The Diary

19 April 2004: Rejoice! Rejoice!

WE?VE BLOODY DONE IT!! WE?RE GOING UP!! WHOO-EEEEEEEEE!!! (Well, in everything but name! Details, details!) I?m typing this literally minutes after getting back from the Stadium Of Light, and it?s proving bloody difficult to accomplish that task right now. How the hell I?m supposed to concentrate on mundane matters such as sentence-structure, grammar and punctuation having just witnessed something like that, I really don?t know. Flying at 35,000 feet and well on course for Premiership football ? that?s me. As I said to The Fart and The Noise as we danced and jigged our joyous way through the light drizzle on our way back to the coach after the final whistle, I?ve been watching The Baggies for around 40 years, now, and that late, late show, for me, has now been duly plonked on my list of all-time great Albion moments ? and believe you me, I?ve seen a few in my time. I?ve also witnessed more than my fair share of heartbreak and gut-wrenching misery along the way, but it?s moments like today that more than make up for it; peals of relieved laughter, tears of joy as we gleefully chanted, ?We are going up, say we are going up!? as hordes of shell-shocked Mackems left the ground in droves, and our finest came to our end to feast on their well-deserved acclaim from the blue and white shirted groundlings massed behind the goal.

Sure, it?s not mathematically certain, as yet, but I suspect it?s only a matter of days before the authorising signature is formally plonked on our travel-warrant to Old Trafford, Highbury and Stamford Bridge next season; in fact, the ink could be dry even before we kick off versus Bradford next Saturday. The thing is, Sunderland play Crystal Palace on Wednesday, and they need a win to shift themselves into the play-offs, then, come Saturday, they play Wigan, at their place, Jason Roberts, Nathan Ellington and all ? and they won?t enjoy that one little bit, I suspect. A draw on Saturday will be enough if Sunderland lose at Palace. If they also lose or draw at Wigan (kick-off Saturday lunchtime, so we?ll know, one way or another, beforehand) it will be game over even before the Bradford game kicks-off. Had we not got a result today, then I might have been extremely worried, them being on a roll, and all that, but you only had to see the totally-dejected looks on the faces of both players and supporters come the final whistle to see they?d suffered one helluva body-blow, and I?m not altogether sure they can scrape together enough mental reserve or fighting spirit to pull off anything at either Selhurst Park or the JJB. No, get the Bollinger on ice, chaps and chapesses, because we?ll be needing it in quantity come that Bradford final whistle!

Know what today reminded me of? A great big chunk of Oldham, 1976, with strong elements of Bradford 2002 chucked in for good measure. What sparked all those memories of Baggie life during the Johnny Giles era was clapping my eyes on all those bloody coaches parked up at the rear of the Tom Silk this morning, and excited throngs of eager-beaver Baggies waiting to ?saddle up? for the long trek to the north-east. Mind you, we had arrived early for a purpose ? to flog Dicks to what would be a ?captive audience? for the duration of the three-hour plus trek, so we positioned ourselves at the end of the long path leading to Halfords Lane proper, the one adjacent to the excavator firm. Although there was still a good half-hour until scheduled departure, already there were more bodies following that narrow trail than you?d see on a matchday. Time, then, to spare a thought for Dave ?Rubber Duck? Holloway; that ?mighty convoy? of ours was his brainchild, and so smoothly did it go to plan today, I can only salute his organisational genius. Well done, Dave. Also, a big ?well done? to our favourite football club for laying on all those buckshee coaches; clearly, that five-figure dosh investment repaid handsome dividends; peanuts, when compared to the largesse we can expect to gain on promotion to the Prem.

Having shifted a fair proportion of fanzines (and nattered at great length to a very confident Anc!), we located our own particular ?chariot of delight? and prepared to roll, which we duly did, and only around 15 minutes late, too ? due, I suspect to the sheer numbers of charabancs wanting to turn from Halfords Lane into the Brummie Road; although a police escort had been laid on, and traffic held up for our benefit both there and on the M5 island, it was still a mammoth undertaking to shift all that lot away from The Shrine and onto the nearby motorway. Still that was more or less the only hold-up we had until we reached Teeside, but of that, more later.

En-route, we were treated to a custom-made video, hosted by the Sc Committee?s answer to Saint And Greavsie, Dave Holloway, and the guy who sits in front of us in the Halfords, John ?Ow, me bloody gouty toe!? Homer. The whole thing kicked off with a recap of some very recent games, intermittently punctuated by what amounted to a ?comedy turn? performed by our very own ?gruesome twosome? and that was followed by a review of past Albion-Sunderland encounters, with accompanying footage. And, to cap the lot, we then had what amounted to a recap of the season?s more delectable moments: e.g. Sakiri?s Exocet versus Burnley, that grandstand Ipswich finish, referee Paul Danson getting some sense finally knocked into him courtesy an accidental collision at Selhurst Park late last summer, even. A timely reminder of some of our better moments, and worth watching once more, if only to recall the huge smiles that crossed our faces at the time.

And, as the video ran its course on the screen, time for me to have a dekko at what was happening on the hard shoulder and in the green fields further still. Among the things I spotted was a solitary hare sitting bolt upright, and staring intently at the amazing coach procession that had suddenly encroached upon its mammalian tranquillity of mind. I was also struck by the relatively sudden explosion of greenery over the few days that stood between us travelling to Millwall and today. Spring had finally sprung, it seemed ? even on the M1! Oh, and that ?highlights? video I just mentioned had one totally-unexpected side-effect ? it completely shut The Noise up, for once!

The rest of the journey went quite restfully for us; about 3 hours after first setting forth, we pulled onto the Washington Services, just out of Sunderland itself, to await the arrival of those nice boys in blue to escort us in. It was only when we pulled onto the car-park adjacent to the main facilities we realised the true extent of Albion and Dave Holloway?s undertaking. Coaches, coaches everywhere, as The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner might have put it and more itinerant Baggies than you could shake a stick at. ?Nor any drop to drink?? Not over ?our? side of the services, maybe, as the place was totally besieged, but a nifty foray over the motorway bridge soon brought us to within sight of a less-crowded refreshment area. A cappuccino for ?Im Indoors and The Noise, plus a hot choccie for me, and pretty soon, we were cooking on gas. And where was The Fart while everyone was taking in the County Durham air? Still on the coach, and noshing sandwiches like they were going out of fashion, that?s where! As I said, shades of Oldham, as I slurped my choccy and watched still more coaches ? and their fully-laden cargo ? pull in behind us. Oh, and making the belated but stunning discovery our female coach driver was a closet Dingle! Funny, she?d seemed far more intelligent than that to me. Unlike our League Cup trip to Newcastle earlier this season, the plods seemed quite eager to get us to the ground with plenty of time to spare, so once each transport?s Mother Hen had gathered up its complement of stray chicks, off we went again, for the final leg of the trip ? the drive to the ground proper.

Once more, the plods held up traffic to give us free passage to The Stadium of Light; just as well, really, it wasn?t Saturday afternoon, but even so, I could see some well-brassed off motorists fuming on the approaches to traffic islands as that awesome procession of ours swept by majestically. And, just to give it the true finishing touch, suddenly, it was great fun indeed to give pedestrians and those drivers unwise enough to be looking in our direction a passable imitation of the famous ?royal wave, as well. And, as we neared our destination, we passed a pub called, yep you?ve guessed it, ?The Albion?. Said The Noise, as he pointed out this very fact, ?Don?t worry, it?s called The Rose And Crown in the week!? Then, we suddenly realised we were almost there; within very short order there appeared the ever-widening River Wear, plodding its languid but ancient course towards the river estuary and the open sea beyond. And, just to our right and about half a mile away, our destination, but ?slowly? was our watchword right then. How come? Simple; when you?re trying to shift almost 50 coaches from the road and into a car-park, it takes time, so from then on in, our progress was reduced to a virtual crawl. The police had packed in our transports so closely, even sorting out our parking-spot was a squeeze; any moment, I expected the sides of the coach to ?draw in?, as per someone trying to make room in a crowd for another by pulling in their arms and elbows!

Still we got there eventually, and once parked up, time for some more selling outside the ground proper. While we shifted fanzines with some rapidity, The Fart, who?d just shifted a plate of chips with lightning-speed remarked, ?I?m just off to find a little-bin?.?. Said I to him, as he embarked upon his quest, ?Typical, that ? where?s a Dingle just when you want one, eh?? Our selling-session was also noteable because, as per usual, The Fart got talking to one of the mounted coppers on duty, who had charge of a horse twenty years old. I didn?t like to say anything, but in our dressing-room right then, we had a Horse who was much older than that ? and giving us sterling service, as well!

While on the Throstle Club car ?park earlier in the day, we?d heard that Dobes had kept his place in our side, Clem was in for Scouse Jase, and Paul Robinson was going to participate in his first game since getting over whatever lurgi had ailed him prior to Millwall, and once inside the ground and listening to the team news on the PA system, that was precisely how it was to pan out. Additionally, there was a very attacking bunch placed on standby. How do the likes of Hughsie, Rob Hulse, Lloyd Dyer, Scouse Jase and Murph grab you? The whole thing really did seem set up for a overwhelmingly defensive performance, and not for the first time this season did I lament loudly, on hearing the news, ?Are we really sure about this??

Still, little time to dwell upon the rights and wrongs of tactical decisions; a cursory glance towards the home end told me it was very sparsely populated indeed considering the importance of this one to the Wearside club?s immediate and long-term future, and then it was time for cheers aplenty as our lands in the green and yellow stripes made their way onto the pitch, cut up surprisingly badly, may I say. One interesting little fact, imparted to me ? well, I had no say in the matter, really! ? by the Noise, the match referee, a certain Mr. Leake, was the man with the whistle on the only occasion this season Sunderland had lost at home. An omen, or what?

Although we started quite well, before too long, we were having to concede ground in order to repel Sunderland incursions in and around our box; quite deliberately, it seemed, the idea being to let them attack us by keeping everyone ? and I really do mean EVERYONE ? right behind the ball. The principal fear amongst us Dick Eds was mainly we were spending far too much time camped in our half, and it was folly to expect us to manage that for the entire duration of the game without conceding. A tall order at the best of times, and these weren?t the best of times for that sort of negative malarkey! Around the eighth minute, though, The Mackems suffered a bit of an injury blow; their lad McCartney went into a tackle with AJ ? hard, but perfectly fair, as I saw it ? and ended up stretchered off, poor sod, his replacement being Joachim Bjorklund, which meant wholesale rearrangement in their ranks. Gradually, the home side began to impose their presence on the game, while we counted ourselves lucky to even get the ball past the halfway line, and even on those rare occasions when we had chance to make the clearance and get things moving once more, we fell into our usual trap of giving the ball away cheaply, which didn?t make for calm dispositions in that away end, believe you me. There were occasions that first period when we really rode our luck in and around the box, but still Sunderland couldn?t get the telling pass, the ?killer ball? into the mixer, where it really mattered.

Then, with around 15 minutes to go before the interval, what seemed to be, at the time, a considerable blow to our ambitions of getting something to show for our efforts. Big Dave was on the right, with the ball, and camped, as usual, just to the right of our box ? no Mackem within yards of him. As Dave went to run with the thing, he suddenly pulled up as if shot, and holding his leg. A hamstring problem, almost certainly, I reckon; despite gamely getting to his feet and having a go at carrying on, it soon became abundantly clear that was the end of the line for Big Dave.. A shame, that, as Darren and that bloody big skull of his had been a Colossus for us at the back, and right then, I thought we?d really blown it.

Still, that brought Scouse Jase into the game as sub, and the bloody great hole at the back was plugged by Clem, with the incomparable Greegs taking on a defensive role as well. From then on in, we were pretty much under the cosh, but about 5 minutes before the break, we could have broken the deadlock quite easily. Just that once, Dobes, lurking with intent, was put through on the right, and the lino?s flag stayed down. That chance must have come as something of a shock to our Cumbrian forward; so much so, he hesitated too long to apply the killer blow thereby giving a Mackem defender time to track back and negate the danger. Dobes did pull the trigger, but from a very narrow angle indeed, which their keeper covered very well, and the end result was the bladder soared harmlessly over its intended target. Not long after that, we had a corner, and Scouse Jase whipped one over that their keeper was hard put to shift out of danger. Mind you, just before the whistle, the home side also had a chance which necessitated a smart bit of defensive work from Gaardsoe to shift the ball away. Phew!

Half-time, then, and some stats, from their scoreboard. Although we?d considered that first 45 a re-enactment of the Battle Of the Alamo, at times, when we saw the stats, they painted a slightly different picture. Houlty hadn?t been troubled at all, really. Despite all that pressure, they?d not managed to get a single shot on target, so I suppose those tactics of ours, ultra-cautious as they were, really paid off. But, as we already knew, it?s one thing to play just 45 minutes with backs constantly against the wall, but it?s another matter entirely to keep the opposition out in similar fashion for the whole of the bloody game, so what was the second period going to bring us, then?

OK, I?ll tell you; a bloody nasty scare, that?s what. Within about 5 minutes of the restart, we nearly conceded. The problems arose when Houlty and a Sunderland player, both looking to meet a high cross, went for the same ball ? and Houlty totally missed it! Instead, the errant ball dropped to Sunderland?s Carl Robertson, lurking about 12 yards out ? but instead blasting into what was an empty net, more or less, he sent it into orbit, almost, over the crossbar, and out of our lives for the duration. Phew!

With around ten minutes gone, our manager then decided to ring the changes. Off came The Horse, and on came Rob Hulse, a decision which puzzled us, quite frankly. With that, Baggie quickly turned towards Baggie, all silently mouthing the question ?Why?? let?s face it, what with his lack of form and everything, the last person I?d be inviting onto the pitch right then was Rob Hulse. Had our leader really called that one right, or had he irrevocably blown his street-cred? We did wonder! Sunderland were also playing musical footballers; as we made our changes, they shoved on Kevin Kyle.

By now, Sunderland were chucking just about everything at us including the kitchen sink, but somehow, our defence remained solid and therefore intact. How they managed it, I dread to think, but once more, we rode our luck big-time; you could almost see the quizzical looks in that home end ? ?just what the hell have we got to do to score?? ? and, to be perfectly honest, I genuinely thought it was just a matter of time before we finally conceded. The sole bright spot in all this was our singing, which had redoubled in volume that second period. For the umpteenth time today, The Fart implored the heavens, with their lowering slate-grey clouds casting a pall over the entire proceedings, ?I?ll take the draw and run, honest!? Sadly, The Lord did not once respond to those earnest entreaties of his, but about 15 minutes from the end, our manager, maybe considering himself a rival for the job, decided to change things by taking the pressure off our overworked defence slightly. Off came Dobes, and on came Dyer, and, as per usual, once on that pitch, Lloydy began to take the game to the home side; surprising that, as we?d seemed to leave only one striker up front.

Come the start of injury time, two minutes, to be precise ? and had you asked a movie mogul to provide us with a perfect ending, you wouldn?t have wanted them to depict it this way. But, as I?ve said many times before, the beautiful game really does have a nasty habit of smacking you in the chops when you least expect it ? but, unusually for us, we weren?t to be the patsies. It must have been the second minute of stoppage-time when Lloydy got the ball on the right, bring it forward with a neat little run. I thought he was going to play for time, work the thing into the corner, and invite Sunderland to get it from him, but no. Instead, he did a little one-two with Rob Hulse, rounded the marking Mackem, then crossed to a lurking Scouse Jase, unmarked on the left post. In it went ? then total bedlam erupted in our end! A crazy cacophony of madly whirling bodies, all emitting whoops and screams of a volume that would have made any curious banshee hand in their union card and resign on the spot. Just how many variants on the theme of ?YES! YES! YES!? do you want? Just enough time for a bloody quick ?Boing?, a short rendition indeed of ?We?re going up, we?re going up, we?re going ? Albion?s going up?.? for the very first time in earnest, and it was all over. Which it most certainly was for Sunderland! Talk about ?smash and grab?, mugged, and in the last minute of time added on, as well. No wonder they looked suicidal as they left the scene of the crime.

Come the finish, every single member of that Albion side came to our end ? we were shooting in the opposite one during the second half ? to get some deserved applause, and, if the truth were known, milk it for all they could get. Well, they?d deserved it, hadn?t they, damn it? And, it was plain to see, they were also genuinely delighted by their fantastic achievement. And, while we caroused and jollificated with our finest, the rest of the ground quickly emptied of bodies; silent and sullen was the manner of their departure, and who could blame them?

Our players finally leaving for their dressing-room and a good hot soak, no doubt, we then made our way out of the ground and towards the coaches. Even as we exited, those rafters positively boomed and echoed to the raucous sound of thousands of Black Country voices informing the locals of our impending promotion in no uncertain terms. And, once out of the place ? it was drizzling hard by then ? a Sky camera lurking handily, captured our joy for the benefit of the watching masses. Totally intoxicated by the heady joy of the moment, The Noise ran towards the crew and bawled something a in the direction of the lens ? and was asked to do an interview on the spot! ?Im Indoors looked at me, and I at him, and we both mouthed the same thing - ?How many bloody hours have Sky got to play with, then?? simultaneously. Big mistake; knowing The Noise and his verbal assaults, they could still be there when it was dark! Luckily, The Noise gave them something of a let-off; pleading having to return to our transport, he quickly melted into the crowd once more. I bet Sky doesn?t realise what a narrow escape it had!

Back to our coach, and while waiting the order to roll, a chance to savour the moment; large groups of jubilant, flag-waving followers, all singing their heads off like mad as they sought their transport. Memories, also of shaking complete strangers by the hand, of kissing various acquaintances in a very slobbery fashion indeed. A raucous chorus of, ?Are you watching, Wanderers?? and yet another vocal reprise for Frank Skinner?s hit (revised version). What a wonderful end to a day, what a wonderful goal. This is my fourth promotion, now, and every one has been totally different; today wrote a completely new chapter again, but wasn?t the writing fun?

A short wait for the plods to sort things out, and we were away. At one point, around a mile from the ground, I turned around, looked at the convoy trailing behind, and much to my amazement, saw the last coaches still waiting to leave the car-park! I?d thought the number of coaches taken to Boundary Park in 1976 impressive, but this game beat that one hands down. And, as we all gawped at that amazing sight, time for The Noise to make an Atkinson-esque contribution to the proceedings. When discussing what we had to do to make the whole thing a nailed on certainty, plus what Sunderland had to do to stop us, this was our loquacious co-editor?s take on the subject. When asked, The Noise hummed and hawed in an excited sort of way ? well the lad was still as high as a kite! ? then said, ?Realistically, they could score seven goals next week, then pull back the last four games!? Realistically? Dearie, dearie me!

On the motorway once more, and as the film ? The Green Mile ? got underway, silence gradually descended upon our darkened coach. Ninety minutes later, we were in the vicinity of Sheffield, and marvelling at one of the most amazing sunsets I?ve seen for a long time ? all bright pinks and vivid oranges forming a bright band streaked right across the western horizon, and contrasting pleasingly with the leaden greyness of the clouds above. ?That?s certainly vivid,? remarked The Fart.

To be honest, the whole thing looked very much to me like the severely-irradiated aftermath of a nuclear war, and, noticing our geographical location for the first time, a thought suddenly entered my head.

?Well,? I said to The Fart, ?It?s either a very colourful sunset, or Warnock has just got the news we?re going up ? and has gone nuclear!?

Yer pays yer money and yer takes yer choice!

And finally?.. We?re off to our holiday home for a short break tomorrow (today!), so I?ll be next on the airwaves come this Friday night. If things go our way at Palace on Wednesday evening, that could well be it, more or less. If that?s the case, prepare for a bit of a Nuremburg Rally at The Shrine come next Saturday! We?ll be there, of course, Dicks in hand ? or something like that! Until then, happy boinging. Do it quietly, though ? I?m off now to try and get some much-needed zeds!

 - Glynis Wright

Contact the Author

Diary Index