastures new.
Move on we have. Since trudging away from The Den in May, a new regime has come in, both on and off the pitch. Previous visions for the club have gone, and new faces have arrived with new ideas. A lot has changed, but at the same time, nothing has changed.
Despite everything, we will all wander down to VP tomorrow with the usual pre-season feelings of hope, optimism, uncertainty, anxiety and excitement. Despite all the comings, goings, chopping and changing the questions in the pubs and on the terraces will remain the same as every other August. Are we good enough to mount a promotion challenge? Have we got enough goals in the side? Who’s going to step up this season? Is the manager astute enough? Does James Meredith ever get tired? Will we have a legible scoreboard? How long will the pitch survive before it resembles a beach? We’ve been asking these questions for years, and we will probably always ask them.
This season, though, is something else. At the best of times, second-guessing City is like trying to erect IKEA furniture – you think you’ve cracked it but you end up having to go back to square one and have a major rethink. This season is like trying to build one of their massive wardrobes wearing thick gloves with the lights off, after drinking several pints of strong ale somewhere on North Parade. It’s pure guesswork. For me it’s part of the fun and joy of supporting Bradford City.
What is becoming clear is this. The soul and fabric of the club is in good hands. There is a plan and it involves more youth. The club is starting to think longer-term. Affordable football remains. The new signings show positive intent. Long-term, the future appears bright.
Coming back to the here and now, what happens on the pitch this season really is anyone’s guess. One footballing magazine has predicted that we’ll finish 17th, yet I’ve seen some tip us for an automatic promotion spot. That variation shows that nobody really has a clue how Bradford City will fare this season.
I’ve had a think about what will happen, and here are a few definites. Mark Marshall will see more action. Rory McArdle will see more competition for his starting place. Comparisons will be made to Ben Williams every time our keeper is involved in the action. James Hanson will get picked on by fans and referees. Romain Vincelot will win a sponsorship deal with a company that makes beard oil. Wins will be greeted by social media hysteria. A German flag will appear in K Block. Losses will be greeted by social media hysteria. James Mason will conduct a Wogan-style interview with Stuart McCall. Edin Rahic will publicly state his amazement about the brilliance of the fans. He will be right.
Apart from that, heaven knows what’s going to happen. If I was to be bold and take a stab at where we’ll finish this season, I’ll be brave and say the playoffs again. A continuation of our home form combined with more incision in front of goal, and that prediction doesn’t seem too wild. I am probably wrong though, because it’s so damn difficult to guess. So, what the hell, let’s just be thankful that the season is back again, lap up being back in VP, and enjoy it. After all, at least we’re not following Roy Hodgson’s men into a major tournament again.
Some head to head stats ahead of Saturday's game Vs. Port Vale
Graphics provided by Kick Off