Remember that press conference when Tommy Taylor was unveiled? 'What's your immediate impression of Boston, walking around?” asked one local newshound. There was a horrible silence. “Er....,” replied Taylor, to laughter. He eventually offered an initial impression: “The pitch looks beautiful.” He's not wrong. Fans shuffling into York Street on Saturday could well have been forgiven for thinking that Jimmy White was about to appear, wearing a smart waistcoat and an expression of resigned disappointment, and break off in an exhibition match against some local who spends far too much of his free time farting in the company of his pals at Shodfriars. Ah – the glory of pre-season. Pundits always wax lyrical about the naïve optimism that permeates these friendly games reflecting the unsullied state of the pitch itself. And, yes, bathed in sunshine, the brilliant, lush green turf served as a reminder to all that, despite the turbulent close season, there is, after all, going to be a 07/08. Which is, of course, brilliant news.

He's happy. He's got a contract for 07/08

The even better news is that the ground might yet play host to a team deserving of such an impeccable surface, which would be an astounding achievement by any measure. Simply pulling together enough loose threads to fill a team sheet is an achievement in itself. If Tommy Taylor can somehow craft this crew of trialists into a genuine contender, it will be remarkable.

But, and there is a big but, there is much work to do, not least in scouring away the stubborn, viscous layers of cynicism that have accumulated around the club during the Evans years and unsurprisingly prevents the York Street regulars from truly letting go and believing that the club is on an upward trajectory. And who can blame them? With long-term ground issues unresolved, the debt – albeit now structured - still looming large and a protracted battle to keep the town interested, the road ahead is not going to be easy. The honeymoon feeling will swiftly evaporate, and when it does you only hope that there are no hysterical, knee jerk reactions.

So, what of the here and now? How well can Boston United do in 2007/2008? Trying to predict how this season will unfold would be folly, and Saturday saw the stands peppered with curious supporters keen to glimpse Tommy Taylor’s recruits. They weren’t so much supporting their Pilgrims as heading over for a fact finding mission, tentatively testing the waters. Perhaps a few were sneaking a quick look towards the dugout to see how it looked Evans-free (newsflash: it looked bloody great).

But back to the game. 3pm on a sunny Saturday, and there is no place in the world you’d rather be. Well, actually, maybe Bondi Beach. Or an all you can eat Chinese buffet. Anyway, there was a time when the PA would welcome the teams onto the pitch with a bit of rousing music. No need. Fans knew something was on its way; feeling the earth shake beneath their feet, watching as concentric circles rippled in their cups of tea, they dodged falling plaster and took shelter from loose concrete as a beast some call 'Tony Crane' lumbered onto the field.

“Christ! Look at the size of him!” one bloke marveled. “Now there's a man you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley.” To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure Tony Crane would fit into a dark alley, unless your definition of an alley is a six-lane motorway. And it’s important to note he’s not a beefcake. Sure, he might be able to lose a stone or two. But he could afford to drop to a size zero with a lethally low BMI, and he'd still be a terrifying hulk of a man. Put it this way: he makes Martin Filson look as imposing as, ohhh, I dunno – Jarvis Cocker.

Speaking of ex-rock 'stars', Boston have managed to snap up ex-Busted guitarist James Bourne who played as an attacking left back. James, who will be juggling his time between trying not to get killed by lumbering BSN nutcases and Son of Dork, neatly fills the void left by Crazy 'Haircut' Jimmy Rodwell in the ‘I-get-my-hair-styled-NOT-cut’ stakes. Although we suspect the floppy-haired dandy will be writhing around on the deck with ten broken legs at some point before September, he’s actually not a bad player. But then how many attacking left-backs ever seem rubbish? We should all be grateful he hasn’t been schooled by the same people that brought us Cape Canoville.

The game was refreshingly honest. Ok, so Ellender will never, ever fail to spank the ball with every ounce of available energy as soon as it comes within an inch of him, but the rest of the team – and at this point you might like to take a seat, although if you are standing up while reading this you might also like to take a long hard look at yourself – the rest of the team wanted to play football! Football! Remember it? It’s a game where players pass the ball to each other. The receiving player traps the ball, looks up and attempts to play a positive pass to a teammate, and so on. It does exist, after all. After a season after season of hoofball wank from Wee McCheatie Krankie, several fans were spotted asking their friend to smack them in the face lest they were in some kind of drug induced coma.

Genuine chances were actually few and far between, with Lincoln posing far more of a threat in the final third than Boston, but Ellender and Crane did a wonderful job of out muscling the Imps’ from the several hundred corners they had over the course of the afternoon. The more vocal fans were straining to offer words of encouragement to their new players, but were slightly hindered by the fact they hadn’t a clue who any of them were:

“Oh! Great pass….er….lad!”

“Look up! Look up! Thingy’s free! You know, the bloke in the…shirt!”

“Good tackle…..mate”

And so on. The game fizzed on, Boston, some still playing for contracts, bustling, harrying and pressing. But when more subs were introduced any attempt to identify players ended somewhat miserably. Also ending miserably was Tony Crane’s afternoon as he succumbed to a leg injury. As he hobbled off he could reflect on a great afternoon’s work, rewarded by a resounding round of applause from the Main Stand.

It was no coincidence that, just minutes after he left the pitch, Lincoln City scored the winning goal from their 5,547th corner of the afternoon. Nat Brown snuck in to divert Amoo’s header past, er.. that bloke in goal, you know, that one, to send the massed ranks of traveling fans into a frenzy. Alright, they applauded a bit, relieved at finally dispatching the tinpot BSN outfit. Still, had Crane still been on the pitch, he’d have just shoved Brown out of the way and into next week.

Boston (4-8-9-5-7): One-time Arsenal bench-warmer, That bloke, Thingy, The Incredible Crane, Ellender, Ex-Busted star James Bourne, Who?, Eh?, Talbot, Er, Um, One-time Boston bench-warmer, Er, That’s it. Subs: Yeah, good luck with that.

Lincoln City (4-4-2): Is anyone really bothered?

Attendance: 1073

impsTALK's man of the match: The Incredible Crane. By a country mile.