Get Her Off the Pitch! How Sport Took Over My Life

by Lynne Truss

  One thing I had learned over the course of the season was that you can never trust a programme, in any case. I still always bought them, but I was wary. The team listed on the back is never the team that plays, which is fair enough, since selection tends to take place quite late in the day. But there is an additional sod’s law applying to football programmes, called The Curse of the Programme Overtaken by Events, by which the player featured on the cover will almost certainly be crying with pain on a treatment table on the day of the match; if he gets a double-page feature, moreover, he will probably have either already left the club under a terrible cloud, or died. The programme for England’s appalling World Cup qualifier against Italy in February had illustrated the point pretty well: the cover showed David Seaman diving for a save (this was the night weedy Ian Walker, as next-choice goalkeeper, became one of the most reviled men in England); inside were features on Paul Gascoigne and Gianluca Vialli (neither of whom played) and on that overoptimistic World Cup bid ‘England 2006’ (which was never going to happen). The only time I experienced an exception to The Curse of the Programme Overtaken by Events was at a twice-postponed third-round Cup tie between Brentford and Manchester City at Griffin Park. True, by the time the match was played, only five of Man City’s original line-up were playing (and most had changed numbers). But a wonderful thing had happened. Players who got personal write-ups for the original date (but hadn’t played) were actually fit again when the day finally arrived. One of them had even recovered from a broken leg. I found that incredibly cheering. Wait long enough in life, you see, and it all comes right. It reminded me of Lewis Carroll’s excellent philosophical point about a stopped clock being better than a slow one, because twice in every 24 hours, it tells the right time.

  Back at Old Trafford, though, I am neglecting the prematch atmosphere, which was sensational. This was my first time inside this stadium (at that date it held over 55,000), and I loved it. My immediate surroundings I wasn’t too keen on, as they were dominated by a small, violently fanatical Middlesbrough child supporter determined to poke me in the eye with his red flag; but the ‘Blue army! Blue army!’ chanting from the Chesterfield supporters was very uplifting. Blue-and-white face paint, blue-and-white curly wigs, blue-and-white shirts, loads and loads of blue-and-white balloons: gosh, someone in the Spireites’ club shop had really risen to the occasion kitting this lot out. It did occur to me that the whole contingent of 25,000 could not really call themselves hardcore regulars, incidentally, since Saltergate holds fewer than 9,000 - but then I realised that this was what made them all so happy: these were johnny-come-lately, fancy-free, over-excited fans (a bit like me supporting England at Euro 96) who had known only glory, success, and the fluke-ish sending-off of other people’s goalkeepers. They were programmed for joyous victory, because it was all they had known. Any other result was beyond their comprehension.

  Compare the grim, tense and punch-drunk emotions of the Middlesbrough fans who had seen their team get to the late stages of both the FA Cup and the Coca-Cola Cup this year, but were at the same time facing relegation from the Premiership. ‘If you love Boro, stand up!’ was significantly the chant of the day, because it exhorted the fans not to lie down on the ground in a foetal position, moaning and sobbing. The previous Sunday, a last-minute equaliser from Leicester’s Emile Heskey in the Coca-Cola Cup final had meant there would have to be a replay - which was, in itself, pretty demoralising. However, much worse was the fact that Middlesbrough had been penalised earlier in the year for not turning up for a match against Blackburn. Evidently, manager Bryan Robson hadn’t given sufficient warning, or adequate reason (or something), and the upshot was, three points had been taken away. Now, having been to Blackburn myself, I personally didn’t blame Robson for not wanting to go, but the Football Association saw it differently, and never reconsidered its position, despite a lot of pleading, sulking and threatening. Fans had been seething for months about the deduction of the three points, which would prove to seal their fate. When the time came for a line to be drawn under the 17th team in the table, three clubs would wave a reluctant goodbye and drop through the trapdoor down to Division One - and Middlesbrough was at No. 19.

  As for Middlesbrough’s high-profile fancy-dan players, the honeymoon period had long been over, on both sides. More foreign players had been brought in - the Italian Gianluca Festa, and the Slovakian Vladimir Kinder - but the policy had started to look a bit desperate. Ravanelli’s problems with scoring were beginning to grate with any number of people (‘Why can’t Ravanelli find the goal?’ I harrumphed, one week. ‘No one moves it, do they?’). Meanwhile the saga of Emerson’s repeated attempts at escape from Middlesbrough was a more-or-less constant source of hilarity to anyone unconnected to his employers. The twinkle-toed, raven-ringletted midfielder had the lightness and grace of a Gene Kelly, and there was a lovely shot of him in the Match of the Day opening titles doing a fond kissy-kissy at the camera - but this warm-blooded young black man kept flying down to Rio and neglecting to come back.

  His preference for Brazil probably had something to do with the contrasting number of sunshine hours of Teesside and South America, but no one knew for sure. Anyway, ‘Emerson goes awol’ seemed to be the story every couple of weeks, especially in the grey depths of the winter. His fellow Brazilian Juninho was another matter, however. Totally committed, totally tireless, he flogged his heart out for Middlesbrough - and the more he did, the more tragic his situation appeared. The great Marc Overmars (who would join Arsenal just a couple of months later) had the same keen, doggy quality, I always thought. Throw a ball whatever distance and he would apparently really enjoy tearing off after it on all fours with his ears flapping behind him.

  What a build-up. What an occasion. Both sides had so much to win, so much to lose. ‘Blue army, blue army, blue army!’ chanted the ecstatic Spireite supporters. Or, to be more precise, ‘Blwami, blwami, blwami.’ It occurred to me that, should Chesterfield meet Chelsea in the final, the meeting would have to be called a ‘blwamiad’, and the two sets of fans would have to agree in advance not to chant the same thing. But at this stage, the idea of Chesterfield winning this match was absurdly far-fetched. Great occasions do not generally go with great football games, unfortunately; usually the reverse. This was so fabulous and uplifting an occasion that I braced myself for the inevitable let-down once play commenced. Middlesbrough would probably score two in the first half, then kill the game. The Chesterfield balloons would gradually deflate. The tackling would get desperate and nasty. The boy with the flag would either successfully take my eye out or get the clip round the ear he was asking for. Tempers would fray. And I would pass out through lack of anything to eat since breakfast and also through fretting about the safety of the car, which was doubtless already wheel-less, before kickoff, resting on bricks with its engine removed.

  But it was the highlight of my year, that semi-final. I had not drawn the short straw. If football does not obey the laws of entertainment, the point is that sometimes, gloriously, a great story writes itself right there in front of you on a piece of historic turf with an enormous number of interested people present - and you really know it when you see it.

  The first half was notable at the outset mainly for its gusto, and for the pleasant surprise of Chesterfield’s classiness in defence and downright nerve in attack. This was clearly going to be a free-flowing and dynamic game, with accurate long balls and intelligent strategies on both sides (as opposed to most football, on most days). Annoyingly, Chesterfield’s shirts didn’t have the players’ names on, but apart from that, it was easy to see what was going on. A clear shot from Middlesbrough’s Craig Hignett was blocked and caught by goalkeeper Billy Mercer (big groans; big cheers); another shot by Steve Vickers went wide. Meanwhile, Chesterfield’s forwards seemed to make easy work of out-running Middlesbrough’s defenders - to the evident frustration of Vladimir Kinder, who got booked for a late tackle, and then, just minutes later, committed a gross act of shirt-pullin
g in plain view of the entire crowd. The whistle blew, and referee David Elleray raced towards him with his hand in his top pocket. ‘Hasn’t Kinder already been booked?’ I asked, unable to believe my eyes. ‘Yes, he has,’ said the fan beside me - and sure enough, oh blimey, Elleray showed Kinder a second yellow card, then a red one, and sent him off. Middlesbrough quickly reorganised themselves, with the ineffectual Mikkel Beck taken off and a new defender, Clayton Blackmore, brought on as a substitute. But this was a situation. It is not unknown for ten men to outplay eleven, of course; but nobody opts for that ratio voluntarily, especially in the semi-final of the FA Cup, unless they are raving mad.

  At half time, despite the goalless scoreline, I was feeling quite strung out with excitement. Supporting both sides equally in such a match feels wrong, but it certainly doesn’t make you indifferent. Mixed emotions can be just as powerful as the straightforward kind. Faint from hunger, and ready to snap a certain child’s flag in half over my knee in a minute, I was absolutely desperate for more of this stuff. I scanned the programme for information about Chesterfield. They were the fourth oldest club in the Football League, apparently. Not long ago, they had been in the old Fourth Division. In fact, they’d got into the Second Division just two years ago. They all appeared to be English: Jamie Hewitt was even born in Chesterfield. Their shirt sponsor was North Derbyshire Health, which seemed rather wholesome by comparison with the Premiership’s assorted mobile phone companies, electrical goods manufacturers and brewers. On the whole, they seemed like a very good thing. Unearned self-satisfaction is the besetting sin of sports writers, and I felt it now. ‘Here am I,’ I thought, smugly, ‘at this terrific game. A lot of people would like to be in my shoes.’ And then I remembered that I’d been quite fed up about it in the car, expecting only a wasted afternoon, so felt jolly ashamed of myself.

  Nine minutes into the second half, this great match got even better, with the introduction of goals to the story. A long ball from midfield was picked up by Chesterfield’s Jonathan Howard on the right wing. He beat his defender, and passed the ball goalwards to his accelerating team-mate Kevin Davies, who stretched and shot towards the bottom left-hand corner. Middlesbrough’s goalkeeper Ben Roberts (with girlie hair band, as it happens) threw himself down to stop the ball, but deflected it directly to the feet of the immensely tall Chesterfield striker Andy Morris, who happened to be loitering with intent at the far post. Morris looked down, saw the ball, gave it a little kick into the back of the net, and sort-of strolled off, evidently thinking, ‘Well, that was easy.’ One hardly had time to absorb this thrilling development when, a few minutes later, Morris was sprinting towards goal, holding off Festa. Inside the 18-yard box, Roberts threw himself down again as a human barricade, and Morris rather elegantly tripped over him, the result being a penalty to Chesterfield. Were the underdogs to go 2-0 up? No, surely not. But captain Sean Dyche drilled the ball into the middle of the net, so yes, yes, yes. No one was dreaming. Suddenly, Chesterfield were winning the FA Cup semi-final.

  Sensing the game getting away from them somewhat in this second half, Middlesbrough made an effort to pull themselves together, and constructed an extremely businesslike goal in reply, with Emerson lofting a beautiful long ball to the unmarked Blackmore on the left, who raced forward and crossed it so perfectly into a knot of defenders surrounding Ravanelli right in front of the goal that it almost couldn’t fail to go in. While getting one back was a bit of a relief, it was evidently no cause for timewasting celebrations, as far as Ravanelli was concerned. He smartly collected the ball from the back of the net and made a big show of grimly waving his team-mates back to their starting positions. ‘No time! No time!’ Could Chesterfield maintain their lead? Well, yes. They actually scored again - a great shot from Jonathan Howard ricocheting from the crossbar almost vertically into the goal and being knocked clear. But although the linesman gave the goal, the referee disallowed it. In the stadium, we had no way of telling whether this was a good decision (it wasn’t). All we knew was that within five minutes Juninho had collided with Sean Dyche in the penalty box at the other end and contrived to win a penalty for Middlesbrough. Hignett took it and scored. It was 2-2. I had vowed at the moment I took up watching football that I would never, ever say, ‘If we’d scored just now, we’d be one-up!’ because it’s such a stupid remark. However, on this occasion, the temptation was too great. If that goal had not been disallowed, I reckoned, Chesterfield would have led 3-1. But now it was 2-2, and the 90 minutes were nearly up, and the whistle blew, and we were heading for 30 minutes of gut-wrenching extra time.

  God almighty. A lesser person honestly could not have taken the emotional knocking I was taking here. A lesser person would have crumpled. But I think what I mainly felt was grateful to be here; grateful to see something so good. There were afternoons at football, I’m not kidding, when the action on the pitch provided roughly the same excitement as watching week-old kittens failing to get out of paper bags. Players in lower divisions sometimes just chased the ball, like little boys, instead of constructing anything; sometimes they crowded so badly, there appeared to be about forty of them on the pitch at once. Sometimes every pass seemed to go to an opposing player. Sometimes, the football just wasn’t very good. This was not one of those afternoons.

  Extra time saw no letting up of commitment from either side. In the first period, Middlesbrough got corner after corner, and made shot after shot. I believe I started to knit my hands in front of my eyes, as one does in wildlife films when the injured antelope is brought down by persistent hyenas who are fed up with being made fools of. ‘Keep running, Chesterfield! Keep running! They haven’t got you yet!’ But in the end, it happened: Steve Vickers took a shot at goal that hit the crossbar and bounced back over the head of Juninho, falling near enough to Festa for him to score. Middlesbrough thereby took the lead for the first time in the match, and their fans went wild. But could they increase this lead? Could they hold on to it till the whistle? The answer, unbelievably, was no, and no. In the 119th minute of the match, Chesterfield equalised. Oh my goodness. Jamie Hewitt - the man who was not a famous love rat and who, astonishingly, hailed from the very town he played for - headed the ball in a high arc over Roberts into the goal and saved the day. If only Hollywood cared tuppence for football, this could have been described as a Hollywood moment. Time stood still. It was the most beautiful and death-defying ball I’d ever seen. It was clean. It was unstoppable. It curved just under the lip of the bar. And it happened in the very last minute of the game. On the field of play, the stars of Middlesbrough lay down in despair. Maybe it was finally time to face facts: this really wasn’t going to be their year.

  I was at the Cup final on May 17. Middlesbrough had beaten Chesterfield in the replay, but they lost at Wembley to Chelsea (2-0) and took away from their heroic season precisely nothing. I felt so sorry for Juninho that I cried. As is often the way with finals, it wasn’t a patch on the semi. An Australian chap sitting next to me, high up in the stadium, had paid £400 to a tout for his ticket, and had never seen live football before, which made me all the more conscious of the lack of real dramatic interest. He didn’t even enjoy seeing Sir Cliff Richard in the pre-match entertainment, or the marching band of the Royal Marines. After Di Matteo’s amazing opening goal (which took place after 45 seconds), there were long periods of nothing much, which made me impatient on the Australian’s behalf. ‘Give us another goal!’ I wanted to yell. ‘This man only works in a pub!’

  Looking back on my first season, I had loved it, but I was seriously worried about its effect on my brain. My understanding of the geography of England had been completely warped by football. Coventry was no longer a cathedral city of car manufacture with a terrible history of war-time bombing: it was principally a place where little Gordon Strachan jumped up and down on the touchline. Nottingham, which had once meant D.H. Lawrence and Boots the Chemist, was only the dismal Trent-side area of Meadow Lane (Notts County) and the City Ground (Nottingham Forest
). Manchester, famed for its progressive 19th-century politics and modern metrosexual night-life, was represented by the industrial complexes of Trafford Park Road. Wimbledon had meant the novels of Nigel Williams and shortbread at the Windmill tea-room on Wimbledon Common; now it meant an image of Vinnie Jones reaching behind him to hold a young Paul Gascoigne by the scrotum, while threatening to tear someone else’s ear off and spit in the hole. A few years later, I did a tour of England doing talks in bookshops, and I found myself saying things like, ‘If you turn off here, you get to Villa Park’ - as if anyone was interested. I had been to Anfield, but not to Liverpool, and that was fine. It was as if Liverpool was a city attached, peripherally, to a very important football stadium, rather than the other way round.