How the hell did that
happen?
Scunthorpe 1 Burnley 2
John Pepper
All this season I have been maintaining the
following line: ‘Not sure if we are good enough to go up; if we do we won’t stay
up, and it might just be better all round if we stayed down for another season.’ Part
of this, as I would readily admit, is due to an ingrained natural pessimism exacerbated by
too many seasons of under-achievement and disappointment. I’m prepared to be called a
miserable git, but having watched the Clarets make fairly hard work of disposing of some
fairly mediocre sides this season (Cardiff and Oxford spring to mind) I just didn’t
feel that I could allow myself to get my hopes up. Let me just make clear at this point,
however, that I am absolutely delighted to have been proved wrong, and am even now hunting
down a recipe for humble pie (large portion).
The day itself could hardly have gone better,
albeit after a slightly inauspicious start. Quota restrictions on cheap tickets on the
East Coast Main Line meant that it was not possible to book all of our travellers onto the
same train. So it was that we waved off an advance party of a dozen aspiring early
drinkers on the 9.10 from Kings Cross, whilst the rest of us followed behind on the 9.30.
Due to delays caused by problems with overhead wiring in the Welwyn area however, a missed
connection meant that we were reunited with the vanguard at Doncaster. Some sort of
Trans-Pennine trundler finally got us into Scunthorpe at around quarter past twelve, where
we were met by what seemed like the entire North Lincolnshire constabulary, complete with
dogs, horses and video cameras.
This seemed a little heavy-handed given the
obviously pacifistic nature of our contingent. Given the rumours of ticketless Clarets
fans descending upon Scunthorpe en masse however, I suppose the police had to be prepared
to meet such a contingency. To give them their due, they didn’t attempt to control
our movements, and chatted quite amiably with us in the warm sunshine as we queued up for
taxis to take us on the trail to real ale. Thus far I had been feeling fairly calm, indeed
almost sanguine, about our prospects. After all, the worst thing that could happen was
that we would be in the play-offs, with a one in four chance of promotion. Now that we had
finally arrived in Scunny, however, the nerves started to kick in. I needed beer, and I
needed it fast. After an agonising and thirst-inducing wait we eventually managed to
secure enough cabs to ferry us all out to the area of Ashby, where two Good Beer Guide
approved pubs awaited our custom. Two ‘ticks’ and four rapid pints later, we
were heading back into Scunthorpe itself for a last quick one before heading off to the
ground. Somewhere en route to Glanford Park we abandoned our taxi in favour of some
old-fashioned legwork to beat the traffic congestion.
Once we had arrived at the ground, it became
clear that there were some Burnley fans without tickets who had simply turned up outside
the ground in the hope that the local Old Bill would relent and let them in. Numbering
around twenty or so, there weren’t enough of them to represent a serious problem. I
don’t know whether they got in or not, but I think it is a shame if they didn’t,
since the ground was far from full and I’m sure they could have been accommodated
somewhere without jeopardising security arrangements. In fact the oddest aspect of the
afternoon was that there were around a dozen empty seats quite close to where we were
sitting, in the far left-hand corner of the away end. This, remember, was a game that had
been made all-ticket for away supporters. People in Burnley had queued for hours in the
rain, if not actually selling their wives and children to buy tickets. Some 7,000 of them
had paid a fiver each to watch the game transmitted live on a big screen back at Turf
Moor, and here we were, surrounded by empty seats! Don’t ask me to explain, because I
can’t.
I can’t explain the match either. It now
consists largely of a few fragmented memories. What was clear was that Scunthorpe settled
more quickly, and had the best of the early running. They didn’t have the look of a
relegated side, and capitalised on their good work with an excellent long shot that
crashed in off the bar. Bugger! By this time we had already been allowed to indulge our
fantasies of automatic promotion with the news that Wrexham had taken the lead over
Gillingham. Now, however, things were back in the balance. But, drawing on the resilience
that has become their trademark this season, the Clarets played their way back into
contention. Two outstanding images endure from the first half. First, Paul Crichton
rampaging down the left flank towards the halfway line, until he remembered that he was
supposed to be playing in goal. Secondly, following a corner that was inadequately cleared
by their keeper, the oft-maligned Micky Mellon drilling the ball into the net for the
equaliser!
Suddenly, the highly unlikely prospect of
automatic promotion was back on again, as half time provided a welcome breather. Rumours
in circulation during the second half included Wrexham scoring again (untrue), Gillingham
having a goal disallowed and Gillingham missing a penalty. I haven’t even bothered to
check whether the last two were correct or not. Rumours are always rife on these
occasions, and they certainly serve to heighten the drama, even when unreliable. Anyway,
the verifiable good news was that Burnley were at last starting to gain the upper hand in
the game taking place in front of us. Stan signalled his intention to go for all three
points by sending on Glen Little to replace Graham Branch. Glen’s arrival saw John
Mullin switch over to the left flank and Paul Cook drop to left back.
With around twenty minutes left to play, a
clearance by the Scunthorpe defence fell to Little on the edge of the box. Steadying
himself to shoot, Glen unhesitatingly volleyed the ball past the hapless keeper and into
the net. Can you hear us, can you hear us, can you hear us at the Turf? This effectively
gave us a two goal advantage over Gillingham, since the Kentish men were still trailing at
the Racecourse Ground. And that’s about all I can remember of the actual game.
Somehow the rest of the match elapsed without any mishap and 2,000 Clarets poured onto the
pitch at the final whistle. We had to wait another few minutes for confirmation that
Gillingham had, indeed, lost. When it came we celebrated uninhibitedly. I am sure I have
never hugged so many people in my life. Stan and the players duly appeared at the back of
the main stand to wild acclaim from the travelling faithful.
We eventually left the pitch and took a
leisurely walk back into Scunthorpe in the company of the affable local plods. We just
managed to squeeze in a (very) quick pint before the train to Doncaster. Some serious
celebrations took place on the way back to London, as the champagne flowed freely. This
concluded with a final sing-song at King's Cross, much to the bemusement of a couple of BT
coppers who had presumably been briefed to watch out for West Ham fans returning from
Sunderland rather than sloshed Burnley supporters capering about the concourse.
So how did it compare with other great days in
our recent-ish history? Was it as good as the night we won at York to clinch the old
Fourth Division title? Or the Plymouth away game in the play-offs? What about the play-off
final at Wembley, or the great escape against Plymouth (again) a couple of years ago? Or
Derby this season, for that matter. Well, I don’t really know. I’ve certainly
endured more tense games when the stakes were higher, and I may have experienced others
that gave me more in terms of pure joy than this one. I do know however, that I enjoyed
myself hugely, and so did a lot of other people. We can be proud of our team. They won six
out of their last seven games. When it finally came down to it Gillingham blinked and we
didn’t. Despite my reservations, therefore, I reckon we deserved it. Enjoy the
summer.
John Pepper
The Promotion 2000
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