One Fan's Letter to his Dad


Dad,

Occasionally, being a Charlton supporter is worth it you know.

When I was a kid, hanging on your every word, I thrived on the stories you used to tell me about you and Granddad going to see Charlton at The Valley. Three of them always stuck in my mind:

  1. "You know, they used to get crowds of over 70,000 watching Charlton when I was your age. Can you imagine being in a crowd that big watching Charlton?"
  2. "Charlton once beat Huddersfield seven-six. Can you imagine what that was like?"
  3. "When I saw Charlton play at Wembley, the ball burst. Can you imagine that happening nowadays?"
Now I can honestly say I have been to the most amazing football match of my life. Quite possibly the best football game ever played.

Monday started badly, following two days of cricket and beer. I had a sore head, and still didn't know how I was going to get to Wembley. A long, hot bath sorted out my head and my plans: Charlotte was to drive me to Staplehurst, and I would get the train to Charing Cross; my return journey would look after itself.

So, at Staplehurst I bought a ticket from the man on duty, who, seeing my CAFC shirt, said, "At least you won't be the only one there". "Huh?" I said. "Three of your lot got on the last one". It was at that moment I began to see the significance of the game: three other Charlton fans had already got the train from Staplehurst! But, hold on, what's this? About 20 Addicks were getting on my train. At 10.35 in the morning. In Staplehurst. Four and a half hours before kick off. Already in Staplehurst. Dozens of miles from London. In Staplehurst. Charlton fans. In Staplehurst.

The hour-long journey ended at Charing Cross, with the first breath- taking sight of the day: hundreds and HUNDREDS of Charlton fans swarming around the station in eager anticipation.

A trip to the Gents was necessary, and for the first time I saw grown men, in the loo, at a railway station, leaning over the sinks, and... CHECKING THEIR MAKE-UP. "That's it, Charlie, a bit more red on yer eyebrows..."

The tube was a different story: thousands and thousands of Sunderland fans handing out as much verbal abuse as they could think of. Not much fun.

Wembley Park Tube Station. Wembley Way. Wembley Stadium. Oh My Gawd, look at all that red and white.

The first inkling I had that the omens were with us was that the huge sign outside the ground did not say, as the papers, radio and TV had been reporting, "Sunderland v Charlton". But in letters as high as an elephant's eye: "Charlton Athletic v Sunderland". So at least the Wembley Stadium authorities knew who were top dogs, and who were making up numbers.

Into the ground after doing a lap outside. Beer £2.30 a bottle. Found my seat. Row thirteen (hmm, bad omen). 20 yards from the goal line, opposite end to the tunnel. Time check. Oh dear, Two hours till kick-off. Sat back and waited. Cheered the Charlton team win the under 16 local schools match v a school from Sunderland. Charlton won 2-1. Small child captaining Charlton lifted the trophy. Big cheer. Small beer.
Players came out in fetching three-piece beige suites, white shirts, yellow ties. Walked round the pitch. Milked the crowd. Oh dear, we're going to lose. I know we're going to lose.

The players came out again. Deafening roar of the crowd. This is no exaggeration. The crowd noise was absolutely deafening. It was painfully loud. Fantastic. National Anthem. More noise.

Kick-off. Blur. Millions of things happened at break-neck speed. the ref waved small yellow rectangles at players, apparently at random. Then Mills threw the ball to Bright, who flicked on to Mendonca. Tens of thousands of people bought the dummied return pass to Bright, as Mendonca coolly passed the ball into the net, wide of Perez's right hand. Ecstasy. We're going to win.

Rest of the first half consisted of two teams playing different games. Charlton flicked the ball to each other, eating up the ground, making territory, passed the ball to feet. Ran. Moved off the ball. Moved with the ball. Sunderland humped the ball up to Niall Quinn and watched him either concede free-kicks or concede possession.

Half-time. 1-0. We're going to win.

Sunderland emerged from the dressing room to a Wembley version of the Roker roar. Charlton didn't emerge. Where were they? Had they got lost? Had they declared? No. Here they were at last.

Second half kicked off. Two different teams had obviously come out for the second half. Sunderland now looked like they knew how to play. Charlton were their more usual, stuttering, nervous selves. Five minutes into the half, Charlton needlessly gave away a corner. Near post. Header from Quinn. 1-1. We're going to lose.

Phillips was put through with a header. Lobbed the keeper. 2-1. We're going to lose. I knew it. Oh, well.

Keith Jones played a Hoddle-esque 35-yard defence-splitting pass directly on to Mendonca's instep, who, with two sublime touches, outstripped the defence and fired low and hard into the far corner, again to the keeper's right. 2-2. We're going to win, I knew it.

Immediately, the ball passed to the right flank. High cross eluded Danny Mills. Quinn chested down and fired in at the near post. 3-2. We're going to lose. I knew all along.

But wait, we got a corner. A few minutes to go. Everyone up. Robinson, the substitute, banged over the centre. The keeper came for it and ... caught it cleanly. Damn.

But wait, we got another corner. A few minutes to go. Everyone up. Robinson, the substitute, banged over the centre. The keeper came for it and ... missed it. The ball hung in the air. The keeper had missed it and the ball was just hanging in the air waiting for someone to get a head to it. Who's head was it going to fall on? Mendonca, the goal- machine? No. Youds, the tough Scouser? No. Bright, Mark Bright, good old Brighty, who used to play for lovable old Crystal Palarse? No.

The keeper had missed the ball and it was hanging in the air. The ball was coming down now, who was there to head it? The keeper was stranded, the goal was empty, the ball was coming down and going to be headed by... by... by... Richard Rufus.

Richard Rufus? Oh No. Richard "I've never scored a goal for Charlton" Rufus. Richard "I've yet to open my account, but then again, this is only my 165th match in four years for Charlton" Rufus. Come on Richard, just close your eyes, point your head at the ball and... and... and... yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! 3-3. We're going to win. I knew it.

Extra time. Cramp. 15 minutes each way. Summerbee thrashed ball low into the corner of the net net from the edge of the box. Charlton's keeper, having kept successive clean sheets in the last nine games, picked the ball out of the net for the fourth time. The game was up. And so were Sunderland. No one concedes four goals without losing. We're going to lose. I knew it.

But hold, on. Charlton lost at Wembley in '43 and won in '44. They lost in the FA Cup at Wembley in '46, and won in '47. They lost in the Full Members' Cup at Wembley in '87. L... W... L... W... L... So they HAD to win this time.

One final effort. A superb lunging, feet first, all-commitment-and- passion tackle by Steve Brown. The ball fell for Mark Kinsella, Charlton's captain. He fed Steve Jones. Jones beat his man and fired in a bullet of a centre towards Mendonca. Alas, the ball was too far behind him to control. The moment was lost. Mendonca's chance of glory vanished, simply because the ball was played behind him and no normal footballer could control that pass.

No NORMAL footballer, that is. Mendonca's speed and agility was stunning. He stopped running, flashed his right leg up and towards the ball behind him. In any circumstances, merely to reach the ball would have been a stunning feat. But, 100 minutes into the game, Mendonca reached the ball AND brought it under control in one touch. Before eyes at our end of the ground could comprehend what was happening, his right foot reached up again and smashed the ball on the volley past Perez's right hand.

Amazing. A hat-trick at Wembley. Only household names do that. 4-4. We're going to win. I knew it.

Final whistle. Penalties. Oh dear.

Mendonca passed the ball effortlessly past Perez for the fourth time. 1-0.
Summerbee. 1-1.
Brown smashed it. 2-1.
Johnston. 2-2.
Keith Jones placed it. Hard. 3-2.
Ball. 3-3.
Kinsella. 4-3 (the captain and player of the year was NEVER going to miss).
Makin. 4-4.
Bowen. Calm. 5-4.
Rae. 5-5.
Robinson. He missed his last penalty, playing for Wales. Mind you, this was important. 6-5.
Quinn. 6-6.
Newton. Power and placement. 7-6.
Gray. Saved.
Ecstatic. We'd won. Screaming. Jumping up and down. Screaming. Dancing. Punching the air. Grinning. Screaming.

Kinsella led the team up the famous 39 steps and lifted the trophy.
Fireworks. Dancing. Singing. Sunderland end empty. Tube to London. Trafalgar Square was packed with Charlton fans clambering over the Lions. (Ironic, really as the Lions is Millwall's nickname).

Thought about dropping in to No. 10 to see Tony (he is a Newcastle fan, so probably wanted Sunderland to lose). Found a pub in Whitehall. "No football colours" said the sign. We all removed anything that looked like football kit. Entered the pub. Pub full of Charlton fans!

Missed the last train to Staplehurst, but managed to reach Chislehurst, well after closing time. Still able to pick several strains of "Valley, Floyd Road" being sung outside The Ramblers' Rest.

Spent night at Mum's watching and re-watching the game on video. Called the office on Tuesday morning to book an emergency day off. Watched the Sports Channel: Re-run of game. Watched Sports News: story of Plucky Charlton giving Big Sunderland a Run For Their Money. Watched Business News: Charlton's Share Price Rocketed.

Came home to e-mails from fans all over the world who were there, or who wanted to be there, or who couldn't remember if they had been there.

So, that's where my story ends. A crowd of over 70,000 watching Charlton, can you imagine that? Winning 7-6. Can you imagine that?

Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. After 15 minutes Danny Mills, the Charlton right back, called the ref over. There was a problem that needed dealing with. You see, Danny had spotted something, that we all knew was going to happen. You see, it HAD to happen. It was Charlton, and it was at Wembley, and this just HAS to happen. It was the ball. It had burst.

Mark

© Mark Wilson

Reproduced with permission of Mark Wilson