Chapter 5
September was no better. Sure, we remained unbeaten in the League Cup, registering a draw at Stoke before beating them at Hillsborough 3-1, but the league form was even worse. Three games and three defeats in the league saw us remain at the bottom of the league with only one point. How can this be WORSE than what had come before? I hear you ask. Well, September witnessed possibly THE worst performance I have ever seen from a Wednesday side. On Sunday 19th September, 1999 Wednesday travelled up to St. James’ Park to play Newcastle who were only three points better off than The Owls. This match has surely gone down in folklore, both in Sheffield and Newcastle, as the day two teams went into battle for honour, pride and self-respect and only one came out with any credit.
By now I had already travelled to three of the four away games prior to our journey north. The football had been poor but we now faced a team with a worse defence than ours and residing only one place above us in the league. I awoke on Sunday morning relishing a trip to the home of the greatest fans on earth (copyright every idiot that knows nothing about football). Quite apart from the fact that pre-Keegan the Geordies frequently attracted less than 15000 to games, I have never gone along with this view that ‘numbers equals greatness’. Certainly numbers equal volume but that doesn’t make them the best fans in the world, nor even in the north east (this honour easily going to Sunderland in my view). Teams like Torquay will always attract thousands less than Newcastle but I would say that Torquay’s fans would be more deserving of the accolade of best fans. And let’s be honest, nothing can compete with the dedication, volume and barmy-ness of Wednesday’s travelling army – a fact recognised by nearly every club we visited in the nationwide league.
Anyway, as well as the ‘Replica Army’ there was also the prospect of visiting a ground that is top notch. However, as I was to find out, it wasn’t quite up to scratch when we visited. More of that later. The most enticing thing though was the fact that we now had a great chance to gain our first victory of the season. Newcastle were bad, with the recently sacked Gullit effectively doing a carbon-copy job of that being undertaken by Wilson at Wednesday. A decent team systematically shredded of every ounce of competence, endeavour and bravery. This was it, a first win of the season, a first victory for me at St Jimmys’, off the bottom of the table and onwards and upwards. How wrong could I have been?
My brother Ian accompanied me to the game and we set off at 11.30am for a 3 o’clock kick off. Now that may seem slightly early but I knew it would take about 2 hours to get to Newcastle and that would give me plenty of time to do a bit of fanzine selling and then nip into the game. This was when the first sign that things weren’t going to run smoothly reared its head. As we sailed up the A1 in my crappy, burgundy F-registered Fiesta something suddenly blew. With steam rising from the rear wheel it was evident a tyre had given way. To add to the situation I had a jack that I had no idea how to use; the nearest phone was some way off AND the spare was as bald as Jim Smith. After myself and Ian had tried the jack every which way but loose (well actually every which way but the correct way) I trudged off to the phone, seriously pissed off, as I was sure this would render me incapable of witnessing a fine victory against a ghastly Newcastle side! With hindsight it would probably have been better had that lovely Fiesta of mine managed to stop me (in fairness to the car it did have one more fantastic attempt at stopping me from travelling to any more away games but more of that later.)
Anyway upon my return from the phone I informed Ian that Mr Hammond senior was on his way to swap cars so we could fly on up to Newcastle and he’d change the tyre and take the ‘shit-heap’ home. No sooner had I told Ian this than the bloody rozzers pulled up. They had actually had a report of someone needlessly stopped on the hard shoulder and had come to check it out! Once I’d explained the situation regarding the flat and that my dad was on his way they enquired as to why I couldn’t just swap the tyre myself and be on my way. The sly, sarcastic piss-taking those two coppers gave me as they showed me how to use the jack (very simple when you know how but even now I couldn’t begin to explain it to you) was quite unacceptable and not a little embarrassing. If you’ve owned an F-reg Fiesta you’ll probably know what I’m on about, and I dare say you’re thinking ‘thick sod, how easy does he want it?’ Well I’m sorry but I really couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I was so flustered in fact that it took me several seconds to realise what the coppers were smirking at when I informed them that I had never come across a jack like that before. “What you do in your own time is your business sir.” Smirked the laughing policeman, I KID YOU NOT! I felt like a woman as these two blokes ripped the piss out of my lack of motoring knowledge. Bastard Wednesday had so much to answer for that season.
Anyway the coppers changed my wheel for me. This was a bonus in that it enabled me to evade getting covered in oil, though it was a bit dicey when PC Smirk pulled Jim Smith out of the boot and didn’t know whether to laugh or caution me as the light bounced off the shiny surface that would very soon be tanking along the tarmac at 80 miles an hour. I was so sure he was going to refuse to fit it and book me for having such an inadequate spare. However, I think he realised that my day was already so far round the u-bend that he took pity on me and let me off. The mirth my Wednesday fanzines in the boot had caused him further enhanced his certainty that I was both mad and unfortunate and for perhaps the only time in my life I was glad we were shit. As fate so often decrees, just as the police were packing my burst tyre into the boot things got worse when my dad showed up. He proceeded to take the slash also as he had a jolly good laugh with the rozzers at my expense. I tell you if I was a woman I would never get behind the wheel of a car if this is how they feel every time they are involved in a smash or visit a garage, it’s just too humiliating.
Anyway I took the reins as it were in the Nova that my dad had fetched and set off at a fair rate. As I relaxed in the seat and thanked the Lord that I may now actually get to the game I realised with horror that I’d left all the fanzines, money bags and float in my Fiesta. Then I realised that it didn’t matter because there was no way I was going to get there in time anyway. So, a burst tyre; coppers taking the slash; almost nicked for having a bald spare tyre; my dad joining the slash taking; fanzines left in the wrong car and now I was going to be late for the game. If this had happened watching any other team you’d think ‘coincidence, nothing more’. However, when put into the context of travelling to watch Wednesday you just can’t help but think that someone somewhere was trying to stop me going or at the very least make me think very hard about it.
By the end of the game I began to wish that I had thought just that little bit harder about attending the game. This was the pivotal moment of that disastrous season as far as many fans are concerned. This was the day that the lack of desire, fight, pride and respect on the part of the players finally showed its full extent. Basically there was none. Even such gallant triers as Booth and Pressman more closely resembled money grabbing bastards who couldn’t be bothered to fight for the Wednesday cause. In fairness to Pressman he became obviously dispirited as goal after goal flew past him as his defence became more and more colander like. This doesn’t explain nor condone the ease with which the ball beat the goalkeeper though – he could have at least made an effort to save.
You might think that when a team loses 8-0 to the side that is bottom of the league that there couldn’t possibly be one moment that remains in the mind above all others but there is, and the shear amateurish nature of it is what makes it the crowning glory of this match for me. It may surprise you to learn that said incident occurred with the score at 0-0 and only a few minutes into the match but there you go. Booth put the ball into the Newcastle net and went wild. He celebrated like a man who’d dropped his soap in the shower and discovered he had a piece of string attached to his wrist – it was a delirious mixture of happiness and relief! He wheeled away and began to make a crazed, weaving run towards the 800 or so Owls fans stood motionless in the uncovered corner of St James’ Park. THAT’S RIGHT! MOTIONLESS FANS! How can this be when Boothy-boy has knocked in the opening goal? Well, he was so far offside it was embarrassing. I didn’t know whether to cry or simply try to hide under my seat. Booth was the only man within 18 yards of the Newcastle goal – save the goalkeeper – when he received the ball and it was obvious to everyone in the stadium that he was offside – everyone except Boothy-boy himself who blasted the ball into the empty net after battling with…well no one because the Geordie keeper had stopped the moment the ball landed at Booth’s feet. As he spun away to celebrate even his team mates looked embarrassed. It was such a bad moment. This made Sheffield Wednesday and its footballers look bigger idiots than any eight nil score line could. The only saving grace was that only those in the ground had been witness to Booth’s abhorrent lack of skill, ability and tactical awareness.
Anyway, from there on in it was just a catalogue of horrendous mistakes and awful football from the men of Sheffield. The Geordies, as seems standard for any game in which their ‘awesome’ fans are involved, only sang when they were winning (and in fairness this was for the entire match almost). They took the piss and we gave it back. That at 8-0 down we began to belt out ‘Wednesday til I die’ was remarkable but nothing more than you’d expect from the real, best fans in the country. What was even more remarkable was that the Geordies, who had previously been giving us some real stick, stood up and applauded us without a hint of irony or piss taking. They too had suffered their fair share of inglorious defeats in the eighties and appreciated the effort we were putting in as the rain lashed down on us in our UNCOVERED £25 seats!
As I made my way back to the car after the game (alone as my brother had met up with university friends to have a night on the town) I was accosted by a geriatric Newcastle fan who wondered where it had all gone wrong for The Wednesday. I told him I didn’t really know but I was certain that we were so bad that we wouldn’t have won if we’d been 2 goals up with a minute to go (how was I to know that these words would come back to haunt me later in the season?)
I was scathing about the performance in my next editorial, saying:
It seems that some of our players have decided that fighting for their own pride and that of our football club is something that is beneath them. The abysmal performance at St. James’ Park was the perfect example (of this). Never in all my time watching football have I seen a team so completely devoid of fight and determination.
What is interesting, looking back, is that whilst I must have known that Wilson needed to take a large amount of the blame I was reluctant to lay it at his door (in the fanzine at least). I stated that the players should take most of the blame and that it was clear that the board, and Dave Richards in particular, clearly had no intention of doing anything to help Wilson. This stand point perplexes me a little. I know that I was most disappointed with the team, and also that their shambolic display had to be, in some way, the fault of Wilson and his clearly useless man-management. However, I think I took some pride in my supportive stance for Wilson; something which now just looks sad and pathetic. No wonder some accused me of sucking up to him!
How any manager can oversee an 8-nil thrashing and still remain in a job beggars belief. Obviously Wilson should have been relieved of his duties straight after the debacle at St James’ park. That he wasn’t might well have been down the ineffectual leadership right at the top of the club. Or maybe they felt that with Wilson in charge, and with Carbone still lingering like a bad smell, the focus would be taken off them. We will never know for sure but the fact that Dave Richards inexplicably rose to be Chairman of the FA very soon after these events does suggest that at the very least he had other things on his mind and wasn’t really giving the Wednesday situation the attention it deserved.
He's reight, tha knows! 