Last time Forest arrived at the Keepmoat I was almost certain that it would be win or bust for the maligned manager.
This evening I pulled up in exactly the same parking space and, musing over the evening to come, I found myself drawing exactly the same conclusion about the game ahead.
Going into the game against Norwich I had seemingly unfounded expectations of seven points. Following Saturday’s turgid serving I shared a common view that consecutive wins would be the only acceptable attainment for the week.
But here we are again, grumbling about another poor result and staring up at mid-table as if it is the summit of an indomitable mountain.
Frankly I have had more than enough.
This evening’s game proved to be a sorry affair; a docile audience, a stammering tempo, and neither side truly worthy of three points.
As it happens, the linesman’s haphazard ruling that Lee Camp’s fumble did not cross the line is the only reason we didn’t lose.
Early in the game Doncaster struck the crossbar with Camp stranded, and an ominously bouncing lob evaded the net by mere inches late on.
It just isn’t good enough. Doncaster are a side lacking in confidence, arguably they are lacking in Championship quality too, and yet they bossed possession almost without interruption for the entire game.
Forest sat back and tried in vain to break down the channels. Doncaster snapped at every second ball, and their forwards harried our defence as we mechanically sent sidewards passes into oblivion.
Our set-plays were terrible too. Even our throw-ins look amateurish as nobody moves and recipients are out-battled.
Everything indicated that we were reasonably content to take a point from South Yorkshire tonight. And again, that just isn’t good enough.
The Forest crowd were dour for most of the game, with scant cajoling from the happy-clapping home fans. For a period in the second half we rallied behind the side but the reaction was as anti-climatic as the game in its entirety.
Towards the end of the second half the Reds nearest the technical area struck up a quite spontaneous chorus of “Calderwood Out”. The man targeted turned his head sharply, as if startled.
At the end of the game he slumped into the demeanour of a man fighting to keep his chin skyward in spite of an imminent blow.
He briefly acknowledged the visiting fans, which he rarely does in person, and he took time out to shake hands with each of the Doncaster players.
To my mind, it was the conduct of a beaten man. And as macabre as it is, the thought of that man spending Christmas out of a job is the only thing keeping me positive tonight.
It could be argued that waiting for Forest to turn the corner this season has been like waiting for Christmas, but Christmas is nearly here now and there are no discernable signs that Calderwood’s plans extend beyond waiting for our luck to change.
He is not a bad man. He has never doused himself in deprecating infamy like Kinnear, and he hasn’t sold our soul like Megson. But he has consistently performed below expectations; instilling an ethos of monotony.
This season he has failed even to do that.
I no longer sympathise with any view that Calderwood must stay; I simply do not see what we are waiting for.
Tomorrow morning Doughty must bring Christmas a little closer.
