P.S.
Northampton 2 Burnley 2, 8th May 1999
Firmo
This was an odd way for my season to
end: not with a bang, but a whimper. Northampton’s ludicrous ticketing arrangements,
forced upon them by their hopelessly compromised cheapskate stadium, had provoked a mad
scramble for those little green pieces of card which would enable Claret access to their
wake. When the music stopped, your correspondent was left clutching two priceless tickets
for row C... of the main stand. We steeled ourselves for a difficult day. For us, the
thought of having to play this game was profoundly uninteresting; for them it was their
last and desperate chance. Our particular little Claret enclave of four was surrounded by
Cobblers fans desperate for a win. I looked with longing over the rain lashed pitch to the
away end, full of those lucky bastards who had got the right ticket, nonchalant about the
game and more concerned about results elsewhere.
Ho hum, the game started. In the first half, we
were quite obviously going through the motions. Get this out the way and the holidays
start. In the wrong stand, we passed our first test when they scored. Crichton, a hero at
Wigan, bollocksed up a half hit shot, pushing a ball that should have been his into the
path of their striker, who really couldn’t miss. They cheered, we stayed seated. We
may at this point have contemplated the wisdom of leaving the Wetherspoon’s, where
the divine Bateman’s Dark Mild had retailed at a ridiculous 99 pence. But it was the
end of the season, so I tried to soak up a little of the football and keep track of the
players, not all of whom I could be sure I would ever see playing for us again.
On the saturated pitch, the players were simply
getting soaked. Drainage may be a problem on this landfill site, and the fact that their
council-owned ground is used for a thousand local matches can’t have helped. It was a
slipping and sliding mud bath, with little football of quality, abetted by the customary
poor referee. Northampton were a bunch of hackers, clogging the ball to big lads and
hitting and hoping. What football there was was played by us. This was particularly so
when Maylett replaced Pickering, a tactical switch which at the time seemed surprising,
although in the light of Pickering’s subsequent departure, perhaps less so. Shame we
didn’t know at the time; we’d have given the scorer of that stupendous goal at
Stoke a better send off.
Anyway, Maylett was on for his most sustained
crack of the whip so far. He took the opportunity well. In Little, playing up front with
Cooke, and Maylett, we have two very exciting, but different, attacking players. While
Little is never happier than when running at and through the opposition with the ball at
his feet, Maylett’s chief assets are pace and determination. He thrives on the ball
played in front of him, knocking it forward and getting there faster than the opponent. On
a wet pitch this worked a treat.
It’s encouraging that, once safety was
achieved, Ternent brought some of the younger players back in. Although he was to let a
lot go the following week, it’s easy to see which ones he rates: Robertson, Maylett
and Heywood. Robertson played in midfield for this, while Heywood stayed at sub for the
second game running. Then there’s Paul Smith, who seems like a veteran because
he’s been around so long. He returned to the bench at the end of a quite horrible
season. As he spent the first half running up and down the touchline getting increasingly
drenched, I hoped he was glad to be back.
Half time came with them 1-0 up but people
around us were listening to radios and were consequently gloomy. Oldham were playing the
division’s softest touches Reading (at a lamentably empty Boundary Park) and were
winning predictably. Whatever Northampton did here, unless something changed there, it
wouldn’t be enough. They could score a hatfull against us, and still go down. They
might have, having scored so early and with Tom Cowan enjoying an uncharacteristically
poor game, but by half time the threat had been averted and we’d toughened up. We
enjoyed the contrast to our game a year ago and patronised their lot accordingly.
We encountered a load more Clarets in the stand,
practising varying degrees of discretion, and attempted to grab a pie and a piss.
Unfortunately, we could get neither. Long queues in the pathetically restricted space at
the back of the stand saw to that.
The match resumed. Paul Smith came on for
Robertson to play the last half hour. It must have been important to him to feel that his
season hadn't ended with the injury. He looked like his old self as well, twice making
good runs with the ball before tiredness set in near the end. We now had Little, Smith and
Maylett on the pitch at the same time. Next season could be lively one, unless Little
leaves.
We grew increasingly jealous of our friends in
the away end, who were enjoying some kind of party utterly divorced from events on the
pitch. Events on this pitch, that is. News has filtered through from Deadwood Park that
our cousins from down the M65 were not getting the better of their game against useless,
already relegated Nottingham Forest. This provided an excuse for a sing song. As the
following launched into another chorus of ‘Bastards going down’ the natives of
the home stand grew increasingly confused and restive. They thought we were singing of
their own fate, and responded accordingly. As if we’d ever get worked up about this
bunch of pseudo Cockney nobodies.
They also had a particularly irritating habit of
advising our manager to sit down every time he stood to convey a few words of instruction
(yes, he turned up for this one). I found it odd that they took their frustrations out on
him rather than tried to lend their team encouragement in a potentially decisive game.
In the circumstances, perhaps the most annoying
thing we could do was to score from a dubious penalty, which we promptly did. As I was
wiping my glasses at the time (the roof of the stand didn’t extend to cover all the
seats, and those of us sat near the front got ever so slightly damp) I didn’t see
what happened, but word was that Maylett had run for a haphazard ball played into the box
but been held back. It was probably slightly harsh, but I wouldn’t accuse any player
of diving when it was so hard to keep their feet in the mud. To emphasise this point, Paul
Cook sought the referee’s advice on the approximate location of a putative penalty
spot. So Paul Cook is our penalty taker in the absence of Payton, we mused. He might have
been for ages. How would we know? This was our second penalty of the season, after only
Payton’s against Blackpool in November. Has there ever been a season when we’ve
had so few? Oddly enough, Payton’s was dubious as well. Like we care.
Cook took a crap penalty anyway, low and too
central, but fortunately their goalie had dived and in it went. This was our real test in
the home stand. We were glad it was a penalty, as this gave us time not to be spontaneous.
We contended ourselves with a brief handclap. Yet not all Clarets in enemy territory
possessed similar reserves of self-control. A few jumped, cheered, and were promptly
dragged out. The people in front of us seemed to be more interested in watching Burnley
supporters being escorted from the stand than seeing whether their side could rescue the
game. I think it was at about this stage that I lost my patience with the drabness of the
town, the poverty of decent pubs and their zany opening hours, their horrid little ground,
paucity of tickets and lack of passionate support. From hereon in we resolved to cheer our
lads.
This was easier than it might seem. It struck me
that there is much in football both sides can applaud. One side's good shot is another
side's good save.
Not that we had any good saves to applaud. As if
the weather wasn’t doing enough to provide some contrast with the Wigan match, the
hero of that particular hour dropped a horrendous clanger. A weak header scuzzed
downwards. There was no danger. Crichton went down, got both hands on the ball, and the
ball went through them for a Northampton goal.
That was bad enough, but then the PA announced
the scorer as one L Howey. It was simply unforgivable that Crichton allowed this hated
waddle reject to score against us. Although we had once had visions that this game might
matter and he might notch the winner, the manner of this goal was embarrassing. According
to rumour, we will start next season with a new keeper. This may well have been Crichton's
last game for us. If it was, it was more characteristic of him than Wigan. He will not be
missed.
I know the conditions were not ideal, but they
weren't good for either keeper, and the other one managed to avoid making a mistake as
crass as that. Isn't the first rule of goalkeeping to get you body behind the ball? Still,
this event neatly allowed us to join in with the Northampton fans. As a chant rose of
'Dodgy Keeper' we participated fully and loudly. We also got those Nationwide plastic
capes to keep the rain off thrown to us in the home stand. The away fans didn't get them,
obviously.
We counted the clock down and threw off our
non-Burnley disguises, as the away end party gathered steam. Northampton fans knew it
wasn't enough. Their stewards took out their frustrations on any Burnley fans they could
identify. Just because you're losing, indeed. In the end, Cooke denied them even the small
comfort of a win with a spectacular piece of individual brilliance. The ball came to him
near the edge of the box on the right hand side. He twisted and lashed it in a beautiful
curve over their bemused goalkeeper. Often seen as a meat and potatoes centre forward,
including by me, this was a reminder that after a stop-start season of innumerable misses,
he is still capable of inspiration. Apparently this was the third season running that
Cooke has had the final word.
The away end went absolutely barmy, and I felt
another pang of regret that I wasn't there. Although there was some vicarious pleasure to
be had from watching my fellow Clarets go mad, it was nothing compared to being able to
join in that madness. I made a mental note to make this, my second time ever not in the
away end, my last.
So we'd kept the run going to the season's end,
and who'd have thought it? There were pointers in this game to a better next season. Cooke
and Smith managed to finish on a bright note, Brass' resurrection continued, Little was
still the player that causes problems (sat in the home stand, you can tell who they don't
want to get the ball, and it was him). There might just be hope for the future.
There was none for Northampton. They knew it was
over. We shuffled out to leave them to their grief. Lee Howey might have scored, but chris
waddle's 'premier league' player is now facing the third division. For us, it had turned
out to be an enjoyable day. It even stopped raining, and we even caught a bus to take us
the miles in the town. London was ahead of us, a long and hard season over. Best of all,
news from the premier league was excellent. Popular man of the match votes were for
Nottingham Forest and Southampton. Says it all, really.
Team: Crichton,
Pickering (Maylett 33), Cowan, Mellon, Reid, Brass, Little, Cook, Cooke, Robertson (P
Smith 57), Armstrong. SNU: Heywood.
