It was a strange sort of week. At the end of it
I knew that, if things went badly, Burnley Football Club would be condemned to the
Conference, or even go out of existence completely. As a Burnley fan, with a deep distrust
of optimism, I naturally feared the worst. After all, as one of the founder members of the
Football League it seemed almost fitting that in the first year that automatic promotion
and relegations was to be introduced it should be a club of Burnley’s tradition and
standing who would fall victim.
Much of the local media shared my concerns. The
Board had similar misgivings and straws were being desperately clutched. Had Scarborough
the required guarantees for league status? Was their stadium up to standard? Were there
grounds for legal action to preserve our own league status? Pretty feeble, but worth a
shot though, because well, we had all unfortunately seen the team play hadn’t we?
So to the fateful day. An early start, a long
drive. Accompanied by Gary Jacobs, the London Branch football team fullback, not that this
is significant. I just thought I’d share it with you. Gary was a newcomer to the art,
if that’s the right word, of supporting Burnley. He kept saying those encouraging
things like, "Think of all the new grounds to visit," or, "Six hours from
now and we’ll know our fate." I was more preoccupied deciding which service
station to leave him at if he kept this up.
Then fate did lend a hand. Alongside came a fast
moving car of the newer variety. Its driver, Neil Dickinson, was the other fullback from
the London Branch team (you see, I knew there was a reason I mentioned it earlier). He
signalled to pull in, so somewhere on the outskirts of Brum I parked up and we transferred
to the obviously more reliable vehicle.
We thus made Burnley in good time and there was
indeed a subdued atmosphere about the place. I can’t remember much of the build up. I
do remember a swift half in the Centre Spot, though, and then into the Bob Lord Stand. Was
it all ticket? Can’t think now. I did have a chance of a programme, or as I heard it
described, "a collector’s item," but declined on the basis that if I bought
one it would seal our fate and become one.
Anyway, I do recall George Courtney running out
onto the pitch, having a gander, then disappearing up the tunnel again. Clearly there were
still hordes outside and the game was to be delayed. A clever ploy that. "So
we’ll know our fate yer see," says Gary. Toddington, should have left him at
Toddington, thinks I.
As for the game, well I have vivid memories of
Grewcock’s goal and recall a flush of confidence shortly after half time when Britton
scored. Unfortunately this was followed by thirty or so minutes of sheer hell after they
pulled one back. I mean how many times was Neenan going to drop the ball like that?
"Joe’s looking dodgy, could be costly," Gary observes out loud. (It’s
OK, we’ll lose him at Knutsford on the way back.)
I was then aware of the people around me
babbling about Torquay and Lincoln. It dawned suddenly that if this result stood we
survived. With still ten or so agonising minutes left a posse of police horses steadily
made their way along the Bee Hole and were now positioning themselves in front of the
Longside. The reason was crystal clear. On the Longside fence, precariously perched, were
hundreds of fans. I tried not to take my eyes off that scene. If I didn’t watch
Neenan attempt to catch a cross then he would effortlessly pluck the ball from the sky...
well that didn’t work.
Leighton James flew down the wing. Yeah, OK,
ambled, towards the corner flag at the Bee Hole. He’s dispossessed, he gets it back,
a throw to us and a wry smile in the direction of Mr Courtney. Surely only seconds. The
Longside fence was groaning under the weight, although I couldn’t actually see the
fence at that stage. I remember thinking, they’ll never stop the fans getting on.
Then, at the precise moment when I wasn’t
thinking the whistle would blow, it blew. I delayed my celebrations, in case it was a free
kick or something. I didn’t want to jump around prematurely. Hugs and tears made way
for manly handshakes and backslapping.
I was right, the police couldn’t stop the
fans. Thousands poured onto the pitch. They swarmed over to the Orient fans and just for a
minute it could have been a bit iffy. After all, they had needed a win themselves. In an
instant the mood changed and their fans cascaded down the away end terrace and applauded
their Northern counterparts. Who could begrudge us the points? The poignancy of the moment
was not lost on the O’s supporters. Thus a period of mutual appreciation followed.
I felt sort of numb. I tired to imagine how
I’d have felt if we had lost. I don’t remember too much of the walk back to
Neil’s car except that I had a faint concern as to the safety of my own car all alone
in Birmingham somewhere.
As we crawled down Todmorden Road through the
throngs of people, I just happened to glance at a small group. A little way in front of
this was an oldish woman, bedecked in scarf, hat and rosette. At that precise moment she
leapt up and punched the air. When back to earth, she resumed her steady pace alongside
our car.
I think that moment summed up the day for me.
Don’t get me wrong, it was nice to get all the thumbs up from all different fans on
the way back down the motorway. Genuine sentiments, no doubt, and there were several
Burnley fans at the service stations who had come from all over the world that day as they
felt compelled to be there. But for me, the overriding memory was of that woman, with her
apparently uncharacteristic show of emotion. I hope she was there at Wembley the following
year and of course in ‘94. I hope she gazed up at Mike Conroy on the fence at Bootham
Crescent. But more importantly, I hope she’ll never have to go through another day
like the 9th of May.
Dave McCluggage
May 1997
