“You didn’t deserve that, soon be in the Premiership with that sort of performance.”
David O’Leary’s words rang hollow despite the genial Irishman’s sudden warmth towards Newman and I at the end of our FA Cup replay against Manchester United at Roots Hall.
We’d been battered, Allan Marsh kept us in the contest but as I shook his hand all I could think of was the original game at Old Trafford where we’d come within seven minutes of causing a huge upset.
Nothing could shift my mood though, Chairman Ron was overjoyed about the money and the TV cash for the replay. “Spend away, sunshine, you’ve earned it…”
As I shook O’Leary’s hand again and bid him farewell following a drink in my office I slumped on the sofa, cracked open a Dragon Soop and reflected on what might have been.
18 days earlier we arrived at the Theatre of Dreams after a rare overnight stay — “Don’t draw Man Yoo every week son, I’ll stump up for a hotel,” said Chairman Ron — My excitement at the Travelodge he found was only equalled when I saw the team sheet, no Beckham, Van Nistelrooy, Giggs etc.
O’Leary was unusually cold, just a brief handshake before the game and he walked off at the end after a Ronnie Wallwork goal seven minutes from time spared his blushes.
January 22, sleet and snow swept around Roots Hall, I knew the superstars would hate our away changing room, no need to turn the heating off as it didn’t work anyway.
A full house put Chairman Ron in celebratory mood, Meysam put us in front and with 20 minutes to go we were on the verge. I could see what was coming, a small squad and injury list meant the 11 were being asked to go toe to toe against 16 world class players. Andy Cole scored a deserved equaliser to force extra time, we were powerless apart from Marshy who kept them at bay.
Eight minutes left, Byron Bubb stuck a tired leg out on Ryan Giggs, penalty, goal. OUT
While I yelled abused at the referee for the farcical red card, I could see the exhaustion. After the United game we drew one and lost four of the next five.
“I don’t give a toss how tired you are, we aren’t throwing this away.” Even as the words left my mouth I didn’t believe them. I’d fucked up, these lads were good enough but we needed an edge, we needed an injection, we needed to bolster the spine.
Almost a third of our league goals had been scored by the Meysam Machine. Spencer had found me several strikers but my Swedish striker still wouldn’t accept a rest. Any substitution by me led to a flurry of Swedish invective…
Four straight wins put a smile back on my face but with ten games to go and no distractions I knew I had a decision to make — spend, spend, spend or keep the faith.
Promotion was in our grasp, but I had a Division Three squad doing the best it could in Division Two, we’d be lambs to the slaughter if we were promoted.
The legend Jose Cano was signed for next season, adding to the Spanish Armada fleet docked in Tilbury. I perused the divisions, looking for new faces. One name instantly stuck, a small lad in stature but a giant in the midfield with a cracking missus to boot.
“Keatesy, it’s Robbie…….fancy coming to make more memories?”
