Twenty two
years ago, Newcastle United versus Manchester United could have justifiably laid
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 enduring, de facto 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; Keegan was gone by mid-January 1997. Ferguson, as ever, held the upper hand; a
double over the Magpies saw the Reds dismantle a seemingly impregnable lead or
unsurmountable deficit, depending on your allegiances, to win the title. Newcastle
had the best team, but Man United had the best players in Schmeichel and
Cantona; in the crucial game at SJP, the former performed heroics and the
latter scored the only goal. 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 20th October, at 4pm. Tickets were as rare as rocking
horse excrement, but back then I treasured my season ticket more than anything
else in the world, bar the bairn and my then missus, so I was alright. Indeed,
so were two of my mates from Dublin; Declan and Dougie were on the committee of
the Newcastle United Irish Supporters Club and they secured a couple of seats
for this one through Declan’s links with John Hall, the subsequently reviled
but previously adored Magpie chairman. Flying in first thing on Saturday
morning, the lads made it down to our house in Spital Tongues, literally a
decent goal kick away from St James’ Park and learned that the plans for the
day were not a 12 pint shift on the gargle, but a Northern League Division 2
game instead.
Looking back
on my connections with Newcastle United, I can sense the slackening of the
emotional bonds from the start of 1994/1995 onwards. From the moment I moved
back to the area after finishing University in 1988, I never missed a home game
and, despite playing a couple of seasons on Saturday afternoon football in the
nether regions of the North East Amateur League, I was also 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.
I suppose 1992/1993, the Keegan
promotion campaign and 1993/1994, the debut season in The Premier League, were
the high points of my travelling days. I got to almost every Saturday game I
could, but one thing that had already begun to irk me was the number of spare
Saturdays, caused by television moving games, ITV before promotion and Sky afterwards, not to
mention the interminable international breaks; in 1992/1993 we had 12 spare
Saturdays and 13 the year after. This wasn’t to my liking; the NUFC season
ticket was sacrosanct, but in August 1994, when I turned 30, we decided to try
for kids. At that point I grew up, or tried to, and stopped going to away
games, mainly to save money. Instead, utterly independent of the almost
contemporaneous publication of the finest ever sporting book, Harry Pearson’s
love letter to NE football and the Northern League in particular, The Far Corner, I resolved to have zero
spare Saturdays in future, because I was going to watch non-league whenever
possible.
On Saturday
3rd September 1994, with the Premier League on an international
break, I consulted the day’s local football fixtures in The Journal and plumped for Blue Star against Shildon, as I could
get the Metro straight there. Also, as a fanzine devotee, I’d enjoyed a couple
of issues of South West Durham Dadaism in the shape of Shildon’s Far From a Madding Crowd and hoped to
meet legendary eccentric editor Frank Smith. I didn’t. He was having a sofa
delivered, apparently. Instead, I sat and 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 entry and the programme was
50p, so the financial investment was negligible. However what struck me, apart
from the fact hot drinks were served in mugs that you were entrusted with
bringing back yourself 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, as I waited for my
train at Callerton Parkway, 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 League or at SJP, where I remember
the announcement of the crowd on the scoreboard, along with the phrase “the
board thanks you for your support,” being met with a mass outbreak of two
fingered gestures and profane language. In non-league, clubs are genuinely
pleased to have people show up and visit them.
Subsequent
free Saturdays in the run up to Christmas 1994 saw me visit 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.
Indeed, the enduring love I bear for my team Benfield didn’t begin until almost
a decade later, in 2003 when they joined the Northern League. I know I’ll
follow them until I die, but I’ll always look back on my formative experiences
of the local game as a spectator with enormous fondness. Of course progress
towards completing the Northern League “set” was painfully slow in those early
days; there were Newcastle games to factor in, bad weather postponements and
trips to other clubs when on weekends down at the in-laws in Yorkshire. Also,
the demographics of the league have changed in the past two decades; a whole
raft of teams in East Durham have disappeared (Peterlee, Horden, Murton and
Shotton Comrades), as well as a similar set from the West of the county
(Evenwood Town, Ferryhill Athletic and Spennymoor, though at least the reborn
latter lot have gone up the pyramid).
All things
considered, I was utterly determined to pursue a full house, as well as
spreading the gospel of non-league to the unconverted. Consequently, half an
hour after Declan and Dougie had dropped their bags off at ours, we were on our
way to Albany Park on the evocatively named Spout Lane, to see Washington
against Ashington. I’d taken Declan up
to Portland Park in March 1996, to see the Colliers beat Alnwick Town 3-2 in a
Northumbrian derby, so he was happy to see the home town team of Jackie Milburn
in action again. Dougie just liked the fact the two club names rhymed. These
days Ashington play at the impressive Hirst Welfare and Washington are at the
functional Nissan complex. While both teams are a division higher, their
fortunes have fluctuated, with both teams enjoying highs and lows, though their
heart and spirit remains undiminished.
That day,
Ashington must have taken 50 fans; daft, drunken lads enjoying their day out.
They sang incessantly about their club, 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. However, let’s be frank
about this; 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. Those poor sods on Arsenal TV on You Tube might want to consider that before loosing off another
bile-spattered rant about what a disgrace their club is.
When the
game was over, we followed the rest and made our way straight across the pitch
to the clubhouse. The Washington supporters were gracious in defeat and
genuinely intrigued as to why 2 Irish lads had pitched up; pints were bought
and complimentary post-match bait 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, a personal data
assistant the size of a DVD case. Somewhere, somehow, he’d misplaced it; bad move
that one. It was considered very hi tech
and valuable, especially by his employers, who’d be furious with him if he
didn’t return to work with it on the Tuesday. 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. BOOM! Peacock header; 1-0. BOOM!
Ginola volley; 2-0. BOOM! Ferdinand header from a Shearer cross; 3-0. BOOM!
Shearer taps in after Schmeichel had saved from Beardsley; 4-0. BOOM! Albert
puts the cherry on the top with a lob so precise and so beautiful I will never
tire of seeing it; 5-0. Full time and
the city centre’s in full on Mardi Gras mode,
though word of mouth talks about a lock in at the Belle Grove to watch a full
rerun of the game. We sit through it with unnecessary late night bevvies and
crawl home around 1.00. This is when I remember I’ve been out the house for 12
hours, leaving my wife and 15 month old son to cope. We’ll park the guilt there
as she was genuinely delighted with the result.
She was also
delighted with a phone call she’d taken around 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 Paddy 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 and
Dougie had been sensible in booking the Monday off work and an evening flight
home. They slept late, long and loud. Luckily, being in education, the missus
and I were both on half term, enabling us to make the trip to Washington to
collect Declan’s Psion. We met the groundsman at the Washington FC clubhouse.
He’d already made a pot of tea which, as lifelong coffee drinker, I realised
the importance of forcing down to show gratitude. He gave the Palm Pilot a
quick wipe with a duster, 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 the club;
again, no interest. Finally I suggested a charitable donation. To which he
assented. On the bar was a collection box for Age UK; this septuagenarian
groundsman, a former player and lifelong supporter, gratefully pushed my money
into the slot saying, “it’s always good to help the old folk.”
We shook
hands and took our leave, with his final imprecation being “come and see us
again.” It took me more than 3 years, but I did, returning in September 2000
for another Washington v Ashington game, which ended 3-3. As I paid in, I saw
him resting against the pitch rail, survey his handiwork over a well-earned
brew; “hello son,” he said, “nice to see you back again.” I never did learn his
name, but I’ll always be thankful to him for saving my friend’s neck with his
boss. 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. Given the choice between Newcastle against Man United or Washington v
Ashington, I know that on the whole, I’d much rather be on the bus to
Philadelphia.
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