The Kindness of Strangers

This weekend sees the publication of the North Ferriby fanzine, View from the Allotment End #5. You should buy it & not just because I've got this piece in it either. It recalls events almost 21 years ago & was originally written for Hopeless Football Romantic, which seems to have gone into abeyance, with a downbeat theme as Washington FC were about to throw in the towel. Thankfully, they are still in existence, so I'm happy to be able to share the optimistic version of this piece -:

Newcastle United have just been promoted to the Premier League (again); meanwhile Washington withdrew their resignation from The Northern League at the eleventh hour. Ian Cusack discusses why the relief of the latter outweighs any satisfaction with the former.

Twenty one years ago, Newcastle United versus Manchester United could justifiably lay claim to being the biggest club game in the world. In the era between the sun setting on the starched formality of Serie A and the emergence of La Liga as the home for technical brilliance and attacking splendour, contests between the gung-ho optimism of Kevin Keegan’s flawed cavaliers and Alex Ferguson’s wily roundheads saw romance come off a poor second to pragmatism almost every time. 1996 was the key year of that ephemeral rivalry. Ferguson, as ever, held the upper hand; a double over the Magpies saw the Reds dismantle a seemingly impregnable deficit to win the title. Going forward, the stakes were raised as Keegan beat Ferguson to Shearer’s signature, then handed him a debut at Wembley in the Charity Shield; the Champions humiliated the upstarts 4-0. However, the subsequent league campaign was a closer affair, with the two sides cheek by jowl at the top of the table in the autumn.

The first league meeting was to be on Tyneside; Sky TV predictably intervened to move the game to Sunday at 4pm. Tickets were scarce, but back then I possessed a treasured season ticket, so I was alright. Indeed, so was my mate Declan, chair of the Newcastle United Irish Supporters Club. Flying in first thing Saturday morning, he made it down to our house, literally a decent goal kick away from St James’ Park from the airport and learned that the plan for the day was a Northern League Division 2 game.

Looking back, I can sense the slackening of my emotional bonds with Newcastle United from 1994/1995 onwards. I never missed a home game and had been a regular, almost frequent, away traveller, back in the days when you could decide to hit the road in support of the team if you woke up early enough on a match day morning, but what really began to irk me was the number of spare Saturdays, caused by television moving games; in 1992/1993 we had 12 blanks and 13 the year after. This wasn’t to my liking, so I resolved to have zero spares in future, because I was going to watch non-league football.

On Saturday 3^rd September 1994, with the Premier League on an international break, I plumped for Blue Star against Shildon. I watched a game of low quality thud and blunder on a bumpy pitch, which ended 1-1 courtesy of a couple of set piece headers, in front of about 130 people. It cost £3 to get in and the programme was 50p, so the financial investment was negligible. However what struck me, apart from the fact hot drinks were served in china mugs that you were entrusted with bringing back when you’d finished, is how proud both sets of fans, players and committee members were of their respective clubs. On the way out, a Blue Star coach, collecting the corner flags, cheerily exclaimed “thanks now. See you again.” Without thinking, I replied “hope so” and I knew I meant it. There was a bloke, busy with his own allocated job, who’d taken time out to speak to a person who he’d never met before. It wasn’t like that in the Premier, but in non-league, clubs are genuinely pleased to have people visit them.

Subsequently I saw games at Whickham, Whitley Bay, Dunston Fed, Hebburn and South Shields. I didn’t know the term groundhopper, but I was becoming one. As I didn’t really support any team, I was utterly determined to collect the full Northern League set. Indeed, the enduring love I bear for my team Benfield didn’t begin until 2003 when they joined the Northern League.

Half an hour after Declan chapped the door, we were on our way to Albany Park on the evocatively named Spout Lane, to see Washington against Ashington.  I’d taken him up to Portland Park in March 1996, to see the Colliers beat Alnwick Town 3-2, so he was happy to watch the home town team of Jackie Milburn again. These days Ashington are managed by former England pace bowler Steve Harmison and play at the impressive Hirst Welfare, while Washington, formed by pitmen at F Pit during a tea break in 1949, recently came within an inch of folding. It wasn’t finance that almost did for them, but a lack of volunteers; simply speaking, the lads on the committee got too old to peg the nets, wash the strips and sweep the changing rooms out. Thankfully there were new volunteers able to take over and save another club from dying. 

That day, Ashington must have taken 50 fans; daft, drunken lads enjoying their day out. They sang incessantly, banging a repetitive rhythm on the corrugated metal roof of the covered shed opposite the club house. The home support were older, more circumspect, but equally passionate.  Ashington won 1-0 with a goal in the last 15 minutes and at full time, the players and fans cavorted with each other, celebrating as if they’d won the Champions League; whatever level your club plays at, the taste of victory is equally as sweet. The crucial difference is that defeats at non-league level may be disappointing, but they don’t produce the gut-wrenching agony felt by Premier League followers as the emotional involvement isn’t reinforced by a massive financial investment.

We made our way across the pitch to the clubhouse. The Washington supporters were gracious in defeat; pints were bought and complimentary post-match buffet devoured, before we shook hands and said our farewells.  At that point, disaster seemed to have struck. Declan, in the days before mobile phones and lap tops, had travelled over in possession of his Psion Palm Pilot. Somewhere, somehow, he’d misplaced it. It was considered very hi tech and valuable, especially by his employers, who’d be furious with him if he didn’t return with it. I left my phone number with the club committee on the off chance it might turn up and we forgot about it, as best we could. Of course, Sunday was a day none of us will ever forget. Philippe Albert put the cherry on the cake with a lob so precise and beautiful I will never tire of seeing it; 5-0.  Full time and the city centre’s in full on Mardi Gras mode. We drink through it with unnecessary late night pints and crawl home around 1.00.

In those days I had an answer machine that recorded missed calls on a C90 cassette. The display blinked a red 7, indicating the number of waiting messages. Half a dozen were slurred, beery odes to the joy of a great win, but the one that mattered had been left soon after 5pm. Just as Newcastle and Man United were kicking off the second half, the Washington groundsman had rung up to say he’d found “that computer thingy the Irish fella lost” while he’d been marking the pitch, ahead of Tuesday night’s game against Chester le Street. What amazed me wasn’t just that Declan’s job was now safe once again, but that while not just the whole of England, but the eyes of the entire footballing world were on a game taking place less than 10 miles from Albany Park, a Washington supporter and volunteer was giving up his Sunday afternoon to prepare the pitch that we’d thoughtlessly shambled across the previous day. To him, what happened at St James Park was irrelevant; his club was Washington and he was doing his duty for them. In those days I marvelled at his dedication; now such involvement would be second nature to me if Benfield needed stuff doing.

Declan had been sensible in booking the Monday off work and an evening flight home. He slept late, long and loud. I’d booked holiday as well, enabling me to head for Washington to collect the missing Psion. The groundsman had already made a pot of tea; although a lifelong coffee drinker, I realised the importance of forcing a cup down. He gave the Palm Pilot a quick wipe with a rag, then handed it back. In return, I offered him a £10 note. He wouldn’t hear of it. I tried to say it was a donation to club funds; again, no interest. Finally I suggested a charitable donation. He assented. On the bar was a collection box for Age UK; this elderly former player and dedicated supporter, gratefully pushed my money into the slot saying, “It’s always good to help the old folk.”

We shook hands, with his final imprecation being “come and see us again.” Sadly, I never did learn the bloke’s name, but I’ll always be thankful to him for saving my friend’s neck. And, more importantly from a personal perspective, for teaching me, in the best way possible, why football doesn’t begin and end with the Premier League. I wish the very best to the other people in Washington who have come forward to save their club.