Proud to be a Claret
Man City 2 Burnley 2, 3rd October 1998
Firmo
This was an almost
splendid day. I suppose we'd all suspected that we would raise our game as we often do
against the best sides, and I had an unshakeable confidence that we would get something
here. Especially for the occasion I was carrying lucky tokens, like the Scottish five
pound note I'd had foisted on me in a Soho record shop the day before and the squeezable
Kenny-from-South-Park key ring that provided me with something to grip in moments of
stress, along with the Burnley badge that I have to forget to wear and leave nestled in my
pocket. I used my lucky cashpoint at Euston, and in Stockport, we got Tiger Feet on
the jukebox. When I was told that we had won the first game in August and the first in
September, I became more convinced than ever that this would be our day. It very nearly
was.
Given that we had to stop off at
the park near the ground to empty our Robinson’s-filled bladders in the toilets of
the Manchester Costume Museum (in return for a small donation - we are not philistines),
it is perhaps fortunate that we did not hold out for the win. We might have had to urinate
in a museum before every game.
Early, we took our seats. Maine
Road is a less than impressive arena, an odd assortment of bits joined together, with one
impressive huge stand next to a cheap and ugly collection of executive boxes. The away end
was absurdly Lutonesque, the seats jammed way too close together and half of it given over
to City fans (can we do the same when they visit?), but this was at least better than the
roofless piece of scaffolding in the corner where the rest of our supporters were dumped.
This was not exactly premier league.
I was still musing on such
matters when Man City scored. Goater always scores against us, but then, he is a decent
lower division striker, and you have to get slightly nearer to him than Reid did. My
gung-ho attitude now looked very misplaced. Although a perfectly good long range shot by
Cooke was erroneously ruled out because someone else was assumed to be interfering with
play, they could and should have had a few more. Thankfully, they kept losing nerve in
front of goal. They over-complicated, evaded responsibility and passed when they should
have shot. When they did shoot, Ward proved hard to beat. Particularly amusing was Lee
Bradbury, who cost around ten times as much as our entire team, but failed miserably
whenever he got the ball near our goal.
So it could and perhaps should
have been over there and then. But confident, cocky, they knocked a terrible backpass
toward goal while under no great pressure, and Andy Payton pounced and coolly scored. If
Payton chases the next hundred backpasses and gets nothing, it will be worth it for this.
It was a terrible mistake by them, but Payton still had to be there and seize the chance.
We must have the hardest-working forward partnership in the division; Payton covered every
blade of grass.
Naturally enough, the away end
erupted. This was an anti-intellectual game: not one where you sit down, be reasonable and
judge things on their merits, but a game where you know the only acceptable thing to do is
have a few drinks, shout yourself hoarse, scream and sing and show the other bunch of
supporters up. It was, therefore, one of those games where we show ourselves in our best
light, where you feel vindicated in your "choice" of team and, yes, proud to be
a Claret. It was also the kind of game that you turn up at slightly pissed and leave
completely sober, the adrenaline having worked its magic.
Accept in that light the fact
that when I had stopped celebrating, I looked over at the Man City supporters in the
adjacent stand, whose natural assumption of superiority was irritating me greatly (if also
proving oddly familiar). What I saw was a marvellous picture. Every head was looking
towards the end where we had just scored, in disbelief, like we had done something which
we were not allowed (either that or one of the many pockets of Burnley supporters tucked
around this unwelcoming ground had made themselves a little too obvious). Not a single one
would turn round to catch our eye.
At half time, I would accept
that we were slightly fortunate to be level. But then, I know that under Ternent we
always, without exception, play better in the second half.
So it proved. Ten minutes in,
Paul Smith broke free with enough space to mess it up. I suppose that's what we all
expected. We could see Cooke charging into the penalty area in front of us, unmarked. We
all knew what was needed. We all willed Smith to do it, but not with much confidence. He
did it. From the moment he swung his foot it looked like a goal. The ball curled in a
glorious arc towards Cooke, who hit it first time and buried it.
There followed many hugs, back
slaps and bruises, a look at the watch, a squeeze of squeezy Kenny, a triumphant and
foul-mouthed bellow in the direction of the City supporters, some obscene gestures and
tops of voices singing. Then came a long, repetitive, and very loud rendition of the Andy
Cooke song, which continued even as the game resumed. When Cooke was growing up kicking a
ball around, he probably dreamt of moments like this, but never knew if they’d
happen.
We were having the better of the
game now. City’s attacks were floundering and we poured forward, fired by the
industry of Payton and Cooke and illuminated by the brilliance of Little, who would not
let their fullback rest. He was the best player on the pitch. He had one glorious shot
saved by the keeper's legs. That could have been it. Meanwhile we stayed solid at the
back, and there were some individual stories to tell there. Take Rune Vindheim, over from
Norway on trial, and with one midweek reserve match behind him, pitched in out of position
in front of 30,000 and asked to cope, which he did with ease, looking classy (if a little
one-paced). Then there were Reid, Scott and Armstrong, now veterans of a handful of games,
the latter two played out of position and providing huge amounts of determination, with
Scott picking up his routine booking. My favourite story was Matthew Heywood, an eighteen
year old midfielder with as much as a couple of substitute appearances behind him, playing
at the heart of our defence and doing a fair old impression of having always been there.
When Vindheim went off, Carl Smith came on and played with aggression, and even Robertson
had a decent game. One of the other subs was a seventeen-year-old. What would Ternent do
if he had money to spend?
If our directors make the club
seem stuck in a soap opera, then Ternent’s efforts are straight out of a Hollywood
film. He is the tough sergeant with a soft centre, taking on an unpromising mixture of raw
recruits, renegades and rejects, and against all the odds and in the face of all his
doubters, moulding them into a crack fighting unit. If last season was The Great Escape
then this is The Dirty Dozen. Stan deserves an Oscar.
Still, which of us didn't think
Man City would score a late goal? Who was it who said, "I can stand the agony.
It’s the hope I can’t stand?" That’s how I felt. There was a clock in
the corner of the ground and it was on a go-slow. We ran through our entire repertoire of
songs and furiously applauded everything, but I could not properly join in, as my left
hand was now clutching squeezable Kenny all the time. I felt that if I held on, so would
we. Consequently, I was quite calm. I’d put my hope in an act of blind faith. Yet
when we started farting around with the ball at the corner flag to waste time, we all
cheered, but at the same time knew we would pay. There was still ten minutes left, if you
counted the stoppage time.
The only surprise was that they
scored with so long to go. It wasn’t a particularly spectacular goal. It may not have
even been a goal. They had a spell of pressure, got a corner out of it (which may not have
been a corner), and from that got a shot, which Ward saved, but couldn't hold, and from
the rebound, they scored. It was a shame for Ward, who had a great game and held on to
everything before then. The goal was said to be offside, and the players protested. I
couldn't see from the away end.
For the first time in the game,
the so-called best supporters in the world to our right burst into song. We instantly
struck back, of course. Verbally, I mean; on the pitch we were now sensibly holding out
for the draw.
Hold out we duly did. Man City
didn't come close to adding an undeserved third. At the final whistle some City fans ran
on the pitch. What were they celebrating? Narrowly pulling off a draw at home, against us,
with our collection of boys, free transfers and assorted misfits. Our draw felt like a
win. We made some final noise and Andy Payton ushered the players over to take the
deserved applause.
After that it all got a bit
farcical. The tannoy announcements which had perforated the end of the game now
multiplied, telling us repeatedly that because of "congestion" we would be kept
in for a few minutes. As the players finally left, they added the magic word
"voluntary" (albeit while telling us there was no point leaving as we wouldn't
have anywhere to go), whereupon we realised we didn’t have to stay, and left. Outside
in the carpark we realised the word "congestion" was being employed as a
euphemism. What this club, which had so recently adopted a high moral stance at Millwall,
actually should have said was, "if you go outside you might get kicked in." What
can only be called a stand-off was in force, with a smattering of police separating coach
bound Clarets from a bunch of blue yobs. "Go to your coaches," a constable told
us. "We don't have a coach. We're going to Manchester," we replied. "Go on,
then," he said, gesturing to the large group of gathered Mancs and asking us to
breeze through it, "you should be all right." "Are you coming with
us?" we asked. Sadly, before he could answer our pertinent question, a scuffle broke
out in the far corner. As all the yobs charged to join in, us peace-lovers / cowards
seized our chance, and we walked swiftly through the gap just created, posing only to pick
up a copy of some sad Manc fanzine as extra camouflage.
The rest is the story of getting
lost, getting on a bus, sitting going nowhere on a blocked road, getting off the bus and
walking at top speed to the meeting pub there to drink fast and furiously. There wasn't a
traffic cop to be seen, as the endless stream of cars coming away from the ground joined
the Saturday centre-bound traffic in a single queue.
Premier league ground my arse.
We compensated for lost drinking
time by working fast in a succession of pubs. At one point I am told we were walking
through a tunnel screaming at full pelt, because we liked the echo. The day after I had no
voice. It was still a pretty splendid day. We won 2-2. And, despite what the doubters
might have thought about Stan, we played some great attacking football. The future is
bright. We will soon climb the table. We have nothing to fear. It would almost spoil the
story to give our manager any money.
Team: Ward,
Scott, Armstrong, Vindheim (C Smith 71), Heywood, Reid, Little, Robertson, Cooke, Payton,
P Smith. SNU: Carr-Lawton, Maylett.
Links - Hego's report plus the horrors of the home
game
