Who are they kidding? Sleep? I‘ve not slept for a week. Teeth done, in the bedroom sink with the Albion crest mirror, then stretched out on the bed, under the gaze of the 1982/83 squad, looking down from the wall opposite. Half asleep, half awake, replaying all that brought us to this – to the cusp of eternal glory – to the prospect of triangular corner flags at the Goldstone.
A scrap against Newcastle in the 3rd round – the adventure almost over before it began. A draw secured, then crestfallen at the response that ‘No, we wouldn’t’ be attending the replay – I had no concept of the distances involved. The lads came through it without my help, then came the romp past Manchester City, that cost John Bond his job. Fifth round. Big time.
Monday lunchtime, and Mr Lawrence has brought in a radio – hushed excitement as Bert Millichip and company proceed with suitable gravitas. The balls clunk into the velvet bag. Serious BBC voices. Serious business this. Liverpool! Liverpool away. Bloody hell. Current first division champions, and well on their way to winning it again. Already in the final of the League Cup. Recent champions of Europe. All outside to get this tie on. ‘You’re Liverpool’. ‘Am I ****.’
Something’s changed. The town’s woken up to what’s going on. There’s a pull-out feature in the Argus every couple of days. There’s rosettes in shop window displays. Posters in the windows of houses. From somewhere, cardboard placards appear of the logo of a tractor company, called CASE – these are great, and they’re soon everywhere, in homage to the stone-deaf hard man in the Albion midfield – our bay window included.
The game at Anfield is seared in my memory – and we didn’t even go. A sweet-run to the Maid Marian, then settled – as settled a nerves would allow – in the lounge, glued to the radio commentary, crackling out from Dad’s beloved sound system – specially imported to do full justice to an extensive collection of Santana and Pink Floyd. It’s the size of a table football get-up, and lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. As the commentator runs through the sides, childish optimism takes a knock – Dalgliesh. Rush. Souness. There’s a reason they’ve rattled off 40 plus unbeaten Anfield cup ties. Unbeaten. Unbeatable?
Nobody told the Albion. Gerry Ryan gives us a surprise lead, which we hold for a good while, before Reds’ substitute Craig Johnston equalises, 60 seconds after coming on. The Kop celebrating like this is only going one way now – but, their former idol Case having none of it – shrugging off challenges, to crash home from distance. Glory so close – then disaster – the ref’s given them a penalty. Bollocks is it. Looks a poor decision, from 240 miles away. Phil Neal steps up, in front of The Kop –and he’s only gone and missed it! It’s done. The biggest of FA Cup shocks. Wow.
The shit got real now – actually, shit didn’t ‘get real’ until at least the 90s – but you get the idea –this is now a bona fide big deal. Huge excitement in schools. In shops. In offices. The town turning blue. Mr Lawrence’s crackly transistor radio confirms a home Quarter-final against Norwich. That’ll do nicely.
I’ve turned twelve since the last round, so now deemed old enough to go on my own. My mate and I obviously ignore our strict East Terrace instructions, and head straight for the North, pumped full of bravado. As the stand fills up, well beyond any modern sense of comfort, or safety, we bottle it, and melt to the North-West corner, where perched on the low wall at the footings of the floodlight, we crane our necks to witness Case brushing aside the Canaries’ last man, before firing the Albion to an historic semi-final.
The FA Blazers do us an almighty favour – drawing Manchester United and Arsenal together, leaving the Albion to face Sheffield Wednesday, fighting for promotion from the Second Division. How hard can that be – a team from the lower leagues? The tie is to be played at Arsenal’s Highbury Stadium – well known to me and my mates, from Match of the Day, and the pages of Shoot. Armed with the 1983 version of loyalty points – ticket stubs from various first team and reserve matches – we join the excitable queue on Newtown Road, to secure our precious tickets from the Goldstone ticket office / shop / reception. I think it’s the first football match I’ve ever had, or needed, an actual ticket for – and it sits on the mantelpiece drawing all eyes to it – a magical thing indeed.
Highbury feels massive. There’s blue and white stripes everywhere – you’d think everyone was supporting the Albion, if half of them didn’t talk funny. We pile into the clock end, and head for the front. “Meet you behind the goal, after the game”. The terrace is a heaving mass of flesh, nylon shirts, scarves and cigarette smoke, which explodes in a maelstrom, as Case – who else – unleashes a rasping free kick, in off the bar. Absolute scenes – ‘limbs’ as it would be known, 30 years later.
Half-time babble punctured soon after – the Owls scuffing one in – but then delirium, as Michael Robinson nets the winner up the far end. Not that I could see it – not that I cared. We’ve only gone and done it – we are officially ‘thegreatestbrightnovalbyun’ and we’re ‘go-na-wem-ber-ley’. We’re going to play Manchester United, at actual bloody Wem Ber Ley!
Back to Newtown Road, crack of dawn. Not ****ing this up. Rumours like wildfires, up and down the queue – “We’re only getting this many” – “We’re getting that many” – “There’s not enough” – “They’ve nearly all gone”. Tension. Success. Get in. Wem Ber Ley! The Albion are as good as relegated by now, but that seems entirely unimportant. We’ll soon be back up – it’s all about the FA Cup now.
All pretence of schooling is basically abandoned at this stage. Every lesson just excited babble. Are you going? Of course I’m bloody going. How are you getting there? Who are you going with? Do you know anyone with a spare? Not just in schools either – Brighton is now FA Cup Town. Every shop window displaying their (previously well hidden) love of the Albion. The Argus covers nothing else. There’s features on the news – not just the local gubbins – the actual proper news. Interviews on the pier, with various players, and with manager Jimmy Melia. Jimmy has a pair of white shoes – that alone the basis of half a dozen FA Cup stories. Balding little gnome Jimmy has a ‘glamour girl’, in Val Lloyd, on his arm – half a dozen more. The squad are flying to Wembley in a bloody helicopter, courtesy of shirt sponsors British Caledonian – more glamour. The Albion squad get involved in the ‘grand’ tradition of the FA Cup final single – “The Boys in the old Brighton blue” appear on Top of the Pops, no less. Amazing times.
And so to now – here we all are, up with the lark, my brothers and I bundled into the brown (why Dad? just why?) Ford Sierra, for the journey to actual bloody Wem-ber-ley. Climbing Snakey Hill there’s a car in front of us, with blue and white scarves trailing from both rear windows. We’re having some of that – windows down, scarves out, windows up. Onto the A23, there’s another car, more scarves. Then another, and another. And a coach, and a bus, and what seems like a hundred more buses – all full of blue and white, flags and scarves trailing from every window. There’s flags and good luck banners strung from the bridges over the road, as the glorious cavalcade flows by. And we’re part of it – smiles and waves, and car horns blaring – and it’s bloody brilliant.
At the top of the A23 we sweep triumphantly through enemy territory – the banners now wishing luck of a different kind – jealous pricks – sod you Palace – we’re going to Wemberley!
The old ground itself is everything we know from the telly and magazines. The twin towers. Wembley Way – all the people. Flags everywhere. The scrum for the turnstiles is ludicrous. My parents are trying to shepherd three youngsters, but it’s pot luck – small people at the complete mercy of the human tide. My little brother has gone. He’s out of sight – can hear him shouting. Mum’s shouting back. Then he appears, above all the heads – a policeman has scooped him up, onto his shoulders “Looking for this one, madam?” Our hero wades through the crowd to the turnstile we’re queuing for, lifts my brother down over the gate, and deposits him safely on the other side, to wait for us there. Offspring rescued, my Dad shouts his thanks to the copper, then makes a handy opportunist bonus, selling the boy’s now surplus ticket, to a grateful and desperate ticketless soul. Paul Barber and his rules hadn’t been invented then, so this is all okay…
We’re all inside now. Through the throng. Up the stairway, and there it all is before us. The sheer scale. It’s massive. It’s frankly ridiculous. One hundred bloody thousand people here. That’s loads. We find a perfect spot for the shorter fan – right at the front of our (top) tier. Wembley is everything it is supposed to be. Except the pitch – the famous perfect Wembley pitch is a mess – an unseasonal deluge in the 24 hours up to the game, has left it patchy and sodden. My Dad says it’s a good thing – a leveller.
All around us there’s blue. Blue flags, blue scarves, blue shirts. Giant blue foam hands. Blue polystyrene bowler hats - obviously. We’re not allowed one. We’ve a foam hand each though. Seagulls! At the opposite end, and down most of each side, seas of red. Lots and lots of red. There’s even red at our end, in the tier below us. “Glory, glory, Man Un-iiii-ted” Yeah, whatever. The Albion fans respond in good voice – “Good old Sussex by the sea...” “Jimmy Meel-yas bloonwhitearmy” “We love you Brigh’on, we do...” ‘Make the most of this’, says my Dad – ‘this won’t happen again in your lifetime.’
The teams are out. Steve Foster banned, the task of introducing the team to the assembled royalty and blazers, falling to the familiar figure of Tony Grealish – resplendent in white headband, in homage to his absent team-mate. No surprises in the Albion line-up – Graham Mosely in the net. Young Gary Stevens taking Foster’s place alongside Steve Gatting – Chris Ramsey and Graeme Pearce the full backs. Grealish and Case the engine, flanked by the blonde-mopped Neil Smillie and the Irish rookie Gary Howlett. Front two of Michael Robinson and Gordon Smith – Gerry Ryan the sub (that’s right kids, just the one).
Plenty of star names in the United line-up – Ray Wilkins - Frank Stapleton – the England captain, Bryan Robson. In the shape of midfielder Arnold Mürhen, and keeper Gary Bailey, they’ve two foreigners. In the FA Cup final. Imagine. This United side have ended the season strongly to finish third in the league. They’ve conceded a grand total of ONE goal in their cup run. The Albion are massive underdogs.
One hundred thousand voices in something approaching harmony, for Abide with Me. Stirring stuff. Excitement ramping up. Tension overwhelming. Feel a bit sick. Once Mr Grey from Norfolk (no idea why, but referees were always referred to like that in the olden days) gets us underway, I can breathe again – with actual football to get immersed in, the tension is punctured. Come on Albion. Come. On.
The ball is mostly with United, but we’re competing here – we’re in this game. And 14 minutes in, the unthinkable – Gordon Smith rises to meet a beautiful chipped Howlett cross – perfect header – back across Bailey, and into the corner of the net. The red seas are silenced. Bedlam in the blue end. Bowler hats and foam hands everywhere. It’s on. It’s flipping well on!
United respond. Waves of pressure. The Albion soaking it up, repelling everything. Young Stevens having the game of his life. Ramsey heads off the line, after McQueen crashed into Moseley under a cross. Mosely plunges left to keep out a low drive from Robson. Keep going boys. Come on.
My focus on the game is jolted. ****. What the ****? Ouch. Mum’s grabbing me. I’m bleeding, from the temple. My brother’s down by our feet, and back up, clutching a ****ed up two pence piece. Some properly hard United knobber in the tier below, has reacted to going behind, by launching sharpened coins into an Albion end full of kids. Well done mate. Brilliant. It’s really nothing serious – could have been – an inch from my eye – and by me at least ignored – hold a hanky against it and get back to the game. Mum’s upset understandably, and Dad’s fuming. I’m twelve and gutted it wasn’t one of those new one pound coins. An entire pound, in a coin. Mental.
The Albion back four better focused – all magnificent. Grealish and Case superb in the centre. Smillie rapid, getting at them out wide. His cross met by Robinson – ooh – tipped over by Bailey. A corner then another cross – Gatting close. United dodgy under crosses. Another let off down our end – Moseley spilling a simple cross – dropping on it frantically before a lurking red shirt can pounce. Mr Grey confirms the respite of half-time, with the slender lead intact. Dreams coming into focus now. It might just be happening.
Good old Sussex by the Sea rings out again, followed by You’ll Never Walk Alone – belted out by both sets of fans – cringing at borrowing other club’s songs not invented back then. The band of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, back out to entertain us, in their smart black uniforms and white pith helmets – shiny black leather shoes, squelching about the muddy Wembley pitch. The Marines march off, and out jog the teams, from the tunnel below us – here we go.
Early into the second half – no real drama of note – and then – disaster: United’s wunderkind Norman Whiteside arrives late in the box – chest control – lifts it past Mosely. Crap. Red rapture below us. But wait. Mr Grey says no! That control was with a hand. Thank Christ. Sneaky Northern (Irish) *******. Not just sneaky – dirty too - minutes later flying late into Ramsey – studs up, into the full-back’s right ankle. Ramsey shrieks in pain. Down for a bit, then helped gingerly to his feet. Looks initially like he’s staying out there, but he can barely jog. Gerry Ryan limbering up.
Mr Grey dishes out nothing but a stern word. Whiteside hugely fortunate. The Albion quite the opposite – Whiteside’s assault leading directly to an equalising goal – cheats do prosper. Deep cross from Duxbury, flicked on by bloody Whiteside, and there’s Stapleton arriving to tap in, with poor Ramsey hobbling five yards behind him. Bloody bollocks.
All United for a bit – tails up. Ryan, an attacker by trade, on in Ramsey’s stead to join in attempts to repel them. Red seas noisy now. They think this is only going one way. Tackles flying at this stage. Smillie hobbling too – caught by Albiston. Jimmy Case on a one-man mission to even things up. ‘Specky’ Smillie shrugs it off – cuts in from the left – decent effort from range, but straight at Bailey. Albion voices emboldened.
Then temporarily silenced. Arse. Mürhen spreads it wide to Wilkins – carries it unchallenged 20 yards down the right – cuts onto his left – finds the far top corner. ****ssake. It’s a bloody great goal. ****.
“We shall not, we shall not be moved” sing the Reds. “Seagulls” respond. Fans haven’t given up. I’m feeling pretty proud right now of the team, and those about us. The side are still fighting, though play is mostly down our end. Wilkins looks to repeat the trick – a yard over this time. Wilkins at the centre of everything – on the ball again – Case smashes him. Go on Jimmy! Case’s every touch from here booed by half the ground, and cheered by the rest.
The game’s nearly up. Looks like it’s heroic failure. United fans celebrating. Albion responding. Five minutes left, an free kick down the side of the box – swung in – headed behind. Corner. Last chance surely. Come on lads! Comes to nothing. Sake! Not to be. Just not to be. Three minutes now, another cross, headed behind by McQueen. Case doesn’t swing this one in – pulls it back to Grealish on the edge of the box – the skipper helps it into the middle – is it a shot? Pass? No idea – but it’s reached Stevens eight yards out. Not breathing. Time stops. Booom. He’s only smashed it in. Any polystyrene headgear not lost after the Smith goal, is in the air now. Carnage. What a moment. Heroic failure, can do one.
Almost all for nothing though – straight down our end – Davies stretching for a low cross, directs the ball wide from six yards, with the goal at his mercy. And that’s it. Or rather not it – thirty minutes more. I’m shattered. How do the actual players feel? Our heroes are huddled round Melia and George Aitken, taking in oxygen, orange squash and scouse inspiration.
The Albion surprisingly strong through extra time. Michael Robinson’s found some reserves of energy – United defence stretched. No big chances though for either side, though – then right at the very death – 120 minutes on the clock – THE moment: United back line high – Case chips over them to release Robinson, who beats Moran in a race to the ball. Gordon McQueen has to leave his man Smith, to cover across. Robinson checks his run, at the edge of the box – rolls it square into the path of the Scot, with only Bailey to beat. Eternal glory beckons – Smith ‘must score’ – he does everything ‘right’ – takes a touch, steadies himself – head over the ball - strikes it low – but no! – Bailey makes a big enough barrier to block with his legs. Mr Grey calls time. Heads in hands. So agonisingly near. So frustratingly far.
The Albion fans are still singing, as the team come over to huge applause. Everyone justly proud of a monumental effort – but I’m looking around me at a sea of faces who just know - that was our big chance. Gutted. Bursting with pride, but gutted.
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