When golden shirts shimmered in the hazy autumn sun, nobody could have predicted where we’d end up come February 12.
Heads down and shoulders slumped come 4pm was pretty incomprehensible, but rocking up outside the Hawthorns at the first light of dawn was nigh on impossible.
Like a couple of lost fish swimming way too close to the shore, Thomas and I were wondering around the Hawthorns in a daze at 8am, trying to find a way into the s**thole to meet a load of Albion fans!
Barely believable to us two, let alone our dear wives, who usually can’t shift us out of our pits on a Sunday morning with a stick of dynamite and a spatula.
We were there in aid of lifelong WBA and Wolves fans Kieran Caldwell and Ian Marrey, who had organised a 10 mile ‘March to Molineux’ to raise money for Acorns Hospice, which is playing an invaluable role in looking after their children.
We met Cyrille Regis and Bobby Gould in the Hawthorns car park, exchanged pleasantries with some amazingly eloquent Baggies fans, high fived some similarly dazed Wolves ones, and took a walk towards our path of righteousness.
With rivalries used as a topic of endearment, we dissected each other’s teams, remembered the good old days and chose which player we’d like from either side.
Fletcher was their near unanimous choice, while one Albion fan said he liked the look of ‘that lad called Guedioura’ who he thought was the man-of-the-match in last season’s corresponding fixture.
Cue non-stop laughter from Coseley McDonald’s all the way to Parkfields School when I mumbled where the Algerian was now residing!
Within hours of us marching through Tipton, along the Birmingham New Road and into the city we call home, we were thumped 5-1, Mick McCarthy was sacked and a tortuous two weeks ensued.
With the managerial merry-go-round twirling ever since, I didn’t think a blog about a walk was a priority to write about – until I remembered how the experience made me feel.
When materialism and cynicism rears its head with the monotony of a West Bromwich Albion attack, the Beautiful Game doesn’t always appear so scrumptious nowadays.
But when a chorus of ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’ thawed the freezing Molineux air, you can tell how much I’m back in love with it that I wanted to sing along.
Thanks again Kieran, Ian and everyone involved with the March to Molineux.