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Despite their lowly position in the first division, Albion had amassed well over twenty thousand supporters and transported them to Wembley, the home of football. As I looked around the ground a lump came to my throat. One end of the stadium was a vivid red and the opposite end was a vibrant blue. The sun shone brightly and it was warm enough to wear a tee shirt without feeling cold. The new stadium with its magnificent steel arch reverberated to a chorus of co-ordinated chanting from both sets of supporters.
The players were lined up on the pitch and could be seen dancing nervously, from foot to foot. Then the band struck up. After a slow start, Abide with Me, our beloved footballing anthem was taken up by an impromptu choir of over seventy thousand football fans. A tingle ran through my body as I felt a real kinship with every man, woman and child in the ground. I have never been a particularly religious man but the fervour and excitement of the crowd was catching and I fondly imagined that it was an almost spiritual feeling.
After a throat drying rendition of the old hymn, sung with more gusto than talent, the introductions were made. The luminaries from soccer’s ruling bodies strutted self importantly onto the pitch. As they went they waved to the cheering crowds as if the cheering was for them, little realising that the fans probably didn’t even know who they were, or for that matter care. The new Prime Minister made his first appearance at the match accompanied by his United loving sons. The important and the anonymous were here to watch the culmination of the greatest cup competition in the world.
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As Noel Stewart, the United manager, had predicted in his team talk, Albion came out like lions for the first twenty minutes of the first half. They challenged for every ball and chased every loose pass even when it seemed certain that the ball would run out into touch. They constantly tested the offside trap and the referee’s assistant was being asked to make the most difficult calls, but he performed well and judged each call correctly. Nevertheless he was put under severe pressure by the Albion players and their fans. On the half hour mark United were beginning to settle and control of the midfield was slowly moving towards the premiership team. Albion were beginning to run out of ideas.
With thirty five minutes on the clock United started to make their superior passing count and Albion were relegated to chasing ghosts. A number of fouls were awarded as Albion players tackled late, taking the player and not the ball. None of the tackles were particularly vindictive, it was simply that the United players were too quick in moving the ball around the midfield. The United fans were noisy and expectant. Surely the slick passing and penetrating runs would create a goal or two soon.
The ball was passed back to Ray Bright who was standing inside the centre circle. In the fraction of a second that it took for him to look around, a tackle came in from Albion’s tall, gangly centre forward. There followed a tangle of legs and the forward went down. To everyone’s surprise the whistle blew and Albion were awarded a free kick. Ray was a picture of self restraint and said nothing, allowing himself a rueful look and a shake of the head. Whilst the referee made his way to the spot where the alleged offence had taken place, the Albion player ran on with the ball encroaching a few yards. Ray spotted this manoeuvre and, perhaps unwisely, stuck his foot out and collected the ball. The ball bobbled away and ran to the opposite edge of the centre circle. The referee instilled a new urgency into his run and stood facing Ray with his whistle firmly in his mouth. To Ray’s utter astonishment the referee brandished the yellow card. The crowd fell silent, as much in disbelief as in concern. Ray was hardly a stranger to yellow cards. To his credit Ray shrugged his shoulders and kept his views to himself. It was an extremely harsh decision by any measure.
The resulting free kick came to nothing and it looked likely that Albion would hold United until half time. Just minutes later Albion won the ball from United’s overlapping full back and the clearance sent the ball to the edge of the United box. Caught out of position, the United full back raced towards his own goal area but it was clear that he would never make it in time. But the Albion centre forward certainly would. Ray spotted the danger and race to cover the ball, to allow it to run out into touch for the goal kick. Unfortunately the ball didn’t have the momentum to make it into touch and so Ray was embroiled in a tussle with the big centre forward. Both players tugged at each other’s shirts as they struggled for possession. Then Ray lost his footing. As he started to go down he made a decision. He decided that the Albion striker was not going anywhere and, in an untidy scramble, he pulled him down. It was clearly a free kick and the referee’s whistle was not unexpected. I stood up horrified when I saw the referee blow for the foul because his right hand went to his shirt pocket and I just knew that a yellow card would emerge. With almost an hour to play Ray Bright was dismissed with a second yellow card and a red. Even the Albion fans were stunned as our midfield commander walked towards the bench. In my own mind a good telling off was needed. Sending a player off in a showpiece cup final when the first offence was so petty that it enraged not only me but the whole United contingent. Albion were fired up.
There was frantic action on the bench as we prepared Stevie White for action. The thirty three year old central midfielder who rarely started a game these days was sent on in place of one of our twin strikers. We had to sacrifice the luxury of a second striker to contain Albion in the midfield. The teams had been levelled in one fell swoop.
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No-one blamed Ray for the sending off. They didn’t have to. He had already convicted himself and was now suffering the punishment alone in a corner of the dressing room. As I expected, the boss was the calmest man in the dressing room. He made everyone sit down and relax. He told the players that they could beat Albion any day of the week with nine players or less. The plan was simple. Keep possession, pass the ball around, make Albion chase the game and when space opened up at the back, attack in numbers. He pointed out that Michel Valjean had scored more goals this season than their whole front line. The lads ran out onto the pitch determined to right a great wrong.
Albion pushed us back and United were having to fight for every ball. Some crude, hard tackles came in and went unpunished. After eight minutes Albion broke down their right wing and one of their full backs got to the byline. Stevie White slid in to block a poor cross from the Albion defender and drive the ball out for a throw in. To his dismay the ball hit his shin and ballooned high into the air. Aaron and the United defence had already moved to cover the original flight of the ball and were now massed at the front goalpost with the Albion attackers. The wicked deflection sent the ball spinning over everyone’s head only to land at the back post inside the six yard box. I was tempted to close my eyes when I saw a royal blue shirt standing a foot away from where the ball came to ground. If he lives to be a hundred years old the Albion attacker will never have a greater stroke of good fortune than he received that day. With his arms already raised in celebration he side footed the ball three yards into the United goal.
Blue flags, scarves and shirts filled the terraces behind Aaron’s goal where the Albion supporters had been seated. The noise from the Albion fans and the neutrals was incredible and all the more noticeable when contrasted with the total silence of the twenty five thousand strong red army.
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The United goal was now under siege and the eleven men began to make their extra numbers count. Wave after wave of attack was repelled, sometimes with controlled professionalism and sometimes with a measure of blind panic. Through it all though, one thing was clear. With half an hour still to go we needed a goal.
Five minutes after the shock of conceding the goal United settled into a pattern and began to control the play again. The playmakers in midfield were finding space against a tiring Albion and the passing to the front men was keener and more accurate. The pressure resulted in a corner and our big men moved up to exploit Albion’s lack of height in defence. The ball was whipped in with pace to the
near post and headed on. Four heads, three of them United heads, rose to contest the ball. Above them all came a fist that punched the ball high and clear. The ball fell in front of an Albion player who hoofed it upfield and out of danger.
As luck would have it the undirected ball fell behind their centre forward and one of our two covering defenders. All credit to the striker, he loped after it like a gazelle and the two centre backs could only cover him and block the shot. On his own, with no support, he was forced to run it all the way. Matched stride for stride by the defence he pushed the ball into the box. He had put it too close to Aaron and the striker knew it. Not wanting to give up on a lost cause he stretched and stuck out his foot, only succeeding in knocking the ball out for a goalkick. Aaron had spread himself and covered the goal well but by the time he hit the floor the ball was already skittering away to safety. Off balance the lone striker jumped over Aaron’s prostrate body and fell to the floor.
Aaron stood up and went to collect the ball. The roar from behind the goal prevented him from hearing the referee’s persistent whistling. Eventually he did hear it and he turned to see the referee holding a yellow card high in the air and pointing at the penalty spot. I don’t think anyone was more surprised than the Albion striker at the unexpected turn of events. The assistant referee who had signalled the goal kick looked shamefaced as he was overruled by the referee, who had been a good forty yards behind play. United players surrounded the referee, pleading with him to consult his assistant, but to no avail.
Aaron got a hand to the penalty kick but it was not enough. Albion’s fairytale was beginning to come true. United were two goals down, with ten men and only twenty minutes left to play. Behind me the physio was trying to keep everyone in a positive frame of mind.
“It’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings,” he said, but I fancied that I could hear her warming up in the wings.
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I fully expected United’s heads to go down but they surprised me. They came out fighting. This was a United performance the likes of which I had never seen before. They rolled up their shirtsleeves and dug deep into their footballing souls to produce a show of guts and determination I don’t think I’ll ever see again. Gone were the slick passing and the training ground tactics, this was blood and guts football. There was no question in the minds of those ten men, now warriors to a man, if a ball was loose it was United’s and woe betide the Albion player who challenged for it. The tackling was hard, bruising and absolutely fair. Forget big wage cheques and FA Cup glory, this was a team fighting for its pride and dignity.
Albion were as taken aback as the rest of us but with a two goal buffer they felt secure enough to fall back and defend their eighteen yard line. United ran at and through the defence but the final ball was always collected by the goalkeeper.
Michel Valjean picked up the ball at the halfway line and I looked at the scoreboard. There were eleven minutes left. Michel swept challenges aside and raced down the left wing towards the eighteen yard box. Ten yards ahead two big defenders stood defiantly in his way. Just when it looked as though he was going to plough through them, he flicked the ball with the outside of his right boot to Pete Hardy and the two defenders chased the ball. It was a costly error on their behalf. Pete side footed the ball back into the path of the still running Frenchman, who struck the ball with venom. The Albion goalkeeper made a valiant effort but the ball crossed the goal line and almost ripped out the side netting. United were now only one goal down.
Valjean continued his run, refused to celebrate and raced back to the centre spot having picked up the ball while Albion were desperately trying to regroup. As soon as they kicked off United were on them again like a pack of wolves on a sickly prey. Albion suddenly looked very ragged indeed.
The minutes passed all too quickly. United were playing with passion but their close control and ball skills had to be sacrificed for haste. After a long period of going nowhere Michel got fed up and raced thirty yards across the field to the right wing to take the ball off the toes of his own midfielder. His marker was unsure whether he should follow and chose to stay where he was. The Frenchman ran at the defence and was in the eighteen yard box before the big centre half reacted. The centre half ran to where he thought Valjean would go but the astute Frenchman saw him coming and pushed the ball across the face of the oncoming defender and onto the edge of the six yard box. Valjean followed the ball. The centre half realised too late that he had been outwitted and, unable to halt his run, he ploughed into the Frenchman just before he reached the ball. ‘The clearest penalty of the season’ was how the TV commentator described it and the referee blew long and hard.
In the dugout we all expected Michel to take the kick but he handed the ball to Pete Hardy. To a man the whole dugout turned away from the ball and I was the only one with the nerve to watch the kick. Three minutes left and a goal meant extra time, a miss meant almost certain defeat. Pete placed the ball on the spot and retired for a ten yard run up. He hit the ball hard and low but the goalkeeper guessed correctly and his hand beat the ball to the bottom right hand corner. The ball connected with his outstretched glove with a slap and spun into the air. The crowd fell silent and the United fans despaired but without cause, because the spinning ball landed in the net. This time the players did celebrate.
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The first half of extra time was played out by tired legs and though United constantly found openings at the back they could not convert the resulting chances. The whistle blew and the last fifteen minutes began. United continued to press and Albion were slow to get back to defend. The Albion manager put on an extra defender for the last ten minutes. The seconds ticked away as Michel and Pete Hardy teased and stretched the Albion defence. I had a feeling that if we kept up the pace a chance would come, and it did. A tired pass across field lacked the pace to reach its intended Albion midfielder and Pete Hardy was on to it as if he had just come on. The Albion defence crumbled and Michel and Pete were left with only one defender and the goalkeeper to beat. Pete ran to the edge of the ‘D’ and the goal keeper set himself up for the shot. The defender came in to close down the shot but arrived only after the ball had left Pete’s foot. The goalkeeper moved as if to dive but thought better of it when he saw the ball cut across the penalty area to the unmarked French striker. Onside, and with an empty goal, he slotted the ball, with surgical accuracy, into the vacant net. The deflated Albion goalkeeper fell to the floor with his head in his hands.
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To win the FA Cup is the greatest feeling in the world and the taste of victory was all the sweeter given that an hour before all hope had been extinguished. I looked on with mixed feelings as the stand-in captain took my place in the Royal Box and collected the cup from the Duke of Kent. I would get my winner’s medal but the tears flowed when I realised what I would miss if I couldn’t play again.
I walked over to the fans as the team paraded the cup around the ground and applauded them for their faith and their never ending encouragement. They laughed, cried and threw scarves and flags onto the pitch for us to pick up. It was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life and I hoped that I would have the opportunity to relive it one day.
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I woke up on Sunday morning with the mother of all headaches but when I looked into the mirror I noticed that I was smiling. Perhaps I had slept right through the night with that inane grin on my face. As I pushed away a plate of scrambled eggs I vowed never to touch alcohol again. One by one the other players came down and sat sipping fruit juice as the greasy bacon on the buffet curled up from neglect.
The rest of the day passed in a whirl as we travelled home and paraded the cup around the city from the upper deck of an open top bus. Persistent drizzle didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the fans who turned out in their thousands. I was as happy as I had ever been when I arrived home to a warm hug and smothering kisses from a highly excited daughter. We spent several hours together talking and
celebrating with non alcoholic drinks. When I hugged Tanya goodnight I saw the look of my late wife in her eyes and felt lucky that every day I had someone around to remind me of Vicki.
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When I had finished packing for Florida I placed my cup winner’s medal on top of the fire surround next to the footballer of the year award, and stood admiring it. I was lost in thought when Tanya brought the phone to me and asked me why I hadn’t bothered answering it. The truth was I hadn’t even heard it, I was still euphoric from the weekend’s events. My euphoria was interrupted by the message from my phone caller.
“Hi, Alex. This is Ben at Sky sports.”
“Morning Ben. How are you?” I asked brightly.
“Not as glowing as you according to your daughter.” I looked across at Tanya and scowled. She grinned and ran off laughing to herself. “Look, Alex, I know you are flying out on holiday tomorrow but I need to see you urgently.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is it something important?”
“Alex. Believe me. I don’t have the vocabulary to explain to you just how important it is.”
CHAPTER 11
I was intrigued by Ben’s phone call. He had obviously discovered something, but what? He refused to elaborate over the phone. The young technician was insistent that I go in person and that I do so before flying out on holiday. I had reluctantly agreed as it was on the way to Gatwick Airport anyway.
Final Whistle Page 12
