On 24th February1962 I fell
in love at first sight with a man who was tall, energetic and had a very fetching blond
quiff. Sartorially attired in claret blue white, he did something that day to win my
heart, something that us mere mortals can only ever dream about doing; he scored a goal
for Burnley against Blackburn Rovers at Ewood in the First Division. Unfortunately, the
other side scored two, completing the first stage of a double that effectively denied
Burnley a title that they had threatened to run away with. At the time, they were four
points clear of Spurs in second place, with two games in hand.
Shortly after, I found a second home and family, when
the League and Cup holders Tottenham visited Turf Moor, and so did I for the first time. I
lived in Haslingden, nine miles from Turf Moor, but to make sure that I could get a place
at the front, my parents and me had to set off from my real home at 11.30 to start queuing
at 1.00. The gates opened at 1.30 and I had to go in with the adults, as the queue for the
juveniles was enormous. By 3 o’clock 48,807 others had joined us. It must be
difficult for many of you to imagine this. The ground is not much changed from the
present, except for the demolition of the beloved Cricket Field End, and the old Brunshaw
Road stand had a small enclosure in front of it. Into this tiny area, the equivalent of
two thirds of the modern day population of the town was packed shoulder to shoulder, row
on row, to see our heroes. I can't remember much about the game except for Blacklaw
stopping a shot from Greaves on the line when the ball luckily jammed between his legs.
The 2-2 draw must have been pure poetry, but at seven years old you can only appreciate
the atmosphere, and the awesomeness of the occasion.
I saw another four home matches after this, but my
introduction to the magic of Turf Moor coincided with the beginning of the end. A series
of injuries disrupted a team that had been virtually self-selecting all season; just at
the vital run in period they produced their worst run of league results in a decade, but
they got to Wembley. The rest is history. They won nothing. So I became used to
disappointment at a very early age. Nevertheless, my mum and I bought season tickets for
1962/63 so I could watch Ray Pointer every fortnight and, as an only child, stand next to
my newly found brothers and sisters for three or four hours every so often. The players
were like our big brothers and it was EVERY boy’s ambition that one day we might join
them. Practice took place at every school break, after school, after tea and most of the
weekend. The winter months were no problem as the street lamps provided the necessary
floodlighting. Only the lame and mentally deranged males of the species didn't play
football and in Haslingden we ALL supported Burnley or Rovers.
There was a honeymoon period between the start of the
season and February, when the team won nearly all their home games. Quite suddenly, a
terrible event happened. Something so traumatic that many of us were scarred for life. Our
Father banished our favourite grown up brother into exile. For some incomprehensible
reason the great, incomparable Jimmy ‘Mac the Knife’ McIlroy was told that he
was no longer wanted in our household. The Lord gaveth, and now he tooketh away.
It is difficult to describe the effect that this had on
the relationship between the children and their father, but I will try. First of all, I
will try and describe to you what kind of player Mac was. If you can imagine a player with
the passing skills of Wilkins, the dribbling skills of Waddle and the goal poaching
ability of Beardsley you might have some idea. Jimmy was leading scorer in two of his 13
seasons with the club he joined as a boy. He is the third highest goalscorer in the club's
history with 116 league goals in 429 appearances, more than Lochhead, Page and Freeman and
2 less than Pointer. Only Jerry Dawson made more league appearances.
On the International front he was one of his
country’s most highly capped players, and to put some perspective on it, he scored
more goals than George Best for his country. In short, he was a living legend and he was a
one club man. We loved him and he loved us. The only comparable figure I can think of in
the game at the moment in terms of stature is Bryan Robson at Man Utd. The comparison only
holds in the playing sense, in that Mac epitomised the Burnley style, that of control,
balance, composure and movement with the ball at his feet as if it was tied on with
string. Dalglish is probably the best comparison in the modern era.
It was decided that in his last few appearances he
wasn't coming up to scratch, so after 13 seasons we were informed by Harry Potts that no
one player was bigger than the club. So, at the age of only 31 he was on his way. Five
players subsequently wore his number 10 shirt that season, including Towers, Bellamy and
Simpson. With all respect to them, they weren't fit to lace his boots, let alone wear
them, and everyone knew. It is difficult to quantify the effects on gates but many people
went to Turf Moor simply to watch Jimmy. It was rumoured that some people bought season
tickets for Stoke the following season. We didn't renew ours. For the first visit of our
banished brother to Turf Moor in Stoke colours 26,868 turned up. For the preceding and
subsequent games, the gates were 12,000. My mum, myself and, I suspect, many others, went
to watch him when Stoke played Rovers. This perhaps will give you an inkling of the
strength of feeling. To us, what our father had done was a bigger mystery than who had
shot Kennedy, for he wilfully had broken up our happy home. In many ways the club was
never the same again. We learnt to spite our father and not to respect him; it was the end
of childhood.
Our father also decided to make some alterations to our
home. Many of you may not remember that Turf Moor once had an ‘End’ just like
the Kop at Anfield, only smaller. But to us Clarets it was just as sacred and it is in
‘Ends’ that passion is nurtured. The ‘Burnley Roar’, as Potts called
it, was worth a goal start. If you have visited Anfield or Old Trafford you will
comprehend me. It’s important to have that roar BEHIND the goal. Who do you think
created Eyres’ goal at White Hart Lane in 1993? We did. To redevelop the Cricket
Field End and not the Bee Hole was almost as suicidal as selling Mac; what was more
damaging was selling even half decent players to pay for it. "We've had the best out
of them," we were told, but from the sale of Dobson onwards, even this wasn't true.
Our father assured us we would never get into debt to pay for our new home. Initially we
didn’t, but we lost all our brothers, and then we did anyway.
So what has all this got to do with the 100th edition
of our magazine?
I received my first copy of the London Supporters Club
Mag, Edition 51, in 1985, shortly before one of the worst moments in the club’s
history, the fall into the Wilderness. I had hardly watched any Burnley games since 1976,
except for a few in 1982 and 1983. I left home, lost touch with my mates, got married and
started playing more myself, plus comparatively, Burnley were crap.
On the odd occasion when I watched the Clarets, it was
like visiting a sick relative you hadn't seen for years. When someone is in a bad way it
is a shock to see them looking ill when your memories of them are when they were fit and
healthy. You look helplessly down at the victim, knowing that it has all been brought on
solely by stubborn refusal to listen to your advice to cease all their self destructive
tendencies. There is the conflict of the desire to gloat that you were right, and the love
you have for the patient.
Issue 51 described some of the symptoms. They sounded
chronic. I went to watch my first Division 4 game at Northampton. They lost 2-0. The
symptoms were every bit as bad as they had been described, if not worse. The team were a
collection of misfits, with several lacking even the basic skills. Clearly, the illness
looked terminal. The only positive thing was the surprisingly large number of visitors
interested in the welfare of the patient and forever optimistic that all would be well
soon. I couldn't see how they could do it, week after week of hospital visiting. Me, I
made an annual visit, it’s easier not to look. I saw the last game of the season at
Colchester, which had an optimistic ending with Devine smashing in an unstoppable shot to
gain a creditable draw, against a team that finished 5th. Typically, Devine got run over
and most of the decent players resigned in the close season, and so the club embarked on
that fateful season.
By this time I was receiving my magazine regularly, and
it was a comfort that there were others out there who not only cared for the patient, but
visited as well. Thus encouraged, I went to watch them play at Cambridge and Orient. The
home teams were awful, but Burnley still lost both games. There was the first whiff of
death in the air. I watched a lot more this season than before, more out of duty than for
any pleasure, for some of the performances were painful to behold. I thought it could be
the last chance before the patient slipped away. It was with this thought in mind that I
set off apprehensively to Turf Moor on Judgement Day, to pay my last respects. For some
reason, God finally took pity on our suffering, and thousands of us came to repent for all
the years that we had deserted our sick brothers. Encouraged by our presence, the would-be
corpse clung on desperately for life, suddenly realising that there was a future worth
living for. Between the three of us, players, fans and somebody up there, we kept the ball
out of the net for the last twenty minutes. A miracle? The smallest man on the field
scored with a header; read through the line-up and draw your own conclusions.
Now we have reached Issue 100 of our magazine and the
patient seems to be well on the way to full recovery, and in many ways more healthy than
before.
My thanks go to those who founded our supporters club
and have subsequently run it. They didn't falter when the going got tough and they are the
glue that helps bind us all together.
On occasions like the Baseball Ground in 1992, at the
exit of our team from the FA Cup, anyone present will know that we are more than just a
bunch of football supporters; we are a family in unison, determined to restore our club to
its former position of prominence and have lots of fun on the way.
It is no mystery to me that many of you are not from
Burnley or thereabouts; you have discovered what a small boy did in 1962.
One day, sooner or later, Burnley will be back. I am
looking forward to issue No. 200, which will hopefully be full of the club’s exploits
in the Premier League and Europe. See you in 2012, after fifty years of watching the
Clarets.
