Feeling Karma

WHEN I pressed the rewind button for the 10th time I think the TV actually groaned.
But I couldn't help it. Bristol Rovers were up and running after beating Yeovil Town 2-1 at home.
After such a traumatic week for all Gasheads, which started with the 3-0 pounding by the Posh and got infinitely worse with that 6-1 drubbing by League Two Oxford in the Carling Cup, I must admit I wasn't sure what to expect.
My heart told me that these blips were due to our new players getting to know each other and that once everything clicked into place we would respond with a dazzling performance against, let's face it, a glorified pub side from a small town in deepest, darkest Somerset.
My head kept whispering: "Hold on. What if our confidence is shot? You haven't SEEN these new players, you are only taking the word of a manager who has a vested interest in telling us how good they are. The others you have seen, and how often have they dazzled over the last couple of years? We could be bottom of the league by the end of the day."
What a relief, then, that we managed to nab the three points.
Not dazzling, but it will do.
When I arrived home from work in the early hours of the morning there was only one thing on my mind.
Forget the cup of tea, a much-needed snack, the invitation of a warm bed, even a cuddle for the baby. It was on with the tv, straight to the BBC I-player and a re-run of the Football League Show.
This programme of highlights from the afternoon games is almost certainly too long.
Its format is patronising and twee, and its presenters utterly nauseating.
There is front man Manish, who is too cool for school, Lizzie Pippy-Longstocking (at least, it's SOMETHING like that), who pretends to be the fans friend but would look more at home on the polo fields of Windsor than your average football league terrace, and Steve Claridge, who acts as if he knows everything there is to know about every team in the league while appearing to read hastily prepared scribbles from the back of a beer mat.
Still, it is a must for anyone who supports a team outside the Premier League - particularly on a day when your team has won.
And once I had seen our glorious triumph, courtesy of goals from Jo Kuffour and Byron Anthony, I couldn't help but watch the 20 seconds of highlights again and again and again.
Each time the goals got better, the moves slicker, the celebration greater.
Well, I might as well make the most of it - it could be some time before it happens again. A tough game against improving Exeter City is next up, followed by a home match against those South Coast millionaires Southampton, and our former hero Rickie Lambert.

I'm afraid at this point I have to admit to my fellow sufferers that I almost cost Rovers their vital first three points of the season.
I made a schoolboy error, a childish faux pas, one which you would think I had learnt to avoid after 40 years experience supporting the Gas.
It's Saturday afternoon in the newsroom of the busy national newspaper where I work. The air is full of childish banter.
There is the boss, a West Ham fan, who deserves to suffer more jibes than most but gets away with it because he is the boss and can kick a wastepaper basket further than Jonny Wilkinson can kick a rugby ball.
There is the Chelsea clique, all feeling very chuffed with themselves after last season's title triumph, and the Spurs contingent, all confidently predicting that it could be THEIR year (they have been doing this for as long as I have been supporting the Gas, I'm told).
Then there is the betting syndicate, the boys who will challenge each other over which of two raindrops will reach the bottom of the window first.
These boys, as I recorded earlier in this blog, have all had a serious bet on Bristol City to win the Championship. They say it is an educated gamble and has nothing whatever to do with winding up a colleague... me.
Of course, I went in all guns blazing this week after the news filtered through that Steve Coppell had quit Ashton Gate after two games in charge. "Hard luck, lads, hope you're laying off those bets," I chuckled.
Anyway, 20 to 5 on Saturday afternoon.
City 1-0 up. Rovers 1-0 up.
Jeff Stelling imparts some breaking news.
"And Doncaster have just equalised against Bristol City."
I can't help it. The opening is there.
I point at one of the betting boys, who just happens to be the person who sent me the "Rovers... Rovers" text on the final whistle after our Oxford defeat, and laugh very loudly.
"Bad luck, mate," I shout cheerily.
Everyone hoots.
Then I turn back to the screen to see the tickertape announcing: "Bristol Rovers 1 Yeovil Town 1." Aaaargh!
"Oh dear, Rippers, that's karma," says a mate. "You should never wallow in other people's misfortune."
And don't I know it. My elation has turned to desperation, and I am anticipating that dreadful end-of-the-day League One table with the mighty Bristol Rovers floundering just above struggling Notts County and below the likes of rickety old Rochdale and nearly-bankrupt Bournemouth.
Why oh why did I commit such a cardinal sin?
I admit it. I've given up. The full-time scores are flashing through now and I've consigned myself to a draw at home to a team who shouldn't be fit to lace our boots.
And then the miracle happens.
"Bristol Rovers 2 Yeovil Town 1".
In fact, it's more than a miracle, there must have been some divine intervention.
Because the goalscorer is Byron Anthony.
Centre back-cum-fullback. And most unlikely of all Gasheads to pop up and grab the winner by my reckoning.
Seconds later the full-time score is confirmed and I look at my watch.
Only eight hours to go before I can watch this wonderous moment with my own eyes and confirm that - yes indeed - we've won a game of football.