Alice Walker once wrote,
‘Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.’ Had her words not been so upbeat, I
could have almost used them as a personal mantra. They certainly fitted Burnley watching,
1997/98. But in a year pocked by serious family health concerns, this quote had relevance
beyond football. Not that Burnley ever let me forget them. Take that grey, March day when
Liz was told that she could well have cancer. Up popped the Clarets, brandishing their
home defeat by Wrexham. Is it just me or have they always had that knack of making a grim
time that little bit grimmer? When life’s crap, they seem to know, like no other,
just how to ‘second that emotion’.
21st
March Millwall v Burnley
This was my first game for over two
months. I should have been gagging to go, but I just wasn’t. On the way, I tried to
fire myself up with Fugazi, a hardcore band, whose scorching ska rhythms scuttle along
like a stabbed rat. It was an apt but unwitting choice. Fugazi is US military slang for
f***ed up situation. Need I say more?
A chill wind blew off the river and
the sky resembled the emptied contents of the hoover. Who better than Burnley to descend
to the occasion?
This time, Chris went for
wing-backs (Weller and Vinnicombe). He put himself in central midfield to help spread the
play. Cooke and Payton played up front, although Payton’s contribution was brief, due
to his recurrent hamstring problem. This brought in the wholly brave but largely
ineffective, Kevin Henderson.
Burnley carved out three chances in
this game; a diving header from Cooke, a mishit volley from sub Howey and a point blank
miss from Smith in the 90th minute. All three chances were created by Waddle,
despite his obvious discomfort in central midfield. But for the most part Burnley were
embalmed. Ford’s misplaced pass and Winstanley’s poor defending gifted
Millwall’s only goal. Were Winstanley’s parents trying to tell him something
when they named him Mark? Mind you, he made some amends with a goal-line clearance in the
second half. Woods also kept them technically alive with a string of agile saves. Apart
from Smith’s dreadful miss, I watched the sorry spectacle with morose detachment.
Fortunately, many others made a better show of support. It was more than the team
deserved.
On the way home, I tuned into the
cricket. It was a brief diversion for immediately, five English wickets fell in a clatter
of ineptitude. I recalled a friend’s son once asking whether
AnotherEnglandbattingcollapse was a single word? Anyway, I had my fill of failure. I felt
totally incapable of rousing myself with more adrenaline music, though, so turned to Miles
Davis. Kind of Blue is exactly right when I’m feeling wasted. With the immediate
prospect of the week’s shopping before me, it hit the perfect note.
28th March Burnley v Grimsby
Some say that long distance running
is an effective anti-depressant. Small wonder, then, that I’m running absurd
distances every weekend. Today was no exception. By the time I’d returned my body had
instituted divorce proceedings against my brain. Not that there was any protest. Cerebral
shutdown had been assured ever since the fourteenth mile. On the back of this, I had a
simple choice of activities; Ceefax uninterruptus or shopping. The former always requires
a semblance of hope. With Burnley five points adrift at the bottom, even Andrew, my
ever-optimistic friend, wouldn’t sub me some. So, of course, I went for the latter.
Even Little’s savage opener on five minutes didn’t deter me. I knew that it
wouldn’t last long and it didn’t. Jack Lester was gifted an equaliser five
minutes later. On my way to the shops, I paused to watch a coot apparently becalmed on the
Thames. Except that unseen, below the eddying surface, the bird was obviously paddling
furiously to hold its position against the surging tide. This prompted me to think of
Chris Waddle. But when you’re reduced to pratting around with duff metaphors, you
know that the supermarket is as much as you deserve. As a result, I missed the final
decisive twist. Apparently, Grimsby reciprocated Burnley’s negligence and Payton
tucked the chance away. The teleprinted result greeted my return. With Southend losing 2-0
at Bristol Rovers on the night before and Carlisle conceding a late losing goal at home to
Bournemouth, this win had helped narrow the gap. However, both Plymouth and Brentford had
won their home games and remained six points ahead. Hope was still on ice.
4th
April Northampton v Burnley
This was a wild,
squally day, a bit like it had been at Gillingham in January. But unlike that day, I had a
sense that it’d come right. I couldn’t account for this, neither could Andrew.
Normally, I help his flights of fancy pay gravity’s dues, while he uproots my
expectations from subterranean spheres. Today, it was a role reversal. I’m not sure
why I felt so good. Northampton is a strong and well-organised side. They were in a
play-off position and generally reliable at home. True, we’d been lifted by
Mullin’s return. I’d always liked him and we needed another established striker
(as we’d done all season), particularly given Payton’s injury problems and
Cooke’s suspensions. Southend’s home 2-0 defeat by Chesterfield on the Friday
night was another reason to feel cheerful, but still this pre-match optimism didn’t
make sense.
Sixfields is a curious development.
It is part of a sports and leisure complex comprising a running track, a multi-cinema,
various fast food outlets and a fake pub. It is exposed and desolate, detached from both
the town centre and the fringe housing development. It is built on wasteland, with a
worrying profusion of vents. It was like a more verdant version of that gaunt settlement
in High Plains Drifter. Fun in Northampton obviously involves being a bit of a leper.
Amazingly, my optimism was
warranted. Payton gave us the perfect start when he stabbed in Mullin’s cross after
ten minutes. Mullin had done supremely well to set up this chance, running half the length
of the pitch before squaring the ball from the dead ball line. In fact, Mullin and Payton
troubled the Northampton defence throughout with their strong running. Whereas the
Cobblers’ long ball game often perished in the swirling wind. However, as committed
as Burnley were (Smith excepted), we were under no illusions. For most of this game,
Northampton were poor, piss poor. Only Gleghorn threatened our goal in the first half, but
his powerful downward header was brilliantly turned aside by Woods. In the second half,
Northampton managed to summon a few more attacks and immediately Burnley’s defensive
frailties became exposed. Freestone wasted a glorious late chance to equalise and there
were several other close calls. Having said that, Burnley continued to create clear cut
opportunities. Smith was desperately unlucky with a free kick, which was superbly saved by
the home ‘keeper. Payton’s deflected drive also clipped the top of the crossbar.
It was a good journey home with
Burnley overtaking both Southend and Carlisle, with the latter losing 1-0 at Ashton Gate.
What’s more, they were now threatening both Plymouth, who’d lost 2-0 at Oldham
and Brentford, who’d drawn 2-2 at Wrexham. Andrew and I debated whether to hope
again. We agreed that we wouldn’t and yet the thought kept returning. In the end we
had to say it, ‘If only we can brush Blackpool aside in midweek, we’ll be right
back in with a chance. And if only we can squeeze three points out of Bristol City, then
sanctuary may only be a win away.’ With that, a splendid rainbow appeared over the
Chilterns. Sod the trite symbolism. When you’re desperate for salvation, anything
will do.
7th
April Burnley v Blackpool
Sunday was good. Of
course, there was plenty to read in the Sunday papers, but only one page interested me. It
was if I needed to reassure myself that the result hadn’t been taken away or never
happened. No, the proof remained. That marvellous win and a climb of two places. This day,
I allowed myself the luxury of vacant pleasures. But by Monday, I began to be afflicted by
anxious ‘what ifs’. On Tuesday, it was worse. It was only through excessive zeal
at work could I cope. Well, how else can you deal with an obsession except by setting
another against it? However, there was still almost an hour before kick off, by the time
I’d returned home. It was no good. I refused to be lured into Ceefax zombiedom. I had
to take myself out for a run. I intended to go farther, but I had to know. Sprinting back
for half time, I barged into the front room and grasped for the remote control. A
momentary pause and then YESSS!! Payton had put them ahead. I ran upstairs, two steps at a
time, punctuating each leap with a punched YES! But by the time I’d found Five Live
on the bathroom radio, my brief joy was punctured. ‘And we’re hearing news of an
equaliser at Turf Moor…’ I didn’t want to hear that Burnley should have
been home and dry by half time. That they’d missed a succession of early chances.
That Blackpool’s goal was given away. This should have at least reassured me that the
game was still there for the taking, but it didn’t. And I was right. No sooner had I
got myself dried than there was news of another Blackpool goal. I knew this was terminal.
Mullin’s late dismissal was the final straw. I was going to ring Dave for a report
but the radio told me quite enough. As I lay in bed, ruminating on the result, I knew that
my gloom was over the top. I knew that it shouldn’t matter as much as this. The
trouble was, it just did.
11th
April Burnley v Bristol City
Relegation is a bit
like toothache. You get on with what you have to do. Sometimes, you can forget it’s
there. But your attention keeps coming back to it. You even run your tongue over the
troublesome tooth, just to give the ache a prod. Today, Liz decided she didn’t want
to go out. As far as Ceefax was concerned, I was still in a delicate stage of remission.
Like a reformed alcoholic it is a case of taking one match at a time. No, the thing to do
was to go to a game. Brentford were playing Fulham. The result could matter. My mind was
quickly resolved.
Fulham did their stuff, although
Brentford battled with commendable tenacity. I had no inkling of the Burnley result until
I was way down the A4. Oh that joyful winning cadence in the announcer’s voice. I
knew that Burnley’s solitary penalty goal was good enough as soon as he said it. OK
they were lucky. Apparently, Bristol had a perfectly good equaliser ruled out with only
minutes remaining. Most observers took John Ward’s view that the ‘only thing
interfering with play was the linesman’s flag.’ But we deserved a better run of
the ball. Just as well, too, because those bastard Seasiders had allowed ten-men Plymouth
to beat them 3-1, after being in front, too. I’ve never been sold much on conspiracy
theories. I have problems imagining that anyone can be so organised. And let’s face
it, the cock up alternative is much more convincing. At least, when you’re following
Burnley. But Blackpool’s performances over Easter were enough to make me think again.
13th April Wigan
Athletic v Burnley
Liz
wasn’t too pleased with me. We’d had a good day out. But the car radio exerted
its pull as three o’ clock approached. Mind you, I hadn’t helped things. I
paraphrased that quote. I can’t remember it exactly, but it’s something like,
‘Some women say that childbirth is the most agonising form of pain but they’ve
probably never experienced relegation.’ Being a bloke is sometimes quite
indefensible.
On Good Fridays it is
rumoured that even the most leaden skies lift in mid afternoon as testament to
Christ’s atonement. On this Easter Monday, the reverse was true as we were hit by a
sudden snow squall, shortly after kick off. Much worse, the radio announced
Brentford’s early two-goal lead at Blackpool. See what I mean about conspiracies? And
to compound the downbeat mood, Plymouth promptly equalised at the Den. For a while there
was no news of Burnley. I assumed this signified no score. Wrong! Almost as an
afterthought, news of their two-goal deficit was relayed at half time. But just before
Alan Green and Co. became immersed in Barnsley’s futile struggle at Newcastle, Glen
Little’s 47th minute strike was slipped in. Now, there was cause for hope.
Surely our lousy form against Wigan wouldn’t continue? Even a draw would be
something. I waited half-expectantly for a stunning turnaround. I was willing an
interruption to Alan Green’s commentary. Urging his words, ‘There’s news of
an amazing recovery at Springfield Park where visitors, Burnley, have turned a two goal
deficit into a 3-2 lead.’ It didn’t happen. As the final results came through,
it couldn’t have been any worse. A 5-1 defeat. Liz chuckled, ‘Oh dear!’ The
sort of condolence that makes you grip the wheel with unnatural force. Up until three, it
had been a memorable day. Now, it was buggered.
18th April Burnley v Fulham
My
parents have been struggling for some time. I do what I can. But I can’t take away
their various disabilities and desperate unhappiness. Today seemed right for sharing.
There are times when even a miserable sod like me can be welcome company. Well, who needs
a bloody sunbeam when you’re really, really pissed off. And everything was so well
set. Their woes, hundreds of solitary magpies and my gloomy forecast. An away win was a
dead cert, surely. Especially after Fulham’s classy show at Brentford and their 5-0
rout of Carlisle. And if Brentford and Plymouth both won their home games, this would
certainly mean the end. I came back with their shopping at 4-50pm. I put on Ceefax,
expecting due confirmation. But no!! God was going to string it out, wasn’t he?
Perverse bugger! Burnley were winning thanks to Payton’s late effort. Unbelievably,
both Brentford and Plymouth were losing, too. How come? As the results were duly
confirmed, elation burst back into a room from which it had been pensioned off years ago.
Burnley were right back on the tails of Plymouth and Brentford, with a game in hand,
albeit an away one at Oldham. And Carlisle and Southend now seemed out of it. But once my
incandescent delight had begun to dim, I recalled that Sunderland supporter on Premier
Passions. The one, who said, ‘Nothing hurts like lingering hope.’ Yes,
that’s it. It’s no more than a sadistic wheeze. Something God has dreamt up
during a slack moment, while watching Jim’s Big Break or something similar.
So, what is it with
football? Is it simply a device to help us contend with bigger things? A convenient
receptacle for dispersed joy, disaffection and pain? What do I know? After all, I’m
an emotional retard. I think I must have stopped maturing in my twelfth year. But I’m
still not sure why I have this fanatical devotion to a losing cause? Had I been born in
medieval times, I would have probably welded myself to some Second Division heresy
instead. Something like the Word of God took material form in a bite size Shredded Wheat
or medieval equivalent. Something that was more wacky than threatening. And I would have
dutifully worn the sect’s replica hairshirt. And I would have bored where others
crusaded. And would I have renounced my wacky faith under fear of persecution? Well, of
course I would. I may be a dickhead but even I know that cowardice is the better part of
valour.
25th April Bournemouth v Burnley
The funny thing was, I’d
felt optimistic all week. But on the day of the game, it all evaporated. I then knew we
wouldn’t get anything. Payton’s absence just made it more certain. Despite the
passion around me, I couldn’t engage. I knew the script. It was just a case of
waiting for the Cherries to score. Especially after Cooke’s penalty shout was
inexplicably ignored. Perhaps it’s the lack of context, but I sometimes get more
worked up about the course of a game when I’m not there. It might be that exposure to
the real thing is the true passion-killer. In fairness, Burnley made a reasonable fist of
this fight (I’ve now declared Burnley to be a hyperbole-free zone), especially after
conceding two goals in the early part of the second half. Matthew reduced the lead with a
penalty (the referee’s sop to guilt?) with twenty minutes remaining, but thanks to
some desperate defending, Bournemouth survived.
Before the game started, I had a
brief conversation with Carol. She was particularly desperate for a good result because
she was down for the weekend. I knew just what she meant. How the hell can you be sociable
when you’re inconsolable? Well, you can’t. I don’t even try. Again, it just
goes to show that you really shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.
Andrew and I missed the results and
had to commandeer my cousin’s Ceefax. We were both expecting Brentford and Plymouth
victories. This would have left Burnley 4 points adrift of them with only two games to
catch up. It could all be over before next Saturday. But again Plymouth and Brentford
fouled up. Plymouth conceded a 90th minute winner to play off contenders,
Gillingham, and Brentford were held to a 2-2 draw by Luton, who before this game were not
entirely safe, themselves. It was irritating that Brentford’s equaliser came with
only ten minutes remaining, but that’s just greed.
28th April Oldham v Burnley
This time I stayed
with it. No running. No shopping. No working. Just pacing the kitchen, waiting for Five
Live updates. Those ninety switchback minutes were like a microcosm of Burnley’s
whole season. However, it enabled me to suss God out, once and for all. The unanimous
verdict must be that he is a complete sadist. Consider the evidence. First came the joy.
Cooke’s bullet header which drew first blood. Then, immediately after came the pain.
Just as Alan Biggs was describing Cooke’s goal, there was a background roar. Bloody
Ronnie Jepson had equalised. Bad central defending we were told. PhD in the bleeding
obvious to that man. Then just as I was into serious cursing mode, more joy. In fact, cup
runneth over joy. Two Burnley goals within two minutes. First Weller skipped through
Oldham’s defence before flicking in and then there was Glen Little’s well placed
drive from Payton’s lay-off. This was brilliant, absolutely brilliant!! Half-time
came and Burnley were still fully in control. Commentator, Alan Biggs, positively purred
about Burnley’s creativity. I almost forgot the defence. After all, not seeing is
believing. It seemed very much like 1995/96 when Burnley went to Wrexham for the
penultimate game, stuffing them to stay up. This time, a 3-1 win wouldn’t quite
achieve that. But it would give Burnley a safety net. A draw in their final game against
Plymouth would probably be enough, now that they had scored four more goals than
Brentford. Yes, joy was allowed a longer stay this time. It was even buttressed by the
dismissal of an Oldham defender half way through the second period. But this was all
staged. The longer the joy, the more it would hurt when yanked away. ‘That was your
plan all along, wasn’t it God??’ As soon as I heard, ‘We’re going back
to Boundary Park….’, I knew that it wouldn’t be good. But even me, the
galactic pessimist champion, couldn’t have predicted an equaliser while the comeback
goal was still being described. OK they hung on for a point, but that was worthless. I
didn’t think it was possible to exceed the depression quotient post Blackpool. How
wrong I was.
2nd May Burnley v
Plymouth
When you’re up against it,
pessimism is simply an indulgence you can do without. No matter how many lone magpies I
saw on the way there (and believe me, I saw stacks), this was a day for rugged
determination. I know exactly how crappy it sounds, but I wanted to be out there competing
not watching. Well, you do, don’t you? When something matters as much as this, you
want to be actively contributing. Judging by the huge vocal support most felt the same
way. As Mick Jones, Plymouth’s manager said, ‘it was a bear pit out there’.
Of course, it wasn’t entirely
in Burnley’s hands. So, when the word got about that Bristol Rovers had taken an
early lead, our already vociferous support was turned up a notch or two. Alas, it was a
false dawn, for the goal was ruled out. Even more alarmingly, Rovers’ Gary Penrice
was dismissed. Our anxiety became twofold. At least, Cookie helped on one account by
firmly heading Little’s superb cross past Sheffield after 12 minutes. I cannot
remember greeting a goal as ecstatically since Eyres’ equaliser at Wembley. I was
still seeing stars several minutes later.
As well as Burnley were playing,
they couldn’t make this crucial advantage count. We all knew it was coming. And sure
enough, on the half-hour, midfielder, Saunders, arrived late and unchallenged for a left
wing cross, before heading powerfully down and in.
Burnley were not deterred. Weller
slithered like an eel through Plymouth’s rearguard before smacking the underside of
the bar with a blistering drive. Little, too, turned inside his markers and cracked a
rising drive against the bar. Cooke headed the rebound goalwards but Sheffield made an
athletic backwards stop to deny him. But just as the counter assault was losing momentum,
Little served Matthew with an exquisitely weighted ball. Matthew immediately whipped in a
pacy centre from the right by-line and there was Cooke to thump in his second headed goal.
The roar was volcanic.
So, half time came with Burnley just
45 minutes from safety. Rovers and Brentford were still even at 0-0. For me, songs define
moments. It matters little whether the occasion is momentous or mundane. The song
preserves it. This day will forever be associated in my mind with the Lighthouse
Family’s High. Strange really, given this was a day of battle. Some of the things
that I played in the car might have been more in keeping with that theme, like Iggy’s
Search and Destroy or even Rocket from the Crypt’s On A Rope. But no, I’m sure
it will be that half-time selection, the gently swaying High, which will stay the course.
The second half was about hanging
on. True, there were chances for Burnley on the break, but after all the anguish we had
endured this year, Burnley weren’t about to indulge us. Why should they put away the
chances that would allow us to relax a little, allow us to focus on events in Bristol? No,
we’d come for a white-knuckle ride and that’s what we were given. Especially,
when Plymouth hit the post. Especially when Winstanley’s air shot allowed substitute
Earl Jean a simple chance. Jean was only six or seven yards from goal. He was unmarked in
a central position and only had Woods to beat. With just nine minutes remaining, this goal
would have almost certainly saved Plymouth (Brentford had just gone one down) and
condemned Burnley.
It’s true what they say. When
something critical takes place, like a road crash, events happen as if in slow motion. We
saw Jean size up the opportunity. We saw him draw back his right foot. We watched him make
imperfect contact. And we watched with horror as the ball propelled goalwards. But we
gasped with relief as Woods clutched the ball to his midriff.
Not that the alarms were confined to
Turf Moor. Several minutes later, our worries intensified as news of Brentford’s
equaliser spread around the ground. Those guys with headphones were like the sonar
operators on World War II destroyers, warning us of enemy activity. But the frowns were
turned quickly into excited smiles as Rovers restored their lead. We urged Burnley
forward; knowing that salvation was seconds away. However, there was still more pressure
to absorb. As Plymouth lined up their crosses, those around us warned unnecessarily,
‘Here it comes’, almost closing their eyes for fear of what might happen. To
shift to a different wartime metaphor, it was like waiting for a Doodlebug’s engines
to cut out. All of us focused on the referee, willing, imploring that final whistle, and
taking in the play with just our peripheral vision. At last, we were released. The force
that had been gathering in my throat and chest ripped out. All that accumulated anxiety,
all that arrested longing that had become fiercely focused on a fixture list, finally
combusted. Lydia returned with us for this one. It was if she’d never been away as we
clung to one another in relief and unconfined joy.
Of course, it still wasn’t
over. The PA announcer told us that there was still five minutes play left at Bristol. He
didn’t need to tell us when it was all over, though. We did that for one another.
Outside, we met up with Dave. Dave
and I have tried to support one another through this dreadful season. Now, we didn’t
really know what to say. We were hoarse, our legs had gone and any semblance of coherence
had been totally lost. We simply agreed to resume communication on another day when,
hopefully, cerebral activity was restored.
As we trailed past the many Plymouth
coaches, we applauded their supporters for themselves and their team who did them proud.
In turn, they applauded us. This is as it should be. We know exactly what it feels like to
follow a team on long relegation journeys, arriving back after a six or seven hour trip,
with gritty eyes, stiff legs and churning indigestion and only the sourness of defeat to
take into the working week. Much more binds us together than that which separates us. I
know I’m a sentimental plonker, but when I saw a young Plymouth lass overcome with
tears, I nearly broke up. A teenage Burnley supporter gave a better response. He leapt up
at her window, briefly pressing a kiss against the glass, before running off. What
happened between the true fans outside put the record straight. Dignity and respect was
restored, refuting the idiocy of those twats who invaded the pitch, hurling plastic
bottles at the Pilgrim’s fans.
As we made our way down the Calder
Valley, Chris Waddle came on the radio. He sounded wiped out. A total shell. Only his
slight sarcasm suggested any feeling at all. This wasn’t just relief. He was
finished. Neither Andrew nor I gave him much longer. I felt a bit angry, too. Sure, the
pressure on him has been enormous. But after all we’d been through today he could
have at least acknowledged how much that victory meant. It might have been banal, but it
needed saying.
However, let’s give some credit
to the guy. He saw it out and before anyone retorts, ‘that was the bloody
problem’, let’s be clear about the case for the defence (legal, that is for,
let’s face it, the Clarets’ rearguard are pretty short on the alibi front,
especially away from home). Since the Gillingham game, in January, Burnley averaged a
point and a half per game i.e. play-off form. There were crappy performances, for sure,
but there were some very good ones, too. All of the top clubs played since Christmas were
beaten (Watford, Bristol City, Grimsby, Fulham). The Barnes – Payton swap was hugely
successful and when the management finally realised what was their strongest team,
Waddle’s Clarets sometimes looked a better side than Inchy’s outfit. It came
late, true. Almost too late, but it worked, just. Nor should we delude ourselves about
96/97. Despite the expansive victories, there was a string of dire results against poor
opposition. Also, contrary to what some thought, I felt that Chris Waddle was generally a
considerable asset as a player viz. against Watford (home), Brentford (away), Northampton
(home). It was so regrettable that he took so long to cotton on. Those pre-Christmas team
selections seemed more based on Feng Shui principles than sound football management. And
as for those signings….
Anyway, we did not dwell on the
misgivings as we drove over the moors in dappled sunlight. This was an evening to savour,
an evening on which to celebrate immoderately, an evening for the liver to justify its
existence. Of course, like Groundhog Day, the whole thing would soon be cranked into
action once more. The speculation about the new management, rumoured comings and goings,
pre-season fixtures against fake giants. Last time we had Gremio. Who would we attract
this time round? A3 Milan? Real Ale Madrid? Sporting Lesbian? But we left that for
tomorrow for now we could really enjoy today.
As a postscript, I had been wrong
about God. He’s not the absolute sadist. He just likes a good piece of theatre. In
this depressing, frustrating, agonising but ultimately uplifting season, had we not been
caught up in all those twists and turns, right until the very end, we wouldn’t have
had a day which we will remember for the rest of our lives.
