The Diary

09 November 2003: West Ham - Did I Imagine It?

Around the time I post this to the Boing website, if the sky?s clear, take a quick stroll outside, look upwards, and tell me what you see. That?s right; an orb of blood-red hue, a total eclipse of the moon, in fact, something which happens only rarely; an astronomical phenomenon, if you like. Being a keen watcher of the heavens, I take great interest in seeing such things, but everything I?ll see on the lunar surface early this morning will pall by comparison with what I witnessed at Upton Park today, for if we are to discuss such occurrences, then today?s win surely has to be included in that heavenly inventory. Are you reading this, Sir Patrick Moore?

Make no mistake, all those present this afternoon saw history made; when we arrived back at our coach after the final whistle, both The Fart and myself ran through in our minds the times we?d seen The Baggies come from behind like that and then go on to take all three points. The result? We could only think of occasions when we?d seen us come back from 2-0 down in similar fashion. This really had us stumped, so then we did the most obvious thing, and gave Steve The Miser a bell. Guess what? He couldn?t think of a similar occurrence either, so he then made a quick call to fellow-Baggies statto Colin Mackenzie, and it finally transpired that ? and lovers of coincidence will laugh themselves silly at this one ? we did come back from 3-0 down to 3-3 on November 11th 1961, but sadly, that final killer-goal totally eluded us and we had to settle for the shared points instead. The opponents? Believe it or not, West Ham, and on their own dung-heap as well. The top and bottom of our joint investigation is that this is the first time ever Albion have managed the feat. If you were there today, consider yourselves privileged.

Strange, though, how unremarkably the day began; in my finale to the previous night?s offering I had predicted a banana-skin type scenario for our finest. Mind you, not even Mystic Meg (bless her crystal ball and Tarot cards) could have foreseen that one. Because we?d previously decided that parking in the vicinity of the ground was something of a fag, Sauce?s coach service took the strain for this one. A quick tootle to our West Brom rendezvous in the Dickmobile, and come nine am, there was the redoubtable Sauce and his transport of delight, right on the button. Luckily, the seats behind the bog were taken this time, so we parked our bots nearer the front. Once we were rolling, and pootling along the M6 in the direction of Spaghetti Junction, it was time to talk to our genial host, who regaled us with a lovely story about a Manchester Baggie who had managed to get a flight to the capital today for ?9 ? after the game, we were told, he was due to to take the choo-choo back, this time to the tune of a mere eleven quid! For once, the roads were relatively deserted, and we positively swallowed the miles whole, arriving in West Ham at around half-eleven. We would have headed for the ?New Denmark? pub, about half a mile from the ground, but Steve Sant (one of my regular correspondents, who was on the same coach, and who I met in the flesh (ooer, missus!) for the first time), tipped the four of us off about West Ham Working Mens? Club, just around the corner from the ground proper.

We hadn?t even known the place existed last season, but when we went inside at Steve?s insistence, what a bloody find! A quid to sign in, a quick tootle upstairs (that part of the building was reserved for the use of away supporters), and we were in Baggie heaven. A massive public bar-cum-lounge, with a large parquet floor for dancing, and a big screen mounted above the stage, by popular demand hastily pressed into service for the Wulves-Blues encounter on Sky.

Within about a minute of our arrival, those massive shutters on the bar area were thrown open to thirsty Baggie punters - and the prices absolutely knocked us flat. Beer was at around ?1 and ?1,30 a pint, and soft drinks were equally cheap. Believe it or not, our entire round (four Dick Eds, remember) of a pint of bitter and three Cokes came to an astonishing ?3.50. You?d be pushed to find that sort of giveaway price in the Black Country, never mind London. Food, too, was dirt-cheap, and we shamelessly indulged in pies, chips and salad. Lovely grub.

While we were there, we managed to grab a few words with Baz Plant, schoolteacher, and ex-Stroller (our old Supporters? Club, then fanzine side, now sadly defunct), and he?d just returned from a school trip to Barcelona. And, before you ask, yes, they did manage to see a game at The Nou Camp. Versus Murcia (a side from the Marbella region, I?m given to understand) and it only cost him about ?20 for a ticket. Talking of ex-Strollers, we also spoke to Carly Baker, and he had a sad tale to tell. He?s currently awaiting knee surgery, and all because, unbeknown to him, when playing for our lot in his teens, he managed to damage his cruciate ligaments. Apparently, he needs replacements to both knees, as he?s ruptured his medial ligaments and has an ulcerated posterior ligament, though on which knee, I don?t know. All the damage was done because the initial damage wasn?t diagnosed properly. Hell, he walks worse then me, and I can pull about 20 years on him.

Not surprisingly, this undiscovered treasure rapidly became not-so-undiscovered, and filled rapidly with Albionites badly in need of in-flight refuelling; amongst these were the Satanic Nurses. Trust them to find the place! By 1.30, the bar area resembled the storming of the Bastille, with the added joys of a beer queue that stretched halfway along the room. Time for us to go, as duty called, but before departure, time for a photo-opportunity with that Albion legend in his own lunchtime, aka ?The Belly?, a gentleman who brings adiposity into a new dimension; once seen, never forgotten!

Outside once more, and as we took up our perches outside the ground, who should roll up but ?The Drinking Family? who had of course, imbibed at a conventional boozer, with correspondingly-inflated prices. When I told them (laying it on thick, of course!) about the place where we had just spent a most convivial 90 minutes, I swear I saw a manly tear drizzle from the glistening eye of the most senior of the family!

Selling, unfortunately, was the pits, the tedium only enlivened by the appearance of Chris Hartle, who had not long finished a course of chemotherapy for cancer; very soon, it?s the radiotherapy?s turn, and he?ll be doing that every day for about the next three months, poor sod. Never mind, I?m sure today?s game and result must have cheered him up no end. Through the turnstiles, then, and to our seats, right on the end of a row, and stuck right in the corner of the stand, right in line with the angle formed between the touchline, the corner flag and the goal line. At first, I cursed a blue streak, but as things turned out, I couldn?t have been in a better spot, the reason being the chunky metal rail at the side; although we had to stand for all of the game, I quickly discovered I could half-lean, half-sit on the thing, which eased the burden on my back and legs considerably.

Kick-off, then, and within seconds of the start, we were shook to the core by a Hammers goal so early, lots of people were finding their seats still. Defoe was the man responsible, slicing us apart on the left then finishing with a tap-in, and we were just trying to come to terms with that, when in the 10th minute, it was the turn of Brian Deane to pile on the agony. As I saw it, in a kamikaze display of defending that would have had World War 2 Japanese pilots yelling ?Banzai!? like billy-oh, we surrendered possession in our own box ? was Greegs the culprit? ? which was all they needed, wasn?t it? Bang went the Hammers new-bug, and we?d fallen even deeper in the mire. But worse was to come; in the 18th. we conceded a free-kick on the edge of the box. No blast at goal, just a chip which found Deane again, totally-unmarked on the left of our goal, to head home, as sweet as a nut. Was Gregan, on his line when he shouldn?t have been, at fault for that one? Three-nil, the home crowd ? erm ? crowed, and we were heading for the rock-pile. So demoralised were us Dick Eds by what we?d witnessed thus far, The Noise then decided to indulge in a soupcon of sarcasm. ?Defoe, you?re RUBBISH!? he roared, an act which brought a stinging rebuke from the bloke behind us, who clearly didn?t do sarcasm at all! Oh dear, yet another person upset by The Noise?s somewhat twisted sense of humour!

By now we were, to all intents headed for the rockpile, consequently, us supporters steeled ourselves for a cricket-score. After all, that opening blitz had not augured at all well for our prospects, and as for any hope of a come-back, forget it. End of story. That?s what we?d thought, but then, something seemed to stir within the very souls of our players. Or was it just the frightening half-time prospect of the mother of all rollickings from our rightly-furious manager? Whatever the cause, suddenly, the worm seemed to turn, aided by a little luck and a ?Condor moment? from both England first-choice keeper David James and one of his defender-chums. While they were both pondering the mysteries of the Universe, in nipped the predatory Rob Hulse, to belt the bladder over the line. ?Great?, we thought, a useful little face-saving strike, but of celebrations, there were few in that away end.

Then, not long before the interval, and following a blown Hammers chance to make it four and out, there came our second, and what a tremendous effort it was. Think Sakiri?s magnificent strike at The Shrine earlier in the season, and you?ve got the picture, but the perpetrator of the damage on this occasion was that man Hulse once more, from the edge of the box. It was a rocket of a shot, it really was, and left poor David James doing Mayor Of Hiroshima impersonations ? ?What the f***ing hell was THAT?? - on his goal-line.

Mind you, if you?d thought our defence had behaved in a kamikaze fashion at the beginning, what about Jermaine Defoe just before the half-time whistle? I can only think that the same sort of destructive impulse that persuades grown people to throw themselves off high bridges, or in front of moving trains, washed through his brain at that precise moment. How else can you provide a rational explanation for the gentleman in question, with no need whatsoever to do so, cynically chopping Greegs with a tackle so late, it should have had a note to the ref from its mother? Whatever the reasoning behind Defoe?s rash decision to do that, it was an automatic red for the guy, and off he went to the showers, just beating the rest of his comrades to it by a short head.

When we?d pulled it back to 2-3, the prospect of us eventually restoring parity seemed somewhat remote; there was always the nagging feeling in the back of my mind that The Hammers had plenty in reserve, but Defoe?s idiotic and unnecessary dismissal had completely skewed the percentages once more. Hope coursed anew within our collective Baggie bloodstream; a win was out of the question, of course, but of salvaging a point, there was a distinct possibility. The question was, was the necessary will and motivation to do so within the gift of our battle-weary players?

A big ask; we aren?t generally known for turning around games, once behind, the score generally stays that way, but hope, especially when nurtured in passionate Black Country bosoms, springs eternal, and as our lot re-entered the arena once more (very early, it has to be said; another psychological ploy on the part of our leader?), they were greeted by an almighty roar that left them in absolutely no doubt as to what was expected of them that half.

And, it has to be said, we could have clobbered them straight from the restart when James O?Connor ran amok straight through their middle, but, most definitely not a striker by trade, he let a Hammer nick the bladder from him before he could do damage with it, and James managed - just! ? to propel it away and out of harm?s way. As the game wore on, our numerical superiority gradually seemed to be grinding The Hammers down; following several Albion assaults on their peace of mind, in the 65th minute, we finally achieved the long awaited parity we deserved. Shame it had to be courtesy an own goal from Deane, but the real damage was done courtesy of a vicious Koumas corner. Cue for much ?boinging? that time, plus the realisation that suddenly, the impossible really was possible. For their part, a cold chill must have simultaneously run through the massed ranks of the home supporters; theirs was a terrible silence, which contrasted quite nicely with the jubilant animation shown by our followers, who had, by now found an extra vocal gear to play with.

And, while all this was going on, what of our substitutes? Well, East Londoners were introduced to the many talents of Artim Sakiri in the 56th minute ? O?Connor was the man pulled out of the fray ? but not long after that, came the change that finally swung it for us. Off went Scott Dobie in the 69th., and on came a clearly-fired-up Hughsie. I?m not too sure as to whether what happened next could be legitimately incorporated into the script of a TV play, or a film, purely and simply because no-one in their right mind would say categorically that such extraordinary events were truly believable, but I saw it, and so did about 2,500 other Baggies. The trouble is, I still have difficulty reconciling what happened with the evidence provided by my own eyes. As I saw it, James had trouble shifting the ball out of danger; unfortunately for him, the ball then landed straight at the feet of our bald-headed local lad, who then belted it like blazes, the shot finding its target with the help of a hefty assist from a Hammers defender?s leg. You thought there was pandemonium when we?d equalised? Well square it and cube it, and you still won?t get anywhere near the full gamut of Black Country emotions that reigned in West London at that precise moment. Not only were our followers going absolutely mental, so were the players, Hughsie especially. I was no accident they all ran like quicksilver to join our striker?s joyful celebrations behind the goal.

Suddenly, that away end was in absolute uproar. One minute my walking-stick was firmly in my hot little hand, the next, it had migrated to a landing-spot some two rows behind. How the hell it got there, I don?t know. Had it connected with anyone else?s body during the course of its celebratory flight, they would have been patronising the First Aid Room, and, more likely than not, I would have been patronising the Met?s custody facility. Quickly rescuing my errant walking-aid from the spot where it had embraced terra firma once more, it was now time for the mother of all ?boings? followed by one of the most spirited renditions of the 23rd. Psalm I have ever heard in my life. By that time, so rapidly was I writing in my little note-book, I really couldn?t keep up, and finally had to put it away; in any case, I wanted to savour what I?d witnessed to the full.

And, on the pitch, our finest continued to delight. We really could have made it five, dead easy, but that would have been greedy, and in any case, we?d already proved our point to everyone?s satisfaction ? except that of the locals, who exited the ground in droves. A disallowed goal from us, a momentary panic, as the referee took it upon himself to play more added time than the allotted ration, and then it was all over. Top of the League, Ma ? Wigan had dipped ? and, as we joyfully chorused to anyone who?d listen, anything the Dingles could do ? a reference to their Molineux win in similar circumstances versus Leicester the other week ? we could damn well do better by doing the biz away from home! Already, we were speculating on the possibility of history having been made; as The Noise pointed out, the last time he reckoned The Old Fart saw a come-back like that, it involved the Zulus and their 19th century contretemps with the British Army at Ishlandwala, in present-day South Africa!

Back on the coach once more, and what an excited load of Baggies we were after all that lot, which was hardly surprising, considering. As I said earlier, much of my time was spent talking to Steve in an effort to ascertain as to whether Albion history had been made; that and fuming at our non-progress through the heavy post-match traffic. I kid you not, it took us all of two hours to progress a mere three miles. Finally out of the snarl-ups by about seven, we then joined the motorway, and Uncle Sauce then put on the chosen video for the return journey, ?The Green Mile?, starring what seemed to be a Big Dave look-alike. Not that those at the back of the coach were paying much attention; before too long, an impromptu ?glee-club? had formed, and as we sped up the northbound carriageway of the M1, we were variously regaled with ditties originally sung by such notables as Vera Lynne, Jack Judge (Tipperary), Gary Glitter (don?t ask!), Gracie Fields ? and, that old-time favourite, ?Johnny ?T? From Wednesbury?! Why? Ask me one on sport!

A late arrival home, then ? around ten by the time we?d chugged back into town - but not before I?d been amused by the sight of a plane coming in to land at Birmingham Airport and, because of the sheer amount of fireworks going off around it, looking for all the world like a World War Two bomber dodging flak over the Ruhr! I just hoped someone had tipped off the pilot beforehand!

What a bloody day, and what a bloody team. Just when I?d thought Albion were totally incapable of surprising me any more, they go and do precisely that twice within the space of about 14 days! Again, I have to salute our manager for giving them the kick up the fundament necessary to goad them into achieving that remarkable win. As a person, I have little time for him and his mind-games, but as the manager of a football team, today, he earned not a little respect from me, and deservedly so. What he threatened those players with I don?t wish to speculate upon too deeply, but whatever it was, it sure worked. To take on a side that hadn?t lost at home this term, give them a three-goal start, then proceed to wipe the smiles right off their faces during the second half is something I?ll not forget that easily. Thanks, each and every one of you out there on that pitch, for what you did today. It truly was magnificent. Proud to be a Baggie? You bet your life I bloody well am.

And finally?.. After the final whistle, The Old Fart took the trouble to ring his ?other half?, Dot, to see whether or not she?d heard what had happened. As it turned out, she had ? and how! Apparently, she?d been preparing onions for pickling, and listening to the game on the radio at the same time ? and the whole lot, vinegar and all, went flying through the air when she heard we'd scored the winner!

 - Glynis Wright

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