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:
-
"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?"
-
"Charlton once beat Huddersfield seven-six. Can you imagine what that
was like?"
-
"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