The London Clarets
'Nothing to Write Home About' - our
magazine
|
The London Clarets |
Home
|
Surely we can't go down now! Preston 2 Burnley 3, 7th February 1998 This was, for once, about as good as things get: a winning goal in the ninety fourth minute in a game we thoroughly deserved to win but did not expect to, in the face of a corrupt referee, half-watched from the worst away terrace in the world. What more could we ask for? How about a previously moribund Spurs romping to a 3-0 win with two goals in the last minute at the hated bastion of Evilwood Park? Job’s a good ‘un! This day hadn’t started with much promise. Stood in Euston Menzies, I had Bastards to the left of me, Munichs to the right, there I was, stuck in the middle with my Guardian. The three hours North passed slowly too, but Preston was the final stop, so we knew Virgin’s generous timetabling would mean we were not late. Desperately we killed time by talking of favourite bus routes. My favourite is the 69 (North Woolwich Free Ferry to Walthamstow Central), but the X43 (Manchester to Barnoldswick or Keighley) won. Clearly, we needed beer. The train arrived and we got it, albeit at the puff’s and lightweight’s time of 12.30. A couple of hours later we made the ground, excessively early, fifteen minutes before kick off and us with tickets, but there wasn’t a suitable pub to be found, so we could only go in, and even see the teams run out. Sadly, Preston had other ideas, and preferred it if we couldn’t see much at all. The away end was dangerously overcrowded. When we eventually got away from the entrance by squeezing under a barrier, we couldn’t see much of the game. The nearest touchline was invisible. I could not see both goals from the same spot. The only things I had a decent view of were the far from full stand opposite, and the scores on Ceefax in the executive boxes behind us. I could still see that we were by far the better side. We were passing the ball to each other and moving around with real purpose. This was the team shorn of every waddle summer signing. It was stuffed full of previously neglected players and those alleged misfits we had actively touted around other clubs. We played a system far from that waddle started the season with. Our attack looked particularly sharp, with Little and Cooke outstanding. It came as something of a surprise when Preston scored. The identity of the scorer was less surprising. Capitalising on our customary crappy defence, Nogan scored from close range, not that I could see it from my vantage point. The first thing I knew was when Nogan ran towards us all, making strange and rude gestures of the kind that would have caused a red card and a lot of journalism in the premier league. Although in the cold light of day I rather like players doing this sort of thing, as it winds people up and legitimises whatever the supporters want to do back, I’m afraid at that moment I lost all my previous sympathy for Nogan. Independent eye witnesses suggest I may have offered Chicken Nogan out for a fight, but I maintain I was only pointing out the innate cowardice of having a go when people can’t get back at you. Apparently there was also a v-sign from Big Boy Parkinson in the middle of this, but I can take that because I’m still ahead of the deal after that time at Leicester. Incidentally, I know an embarrassing story about both of these players, which I am prepared to pass on if you catch me at the right moment. By contrast, David Eyres, the third of a trio of cheaply sold Clarets, did nothing to upset us. Indeed, he did very little at all, and had quite the most anonymous game I ever saw from him. We like to think it was because he didn’t have the heart to play against us. He was eventually substituted to our applause. At half time we cheered the team off, which was nice. We didn’t deserve to be a goal down, and with Cooke looking sharp we fancied we’d get one back. The only thing that might stand in the way was the referee, who was putting in such a spectacularly bad performance that he appeared actually crooked. There were few huge decisions, but there was the drip drip effect of every single decision going Preston’s way. Every free kick went to the home side, and this was many, given that every fifty fifty ball, every debatable challenge, every tackle it seemed, resulted in stopped play and a Preston free kick, even, or especially, when they made the foul. If this has a been refereed so favourably for us at the Turf, we might at least have had the good grace to be slightly embarrassed. One astonishingly awful decision came when Cooke was put clean through with only the keeper to beat, who promptly clattered him inside the box. Under normal rules this was a penalty and a sending off. Under Deepdale rules it was a booking. For Cooke. Our prone centre forward was yellow carded for "diving." This card was later revoked on appeal, but it was too late to give us the penalty then. At last we scored. Payton hit a speculative shot which - I think the obligatory word is - squirmed under the - here’s another one you have to use - hapless goalkeeper. He really should have stopped it. Like we cared. Unlike early season when we tried to pass the bloody thing into the net, this time we were actually buying tickets and occasionally winning the raffle. I realised most of my early misgivings about Payton were wrong. The bloke is far from fit, and appears to be getting less so, but he undoubtedly has skill, and above all, showed that quality priceless in a Burnley player, an awareness of what is going on around him. Cooke scored the second, charging down a rebound in the box. The Preston defenders stood confidently with hands aloft, their only uncertainty being whether their ref would give offside or hands. I held back my celebration, but incredibly, the legitimate goal stood. We all realised we could win this game. So did the ref, and at the next opportunity he gave Preston a chance. Geddo lost his balance and fell over near the corner, whereupon one of the Preston lot kicked him. Only one decision to give: a free kick to Preston in a dangerous position, from which they scored. It was a rotten decision, but poor defending from us. We had let ourselves get distracted by the injustice of it all: shades of Fulham. For the second and last time in the whole match, the Preston supporters made a small amount of noise. So much for the party atmosphere I’d heard so much about. After that, with Payton replaced by the inexperienced Henderson, we lost some of our composure and looked vulnerable. Our passes stopped finding each other, players stopped moving and we were forced into defending, a situation in which we never look comfortable. Preston had one or two chances, but we hung on and gradually reasserted our superiority. Supporters around me were urging us forward, but I was happy for us to play out time to take the point. A second away win this season was too much to ask for. What do I know? You know what happened next, and I can’t do justice to the drama of it. You simply had to be there for the corner at the end of stoppage time. Of course we chuck players forward, of course the ball goes straight into the keeper’s hands. The last thing we expected was that Neil Moore would rise and head the ball into the net. Cue pandemonium as we realised the ref could do nothing about it. Seconds later the game ended. In a sweet irony, the goal had come in the ample stoppage time caused by all those mysterious Preston free kicks. Nogan tried to applaud us, but got short shrift. We were more interested in cheering our own, and for a rare moment in this miserable season, fans, team and even the manager seemed united in the same cause. After this result optimists talked of play-offs and even I was convinced we had turned good and would be safe. We patiently crawled out of the ground, still singing, and marched on the soon to be defunct Lamb and Packet just to see what it was like in there when we didn’t have sorrows to drown. As we walked in the twilight, we weren’t to know that not only was this as good as it got, but things were about to get much worse. February 1998 |