I ROLLED over again, sleep eluding me. 3.16am, it may as well have said 11.30pm, 12.55am, 1.41am and 2.08am — all of the times I’d rolled over to be met with the red LCD menace.
I gave up and headed for the sofa, normally the sleepless nights were because of the Dragon Soop, this time was different. In just over 12 hours we’d kick off in the ‘Biggest game in the Shrimpers history’ as the Echo helpfully branded it.
We’d kick off against Sunderland at a sold-out Roots Hall on 73 points, one point behind leaders Chelsea and one ahead of Liverpool. Ranieri’s men were at Middlesbrough while Houllier’s men would face Reading..
Why was I worried though? We’d thrown away a lead in the Premier League, my knackered players were dead on their feet. We’d hosted Chelsea just 18 days ago and saw our 3–2 lead snatched away in the dying minutes.
Post-match I decided to make it all about the sending off, though as I was saying it I knew I was talking absolute bollocks. Our small squad had fought on three fronts, chairman Ron was happy, the fans were ecstatic and the media fell over themselves to hail us as the new Wimbledon, ignoring the fact they’d come all the way from the Southern League not Division Three.
The pundits had said it was ours, we’d lost just twice in the Premier League since Boxing Day In a run which saw us reach the FA Cup semi final where Manchester United handed out their compulsory thrashing. Still at least there was the UEFA Cup…..
A 1–0 win in the return leg softened the blow somewhat but the morning after the Chelsea debacle, as I sat down for a full English with Aldo, I confronted the question ‘are we tough enough’.
“They’ve won things gaffer, never anything major though…that’s a whole other step.”
I knew he was right, the pressure HAD to come off. So, having been warned by the FA for my comments post Chelsea I used the Friday conference to basically say we’d been conned by the refs all season…..
A furious phone call followed, one match touchline ban and £26,000 fine. But on the Saturday morning no-one was chatting about Southend’s title challenge, bravo Robbie, bravo!
Our trip to Old Trafford was make or break, win and we had a chance on the final day, lose and that would be it. My bid to make it us against the world worked a treat as walking down the tunnel after warm-up, the big lad Hartson collared me.
“Gaffer, I’ve something to say to the lads, any chance I could do the talk before we go out.”
I could see the fire in his eyes, “On ya go big man”…..
What followed was the Welsh equivalent of Braveheart as William Wallace Hartson delivered Agincourt, Churchill and I Have a Dream in a five-minute rally which had them all desperate for blood.
The room fell silent, there was fuck all I could add so opened the door and handed him his armband
“Lead your men into battle captain”. I mooched up the stairs to the directors box, Ron beckoned me over. “Smiling a lot son? I’m shitting bricks here”
I lingered in the box as the players left the field having saluted the fans, they were tough enough alright….
Sunday, May 21…..D-Day. Having given up the idea of sleep I drove into the ground at 8.30am…seven and a half hours before kick off.
The atmosphere built and built, the players warmed up and it felt like there were 70,000 out there.
“Don’t come back in with any regrets lads, do your jobs and what happens….happens,” I told them.
Eight minutes in and the place erupted, weird for a bloody throw in I thought until I looked at Aldo ‘1–0 Boro’ he mouthed…no-one had spotted he’d smuggled a headphone cable up his arm and was touching his ear every five minutes!
Goals from Foe and big Lucien from a corner put us 2–0 up at the break.
“It’s only 1–0 at Boro lads, they’ve time to score two” it was a gentle reminder to secure our win first.
Then at 5.06pm it happened, as Jose Cano made it 3–0 in a split screen moment to die for, Heskey made it 2–0 to Boro….fuck this could actually happen!
Roots Hall was rocking, I fought every instinct and tried to remain calm. Elmander made it 2–1 with six minutes to go. Shit, it’s the Chelsea game here all over again…..
‘Peep, peep, peeep’ it was over, we’d won. As the fans flooded the pitch, we escaped down the tunnel, Sky put the game on their monitor and we waited and waited until…..
“I swear you’ll never see anything like this again, so watch it, drink it in, Southend are the Champions, screamed Martin Tyler at Middlesbrough over a split screen of the desolation in the North-East and the ecstasy in Essex.
I hugged everyone in sight, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck FUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.
The dressing room was a sea of limbs and unbridled joy. The Premier League had seen it coming, the actual trophy was on its way by helicopter along with the boss, they wanted to milk this!
And so at 6.30pm on a lovely Sunday evening, the stage was set, big John went forward to lift the trophy, four years and 16 days after the Division Three title was held aloft.
As I stood holding the silverware before handing it to Chairman Ron — “fecking miracle worker son, fecking amazing” I took it all in.
Where do we go from here????
