Sunday, 30 May 1999
The News Of The World warned of impending violence in and around Wembley in their story, ‘Police Fear Wembley Carnage’. It was rumoured that Millwall fans had bought up to 4,000 tickets from Gillingham’s allocation and planned to attack the City contingent.
Sunday, 30 May 1999
Gillingham 2 Manchester City 2 (City win 3–1 on penalties) Nationwide League Division Two Promotion Play-off Final Promotion was secured in dramatic fashion after City staged a late, late comeback. Trailing by two goals from Carl Asaba and Robert Taylor, they pulled one back through Kevin Horlock with a minute remaining. Paul Dickov scored the equaliser in injury time. There were no more goals in extra-time, but City went on to win after Nicky Weaver saved two Gillingham penalties. ‘As always, we had to do it the hard way but I hope this has gone some way towards curing one of our old traditions of losing on big occasions,’ said Royle.
NOW THAT OLD BLUE MOON REALLY IS RISING
(match report, The Times, Monday, 31 May 1999)
Heads bowed, they streamed down the aisles. Trailing by two goals, just one minute left – time for home. City, you see, don’t do comebacks; magic and Manchester City parted company long ago. Suddenly, Horlock whacks a loose ball into the net. A consolation, surely. Tick-tock, more time gone. Another frenzied attack and Dickov strikes the ball home. City are everywhere, there’s magic in the air.
Time for penalties and City can field their most consistent performer of the season – their magnificent support. Forced to take their kicks in front of the City fans, Gillingham faced a cacophony of noise, not to mention a goalkeeper called Nicky Weaver. All lank hair and gangling legs, Weaver has the laid-back, shoulder-shrugging demeanour of a fifth-former asked to join a kickabout with a few urchins on the park. Two penalty saves later, he is skipping, jumping, hopping across the Wembley turf. City are up and the road maps to Colchester, and Wycombe are redundant.
Fittingly, City had brought Manchester weather with them and, if it felt like October for the most of the game, both teams played as if they were wearing duffle coats and wellingtons. Ominously, as the rain came down, stewards donned white raincoats with pointed hoods. They hunched in front of the supporters like grim reapers waiting for their quarry.
Back in December, Royle had already given up on discretion when he blurted: ‘I hate this division.’ As a player and manager, his previous visit to football’s hinterland had been for the occasional spat in the cup. Then opponents would roll out the barrel-chested defenders and, after some thud in the mud, Royle and Co. were back on the team coach, 3–0 to the good and a hearty sing-song all the way home.
It has been a tortuous season for City. In their smart club blazers, they have disembarked from luxury coaches on to weed-strewn car parks. They have picked their way through puddles and pot holes, to run out on pitches surrounded by broken stands. Facing them at every game has been a set of players passionate to beat Manchester City, the very Manchester City who used to be on television, used to be famous. You know, Colin Bell, Franny Lee, Rodney Marsh. It felt like great fun, the equivalent of a date with Claudia Schiffer at the scruffiest pub in town.
A good percentage of the players could be said to deserve the dishonour, since nine of those on duty at Wembley were in the squad that was relegated last season. The supporters, meanwhile, merit no part in this arbitrary punishment. If ‘Blue Moon’ is the club theme song, ‘You’re not famous any more’ has become the scornful anti-theme. It has hurt, but the same fans who once waved inflatable bananas at their rivals have gamely put their arms around one another, or a bottle of beer. Why else, for example, would they depart for an away game at Macclesfield Town, just 15 miles away, at 9 a.m., if it wasn’t as much about indulgence and camaraderie as it was football? At some games, the pungent aroma of non-High Street tobacco has wafted across the terraces. The players are clearly not the only ones on grass; sometimes it’s whatever gets you through.
The clamour for Wembley tickets in Manchester was relentless. City, the thirteenth best-supported club in the country, were given practically the same allocation as Gillingham, whose average home attendance made them England’s 52nd most ‘popular’ club. The Football League is evidently a friend of the passive day-tripper with a vague interest in football, and a foe of the fanatic. ‘The allocation was a joke,’ said Willie Donachie. No one was laughing in Manchester, where some fans – season ticket holders at that – had to queue for up to 12 hours or haggle outside Wembley with gleeful touts. One City supporter trudged around the outside of the stadium with a placard reading: ‘City fan from New York – and I can prove it! Ticket wanted.’
The enigma of City fans will go on. They are every character Shakespeare created, but all in the same person: foolish, loyal, proud, dogged, sentimental and headstrong. They are the type of people who still cry at re-runs of The Incredible Journey. Happy or sad, they howl, ‘Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone’, to the night sky, or the pub landlady. It is a beautiful song. When they sing it, they are the sailor drifting down the Ship Canal after too many years at sea. They didn’t get the girl, but what the hell, City beat Gillingham – Division One here we come!
So, United did the treble. Big deal. Very big, actually, but that’s another story from another part of town. Wembley is Wembley and a promotion play-off final is more important to a club’s well-being than a cup final. The latter is a pleasant day out, a celebration regardless of the result. The former is the future of your club condensed into 90 minutes. A dodgy back-pass, a goalkeeping fluff and you remain in Nowheresville for another season, at least.
The Grim Reaper left Wembley with Gillingham under his arm. The other lot were singing their hearts out. How does that song go again?
• Football writing is littered with hyperbole, but this was truly breathtaking. At the full-time whistle, the stadium buzzed with a sense of disbelief. They had seen City’s goals, but they had not registered. Their supporters had abandoned hope, resigned themselves to heartbreak. Suddenly, hope was re-born. At moments like this, football was regenerative, celestial, delirious, more than mere sport. It lifted the soul, made the head swim in joy. The City fans cried, hugged one another, pulled on each other’s arm for confirmation: ‘Has this really happened?’ ‘Thank you, God, thank you.’
Earlier in the day, it had been fascinating to note the marked difference between the two sets of supporters. Gillingham fans arriving on coaches looked like families heading to the coast, all packed-lunches and best clothes. They were all ages, with home-made flags and specially-knitted jumpers carrying messages like ‘Good Luck You Gills’. The mood on the City coaches was noticeably more reckless. They were at the windows, gesturing and clapping, clutching beer cans. Some were halfway out of the coach roofs, waving flags and shouting. On the street, many City fans were already drunk, welcoming their fellow supporters by banging on the side of their vehicles. Gillingham fans passed by without any opposition and the jibes were good humoured. In a sidestreet, a couple climbed out of a car wearing bridal wear, as if they had dashed to the ground from the church. ‘You’re not single any more,’ came the chant from a group of City fans.
Inside Wembley, most of the Gillingham supporters were in their seats by 1.45 p.m., while City filed in much closer to kick-off time. Once the game was under way, the Gillingham supporters matched City for passion and many who had earlier criticised the Football League’s ticket policy, conceded that Gillingham had contributed significantly to the atmosphere.
The press enclosure at Wembley gave a superb vantage point. At the end, when City had secured promotion, I became aware of a cameo being played out directly beneath the press area. While the vast majority of City fans were clapping and cheering, a young boy of about eight was goading the Gillingham supporters across the other side of the Royal Box. He held up the middle finger of his right hand, while slipping over it a circle made from the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. I scanned the row to see if his father was about to re
buke him. His dad, however, was rapt, running on the spot and, looking over to the Gillingham fans, began simulating oral sex. Like father, like son.
Many City fans, estimated as high as 5,000, streamed out of the stadium when Gillingham scored their second goal. Noel Gallagher of Oasis was among them. They were made aware of the team’s comeback by police officers, coach drivers or fans carrying portable radios. Hundreds raced back to the ground. Wembley had a policy of no re-admission, but waived the rule in the circumstances. Some over-officious stewards valiantly tried to stop the flow but they were pushed aside by the exuberant fans. One City supporter was on a train heading away from the stadium when he heard news of the equaliser. He pulled the emergency cord and ran down the tracks back towards Wembley. Police were waiting for him, but charged him in double-quick time and allowed him to return to the ground.
Unexpectedly, David Bernstein and Chris Bird appeared on the pitch for a rather apologetic lap of honour. Many commented afterwards that it was peculiar that a chairman should spend all season forging his image as a man without ego or ostentation, to suddenly thrust himself into the limelight. The distance between the VIP area and the pitch was considerable, and the pair had to negotiate several obstacles; they had plenty of time to deliberate over their actions. Admittedly, once on the pitch, Bernstein shuffled around shyly as if he had realised immediately his mistake. Later, he was abashed: ‘It will be a one-off. I won’t be making a habit of it, you can be sure of that,’ he said.
The celebrations ran for some time out on the pitch. ‘Roll with It’ by Oasis was played several times and later became the theme tune of the day for many supporters. At several points the City players bowed before the fans as a mark of respect. Once the Gillingham contingent had left the stadium, a number of City fans became visible in their section. About 100 huddled together and joined in the singing and dancing. The players noticed and broke off to salute these supporters, many of whom – out of desperation – had bought their tickets from touts and suffered the unpleasant experience of sitting among rival supporters. It mattered not at the end; they were there, and being there was everything.
Nicky Weaver’s victory dance was the most memorable image of the day. He charged towards the Tunnel End, cleared the advertising hoardings, then doubled back halfway along the Wembley touch-line with the entire team in crazed pursuit. On the official team photo afterwards, he dived headlong across the frame, his smile as wide as Piccadilly Gardens. He was 20, he had made the penalty saves that had secured promotion for his team. For a few seconds we were all 20 again, and running headlong at life, happy as hell.
Tuesday, 1 June 1999
City announced that they would not emulate Manchester United and parade through the city on an open-top bus. ‘We should not be celebrating promotion from the old third division. This is only the first stage of a long road back to respectability. We can celebrate when we are in the Premiership,’ said Royle.
Wednesday, 2 June 1999
The price-freeze on season tickets was extended by a further week. Victory at Wembley had helped push sales through the 14,000 barrier.
Thursday, 3 June 1999
Chris Bird and the club’s financial consultant, Alistair Mackintosh, were invited to join City’s board of directors. ‘It’s unbelievable. When I was a kid I always dreamed of playing for City,’ said Bird. ‘Becoming a director is something I never really thought about. I know it sounds cheesy, but this is a real honour.’ As well as the directorship, Bird was appointed Chief Operating Officer, with responsibilities ranging from stadium management to merchandising.
Friday, 4 June 1999
David Bernstein made a formal apology to supporters who had queued hours for Wembley tickets. ‘I am sorry for our fans’ disappointment,’ said Bernstein. ‘I hold my hands up. We should have done better.’
ROYLE ASCENT ENDS SEASON OF SUSPENSE
(The Times, Saturday, 5 June 1999)
So quiet. Just the odd twitter of birds, otherwise a sleepy, sprawling silence. A church steeple rises in the distance above a cluster of trees. Potato crops are fanned by a cool breeze. There’s not a soul around. This is the place football managers come home to when all the kicking and screaming and stressing is finished.
Joe Royle carries stress well. Win or lose, he’ll have a laugh with the press lads. We’re all ‘lads’, even the girls; they don’t seem to mind. Look closely, though, when City have lost, and note the tilt of his head or the way he holds his body as he leaves the room. Not quite slumped, but bowed, as if two of the four strings holding him upright have snapped. Only now, as he dances across his driveway, a smile like car headlights in the darkness, does it become clear the stress he has been under. Job done, City promoted, he is a different man.
He had spent the previous night at the home of Willie Donachie after the staff promotion party. They are great friends and it’s easy to imagine the scenario after lights-out, both of them giddy: ‘We did it, Willie. We bloody did it.’ ‘Och, Joe, will ye get tae sleep.’ It goes quiet for a minute. Suddenly, two voices in unison: ‘Blue moon, I saw you standing alone . . .’
Seldom does football transcend the prosaic. It is routinely banal, predictable and monochrome: pass, tackle, pass, punt upfield, miscontrol, tackle, pass, throw-in, corner, pass, stay awake at the back. City’s Division Two play-off final against Gillingham last Sunday was thus, until one minute before the end of normal time. Then, for no good reason, football became your favourite record played at the youth club disco; the night you first realised you were in love; the afternoon when – elbows in the breeze – you drove your first car; the birth of your first child. All these things. At once.
‘It still feels surreal,’ concedes Royle. ‘I don’t think anyone can believe we came back like that. We went through such a gamut of emotions. Someone clearly decreed that if we were to get promotion it would have to be the hard way.’ To recap, City, through Horlock and Dickov, made it 2–2 with goals in the 90th and 94th minute, and then won 3–1 after a penalty shoot-out. Nicky Weaver saved two penalties and was so pleased with himself that his profuse and erratic celebrations drew concerned glances from members of the St John’s Ambulance Service.
As Royle has emphasised since, it shouldn’t have seemed such a big deal. It wasn’t a cup final, it was merely City completing a job that had caused them unnecessary labour in the first place. ‘I think I seriously underestimated how much it would mean to the fans. It was as if we had to exorcise a lot of ghosts,’ he says. Much has been made of the delirium at Wembley, but when Dickov’s equaliser hit the roof of the net, there was briefly an extraordinary silence. Supporters were apoplectic, unable to believe their eyes. Shirt-sleeves were tugged, affirmation was required. ‘Did I just see what I think I saw just then?’ ‘Well, I saw it too.’ Strangers hugged like brothers, children were lifted off their feet; a blue moon had risen.
The season has been long and arduous for City. At Christmas they were twelfth, the stroll had become a six-mile hike, uphill. ‘It was as if all the other teams were out to ambush us,’ says Royle. ‘They played so much above themselves it was unbelievable. We’d have them watched the week before we were due to play them and the report I’d get back would be worthless. Likewise, we noticed their results for their next match and they would invariably lose. I had a few low moments, but I never doubted that we had the players who could do the job.’
The run of form Royle had defiantly forecast duly arrived and they lost just twice in their final 24 matches of the normal season. He was dreading the play-offs and did everything possible to maintain an air of normality. The squad stayed in their usual London hotel for the match at Wembley, arriving just the day before, and leaving for the ground as late as possible. ‘I remember when I played in the FA Cup final of 1968 for Everton. I was only 18 at the time, and I became really nervous as we travelled to the ground past all the fans. I didn’t say anything to anyone, but I was continually bringing up bile, and swallowing it because I didn’t wan
t anyone to see how bad I felt.’
He kept his pre-match pep-talk to just three or four minutes on Sunday; all the preparation had already been done. ‘I always try and keep a cool head during the game, but I must say that was the most dramatic match I have ever been involved in.’ When City conceded the first goal, Royle’s 28-year-old son, Lee, was too distressed to remain in the stadium. Distraught, he headed back to the hotel, a walk breaking into a dash for the television as various cabbies relayed the sequence of goals. Back on the pitch, Royle gathered his players around him just before extra-time. ‘I just told them, “We’ve got them here, we’ve got them.”’ Indeed they had.
Within seconds of Weaver’s match-winning save, Royle was approached by a Wembley official. He wondered if City minded prolonging their on-pitch celebrations while they cleared the stadium of Gillingham fans. ‘I told him I didn’t think that would be a problem!’ says Royle. In the midst of the noise and madness, Royle slipped away quietly to the dressing-room with Donachie for a can of beer and a few moments of reflection.
Over the next few weeks, there will be more time for reflection. Royle will walk his three labradors through the country lanes around his home. He plans a holiday in Sardinia. Donachie is also going away, for three weeks. When he returns, the two pals will soon be on the phone to one another: ‘We did it, Willie. We bloody did it.’
• I spoke with Royle on the telephone early on Thursday morning while he was at Platt Lane. He was dealing with the final paperwork before the summer recess. I imagined I would get about 20 minutes with him for my end-of-season piece. I was surprised, then, when he invited me to his home later that afternoon. I was impressed that after a long, stamina-sapping week and, indeed, a long season, he was willing to put time aside to talk once more about City in depth.
Blue Moon: Down Among The Dead Men With Manchester City Page 20
