The Start: “If
City do survive, their salvation may just have arrived in the barrel-chested
fist-clenching shape of Jamie Pollock, after his £1
million arrival from Bolton.” – Matt Dickinson, The Times, after stultifying 0-0
with Sheffield United.
A born leader of men. Thick of thigh. Scorer of tremendously
over-weighted far post defensive headers. In critical relegation deciders.
If violinists played Rachmaninoff as a backdrop to Kinkladze,
then you could hear five inebriated plumbers murdering The Sin of Pride on a broken karaoke when Jamie Pollock advanced with the
ball. Georgi and Jamie played in the same midfield versus QPR that day.
Rice pudding complexion. Hair by McAlpine. Ball control by
British Nuclear Fuels, Pollock had the lot.
Part Wildebeest, part herb dumpling. Put his heart and soul into being the midfield lynchpin and, later, captain of Manchester City, who were going down.The old 3rd Division, or Oblivion,
as it was known then.
Pollock ran through midfield like an old lady falling down the stairs.
He passed the ball like a lumberjack being chased by wasps but, boy, he headed it
like a man, whose life depended on it.
The End: “This is
the worst moment of my career,” Jamie Pollock.
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