Trifter

St James’ Park in late October 1990 was not quite doom-laden, but it was far from apparent that the break of a new and glorious dawn was less than eighteen months away. I’d taken my 8-year old son Peter to have our first look around Newcastle, and to see United play West Bromwich Albion. The streets were wet, the early Christmas shopping crowds were as heavy as everywhere else, and the whole place had looked as grim from a distance as we’d been warned to expect.

As soon as the train crossed the King Edward bridge over the Tyne, however, all misgivings flew away like a Jackie Milburn shot at goal. A city’s character and atmosphere are hard to define, but this place was somehow different. Just the unique view of all those bridges seemed to convey civic pride, both past and present. This impression was confirmed during an hour or so spent wandering the streets. Newcastle, in common with most cities, has some fine buildings in its centre which tend to help visitors overlook the grotty bits beyond the ring road. The shop assistants smile at you as well.

Yet, for all the favourable impressions the place had made, there was something missing. Where were all those football-mad Geordies, dressed in black and white from top to toe, swigging from bottles of Newkie Brown and singing The Blaydon Races? Most of the black garments on show were leather jackets, as worn by Bros (remember THEM?!) a few years before. Either these people were slow to pick up on fashion trends or they believed in making things last. I asked a friendly middle-aged chap if he was going to the game.

“Oh no man – I’ve not been for years now. Not worth goin’ while them lot are running the place. Hope I haven’t put you off, mind!”

Well, perhaps just a little bit. “Them lot” were the board of directors, who were the target of much abuse for allowing the football club to stagnate and its debts to pile up, posing a threat to its very existence. Nobody knew that the cavalry were coming, led by General Hall and his trusty comrades Colonel Keegan and Major McDermott. We went to the game anyway.

“Isn’t it small, Dad?” I had to agree. From our seats in the Milburn stand the legendary Gallowgate terrace looked even less impressive than the vaguely-remembered Witton End at Villa Park. The atmosphere was muted, with a listless feel, as if the locals had given up hope of ever seeing a successsful team again. A cold wind from the North Sea swirled around the half-empty stadium, bringing with it the stench from the nearby brewery.

The teams ran out, to what sounded like polite applause. At last we heard The Blaydon Races, although nobody seemed to be singing along with the record. Perhaps they didn’t know it any more. The sides weren’t exactly full of household names. It was obvious from the programme, containing six photographs of Mick Quinn and his two page column, who was the star of the show but he wasn’t featuring in that day’s performance. It was the 18th birthday of a promising youngster called Lee Clark, who did play against the Albion.

The match… oh dear, must I? It wasn’t that  bad… well, it was, actually. It was end-to-end stuff all right, from one end of the midfield to the other. Neither side looked remotely like scoring, until West Brom pulled one out of nothing. A hard, low drive by Colin Anderson from the right-hand edge of the penalty area found a gap. Veteran ‘keeper John Burridge was slow to react, and in it went. The Baggies’ fans, shoehorned into a corner of the Leazes terrace, went potty. This was by far the most densely populated section of the ground, and the noisiest. The Black Country faithful did their club proud all afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised at the level of support for a second tier match 200 miles away.

Half-time. Wolves were losing at home to Blackburn. The visiting fans went demented again. Peter wanted to go to the toilet. Another surprise – they were incredibly clean. There now followed the most extraordinary experience of all my years as a football spectator. We were making our way back to our seats in a hurry, as we’d heard the second half had begun. At the precise instant the Leazes goalmouth came into our line of vision, Liam O’Brien hit a real belter. Half a second earlier and we’d have missed it. The ball flew into the net like one of those proton torpedoes they used in Star Wars. The Geordies finally had something to shout about, and they did just that. Nothing like a cracking goal to shake you out of a state of near depression. The whole stadium came alive, faces shining with happiness and animated conversation.

Sadly, the remaining 44 minutes failed to live up to the new mood of optimism. Burridge made two fine saves which kept the locals’ hopes up a little, but a draw seemed inevitable. Newcastle’s mid-table position and their statistics – played 13, scored 13, conceded 13 – spoke volumes. We could hardly have had a more ‘average’ game. In terms of the ’sleeping giant’ cliché, the oversized one’s big toe had twitched slightly, but his slumber was undisturbed.

It was 2½ years before I returned to St James’ Park. By then the Keegan Revolution was in full swing, and the club had won a place in the Premier League. The last match of that promotion season has passed into Geordie legend (see my article Newcastle United 7 Leicester City 1).