They say a week is a long time in politics, but in football it can feel like an eternity. Seven days ago we were picking apart a meek 3-2 loss away at AFC Wimbledon, undone by a hat‑trick from former Oxford United man Marcus Browne.
Fast‑forward 168 hours, with another victory on the road at Wigan Athletic, and suddenly we’re two wins richer, sitting seventh, and wondering how on earth this club keeps dragging us through every emotional state known to man. Life as a Reading fan is rarely dull.
Before the Wycombe Wanderers game, I genuinely wondered how I’d fill this missive. Probably with grumbling about that Wimbledon collapse.
The sublime Jack Marriott
Instead, I get to wax lyrical about a hat‑trick from one of our own this time: the sublime Jack Marriott. Our first league treble since John Swift’s against QPR, and if I’m honest, I barely remember that one.
When he signed, it felt like a budget move – someone cheap, available and experienced enough to plug a gap. The owners didn’t seem in a position to chase a Benn Ward‑type prospect, so expectations were modest.
But Marriott has blown those expectations to pieces. We knew he’d graft. We didn’t know he’d lead the line with such intelligence, movement and sheer street‑smart reading of defenders – especially in a league where mistakes are tossed around like confetti.
What impresses most is the variety of his finishing. A fox‑in‑the‑box prod for his first yesterday, then two sublime strikes with either foot. You could argue all day which was better. Both were clean, confident and worthy of winning any match on their own.
The mark of a proper striker is making goals look easy, and Marriott does exactly that. His weaker foot looks like his stronger one. His technique is so crisp it’s become a recurring nightmare for goalkeepers.
How long it continues is another question, but that’s a worry for another day.
The bigger picture
Which brings me to our form in general – and the mental gymnastics it’s forcing me into. When Rob Couhig and co took over, I told myself I didn’t care how we got out of this division, just that we did. With the squad we had, I had no idea what that would look like, but the sentiment stood.
Now, the playoffs aren’t a pipe dream anymore, and suddenly I’m conflicted. We’re still softer in the middle than a microwaved marshmallow. We still have a habit of shooting ourselves in the foot with comic timing. I have huge reservations with leadership on the pitch. But we’re also capable of out‑scoring anyone on our day, by whatever chaotic method presents itself.
“I said I didn’t care how we won, and now I’m picking at the manner of the wins. I’m a living hypocrite, and I know it”
It’s not pretty. The stats often defy logic. But the most important stat remains: we score more than the opposition.
And yet – here’s the contradiction – I still crave style. I want control. I want us to make teams look inferior, not just out‑punch them in a wild brawl. I want substance and swagger. But I also have to recognise where we started, what we inherited and how far we’ve come. I said I didn’t care how we won, and now I’m picking at the manner of the wins. I’m a living hypocrite, and I know it.
Under Leam Richardson, the shift hasn’t been glamorous, but it’s been effective. More points per game. More away wins. A sense of momentum that felt impossible in August.
I expected a slow crawl, a multi‑window rebuild, a gentle evolution. Instead, we’ve scampered forward. Maybe League One really is that poor this year. Maybe it doesn’t take a tactical revolution to escape it. Maybe both things are true.
And maybe that’s why I’m wrestling with myself. Should I be happy with our lot? Absolutely. Should I want more control in midfield than we showed yesterday? Yes. Should I rein myself in when I remember where we started? Probably.
That’s the dilemma we’re all living in. A win is a win. The table doesn’t lie. We can only be as good as the situation allows, and we’re still in recovery mode, which makes it all oddly impressive.
So, reluctantly, and with all my internal contradictions, I am here for the ride. I’m strapping in and enjoying it. Or at least trying to.