"We could do with a fifth"
Bristol Rovers 3 Burnley 4, 9th
January 1999
Firmo
At
half time, I had to approach a friend stood further down the shallow away terrace to ask
if all this was really happening. Apparently, it was. We had indeed scored three times, on
each occasion taking the lead, only to be pulled level three times. The half time score
was indeed 3-3.
You will forgive my confusion, for games like
this are far from the normal fare of the follower of Burnley away. The defensive
confusion, lapses in concentration and lack of co-ordination which had a hand in their
half of the score, sure; we have all not only been there, done that, bought the bloody
T-shirt, but shrunk the T-shirt in the wash, worn it for work around the house, whizzed it
and bought another. But an attack with verve, fast, direct and skilful? Who’s that
then? There can’t be two teams called Burnley, can there?
As the goals rained in during that mad first
half, I couldn’t help but wish I’d had a bit less to drink before the game. But
then, unlike the avalanche of goals, that was always going to happen. We reached Bristol
at five to eleven, and the rest was predictable: good beer in fine pubs up steep hills.
Worse still, we came pre-warmed by champagne drunk on the train in celebration of our
portly treasurer’s 51st birthday (having escaped our clutches for the dreaded half
century last year, he would not be so lucky this time). It wasn’t much, a mere
snifter, but it served to accelerate the effects of the following ale. By the time I got
to the ground to claim the only available spot at the top of the corner terrace next to
the bogs, I was in a pretty bad way.
I sent my brother for a Cornish pasty (no pies
here) and attempted to keep up with play, and work out what I was going to write. In
particular, I had my eye on latest cash signing and stalwart of the Fruit XI Micky Mellon.
With Davis, Branch and Pickering also starting, this had the look of a new team: a better
team. There was also a change on the terraces. Optimism was widespread; people seemed to
believe we could get something here.
Before I’d had time to work up much of a
theme, we scored. Mellon swung over a routine corner from the left and, with the Bristol
marking awry and their keeper at sea, Davis, stood at the far post, rose and headed down.
It was a soft goal. I was surprised it went in. Not to worry: we launched into
"Stevee, Stevee Davis," only to halt in confusion as the man on the PA gave it
to Andy Cooke. True, Cooke was stood at the far post, but it hadn’t seemed to touch
him. Still, one trusts authority figures, particularly when one can’t rely on
one’s own grog-impaired senses. We shouldn’t have. Afterwards the goal was
confirmed as Davis’. It was a shame we hadn’t been able to give our
prodigal’s first goal the reception it deserved. Never mind, there’ll be others:
it was his eleventh of the season.
It was good to see Mellon making an early
impression, and funny to think of our friends the Bristol Rovers London supporters, who
had boasted to us on the train about how they hadn’t conceded a goal for the last
five games.
Could it last? It did - for ten minutes. A
through ball caught our defence scattered with Crichton running madly from his line. With
him caught out in the middle of nowhere, it was an easy enough job for Cureton to chip
him. Cureton, of course, always bloody scores against us, but then, he’s always a
handful.
We reset our expectations on a draw, but five
minutes later we had the lead again, and in some style. Branch caught one of their
defenders dwelling on the ball, robbed him, and steamed around the keeper, but in doing so
went too far, too close to the touchline, and left himself too tight an angle to score
from. Then he scored from there; just rolled it across and into an empty net before anyone
could reach it. It was a lovely piece of skill.
A full five minutes elapsed before we lost the
lead again. We didn’t pick up their ball into our box, and Roberts (apparently)
turned, shot and scored, with Davis and Reid at cross purposes.
The game entered a dull phase now. Ten minutes
went by and no-one scored. Then, on the edge of half time, we scored a goal that ought to
have won the game. It was, literally, a perfect goal, in that nothing could have been done
better. From our position in the corner we could see events unfolding as if in slow
motion. At each stage, each player did exactly the thing you urged them to do. Armstrong
grabbed the ball and released Cooke, who ran wide through midfield. Mellon was running
down the right, Payton was charging down the middle. Just when he needed to, Cooke played
it in front of Mellon. Mellon had one chance to get it right and no time to think. He got
it right, and the moment he got to the ball, crossed to Payton. Payton arrived at exactly
the right moment to control it with his first touch and crash it into the net with his
second. It was a magnificent team moment.
Payton ran towards us to celebrate and
everything went sideways. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, in the approximate
middle of a heap of collapsed Clarets. It had been a long time since I’d fallen over
inside a football ground, not since Grimsby away in 94 for Gary Parkinson’s injury
time equaliser: too long. Let’s hope there are more opportunities to lose control to
come.
I picked myself up, dusted myself down, said
something like, blimey, 3-2 up at half time eh, and Bristol Rovers scored. It was their
best goal, too: a neat lay off and a hard low shot from the edge of the box. We cursed,
stood momentarily sickened, and then half time came and we gave the team our applause.
That was when I had to check that that barmy
half of football had happened. 3-3, with 45 minutes still to play. Opinion was divided on
the question of the second half: some said we would draw 5-5, or, knowing our luck, lose
6-5, others that it would have to tighten up, it couldn’t really keep going like
this. And, much as we were pleased with our attack, with Mellon enjoying a terrific debut
at the heart of absolutely everything and Branch showing a blistering turn of speed and no
little sharpness, we couldn’t help but note the alarming deficiencies of our defence.
We’d hoped the return of the king might cure these, but Davis was dashing forward at
every opportunity, and in his absence, the rest of the defence couldn’t cope. Even
when he was at the back, there was still some lack of co-ordination. But there have been
so many changes lately, it would be strange if there wasn’t, and let’s not be
churlish, shall we? We’d seen a half of rare entertainment. Plus our fat treasurer
got a birthday announcement.
Predictably enough, after half time team talks,
both sides sought to tighten up. As we had the better attack, things were still in our
favour. It was, however, another piece of slack defending by Bristol Rovers that led to
our winner. That doesn’t take any of the gloss off; we still had to seize on and
finish the chance. Typically, Mellon was involved. He got his foot in to a sloppy ball in
defence and sent Cooke through. Cooke took it closer to goal, then belted it home before
he had time to think and miss. At last a Cooke goal, and some reward for his greater
effort in this match. TV later showed it took a significant deflection off a Bristol boot.
So what? Hopefully he’s back on the up from this point.
We waited for the inevitable Bristol equaliser.
We’d led 1-0, 2-1, 3-2 and now 4-3. Surely we couldn’t hang on? After about
fifteen minutes, when they still hadn’t scored, it began to dawn on us that we might
win. Sure, they had a couple of shots, but Crichton was equal to them, and in saving them
atoned for his earlier mistake. We had chances too. Cooke could have had at least another,
and Mellon’s outstanding display of scurrying meant we continued to give as good as
we got. Swan came on for Cooke as a direct replacement (although he was erroneously
described as a midfielder) and we held out reasonably well. The last few minutes were
nerve-racking, mind; we could still throw it away, and we’d got to the stage where a
point would be disappointing. It was around this time that my brother turned to me and
commented, matter of factly, "We could do with a fifth." There as a pause as we
took in how absurd it was that someone could be able to say that, then we fell about
(metaphorically this time). At the end we whistled furiously, tried to lend encouragement
to hang on, criticised the ref as usual, and tried to tolerate the usual decade of
stoppage time. We were all waiting to acknowledge this as a brilliant game, but we could
only do that if we held on for a win. That would then make this one to remember; we could
leave with the knowledge that we would be able to talk about this game with fondness when
we next played here. We were also all ready to believe that this might be the start of
something, and were prepared to wipe the slate clean and give them another chance in the
light of recent signings. We all wanted to have faith in Burnley again.
Well, that faith was justified. We hung on,
there were no major scares to survive, and at the end of the game all the players came
over as one to indulge in mutual congratulation. We left to a deliberately incongruous
chant of "4-3 to the Burn-er-ley," along with a quick burst of "Jingle
Bells." I realised the excitement and tension had left me sober. We made haste to
address that problem.
Our jubilation was justified. We had deserved to
win. Later, local press and their manager commented, in mealy mouthed manner, that they
had dominated the game, had thrown it away, that we had been lucky. Nonsense. We held the
lead four times. They never had it. We kept scoring, they kept responding (and our defence
was easily as charitable as theirs), until we scored one more than them. We played in
superb manner, bold and bright, and deserved the win. Our third goal was the pick of the
match. They made mistakes, but they made them because we put them under pressure by
attacking them, and even when they made mistakes, we had to put them away. Previous
incarnations of Burnley have been inclined to try to walk the ball into the net, and have
often looked a gift horse in the mouth. This was better.
The next few games will tell us whether this was
a flash in the pan, or whether we can now start expecting something better from Burnley.
Wouldn't it be great if this turned out to be the real Burnley? Whatever happens, this
will always be a brilliant day. Burnley were exciting again. I could get used to this, you
know.
Team: Crichton,
Pickering, Morgan, Mellon, Davis, Reid, Robertson, Armstrong, Cooke (Swan 80), Payton,
Branch. SNU: Brass, Maylett.
Tim Quelch's
report and Hego's report, plus the
London Gasheads' memories of the day
