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Time Travel February 1991

goldensmoke
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goldensmoke Community Regular

goldensmoke

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It didn't seem to take long to get here from Luton, it was worryingly easy to infiltrate into North London. It was an eerily quiet, cloudy Sunday morning and the sense of foreboding was palpable. We had got to Kilburn tube station ahead of time where we would drop Richard's lucky Fiat Panda off and ask it to wish us good luck once again. Not that we had needed it at Coventry. A date with our old friends was just two tube changes away. We wished each other luck as we headed onto the tube together. Me, a pale 21 year old released from a miserable sales office at Sheffield Newspapers but now with a head spinning full of League Cup dreams and fear in my heart. Richard, my older brother, soul mate and protector and fellow dreamer and Helen, his girlfriend and light of his life since 82, all the way through University to this day. We stood and rocked in silence as the tube drew us closer to Fulham Broadway. No colours today, not if you wanted to live; but of course my yellow Wednesday away shirt was pressed against my skin underneath all the layers. I'd long since got the shakes and we exchanged some nervous conversation, surrounded by arrogant cockneys who gave us disdainful glances as we slowly moved towards the top of the escalator. Be bold and be brave sounded Ron in the Star yesterday, what a master of the big occasion. I wasn't sure if he was talking to the team, or us. 'Cahn Chewsee!!!' one of them spewed as we approached the daylight of the high street. There were hundreds of them everywhere strutting around like the ***** that they were, assuming a thumping win today.

We were out in the fresh air on Fulham Road. The air was mild but the cloud would not give way to any spring brightness but we made our way towards the ground looking for our blue, not their blue. Hear me wherever you may be- we are the famous CFC!!!!.....they were full of themselves. A high street like every other high street in London, we could have been in any borough. This was a personal journey. I badly wanted revenge for that sickeningly late defeat at this cesspit in the 85 quarter final marathon after we had battered each other in the 4-4 game. We started to sense blue and yellow and sure enough we could see our way towards the away end. We were met at the turnstiles by grey corrugated sheet metal but the Wednesdayites were in good spirits, if not a little subdued by the Sunday morning feeling we all shared. Such a big moment, on a weird Sunday morning.

There was some sort of Chelsea radio channel being broadcast on the p.a as we made our way in gradually. Ken Bates was talking about his £1 empire that is Stamford Bridge and how one day Chelsea would be kings of London, the Bridge would be a globally renowned football ground, Chelsea a powerhouse in English football. Like some sort of wartime propaganda. This crumbling old ground with loose masonry and an aspect that left you miles from the pitch, this old 1950's oval with no soul...The 'new' stand to our left which virtually bankrupted them, the millstone round their neck rusting away and temporarily made over with green plastic seats...In the distance the Shed end, that rounded terrace with a small roof at the back, grim London towerblocks behind in the gloom in the distance. To our right straight concrete block terracing with some seats, some real hardcore Chelsea were on there. Soon enough the teams came out and Wednesday looked pure in yellow, our boys that we loved so much, each of them special, each with a story worth telling. How could you not love Chrissy Turner, always too small but the bravest shot stopper and comforting to have since Kev lost his radar on Boxing day and Ron knew it like we did. Johnny Harkes, this young buck with energy to burn from New Jersey and a thunderbolt in him...Shirty, since Watford at home in 78/79, I would love for him to win this thing. Pearson, the driving spirit looking after them all...Sweet Sheri, sublime, orderly and simple- making us find the short inside pass that only good teams play..Danny, snapping away at them, full of spike with a goal around the corner. Carlton, braking up glaciers and ploughing the field up through the middle....father Worthington, so square, so solid, nobody would fall for the fake cross then little pass instead to the byline, the bridge from Howard and the 80s to this.....

And David. The boy wonder. The blistering pace, the hammer left foot, the cover on FHM, the best there might ever be. Never grow old, stay young forever, meet me up the field when we get to heaven, we'll play football until it gets dark.

Chelsea, limited and royal blue. No lithe, toned Kerry Dixon anymore, he's been in the pub and grown old, try as you might Kerry you might get a consolation, no Pat Nevin buzzing around, no little pig Micky Thomas bending them into the top corner, no nasty little Speedy, not even a Dale Jasper on the bench. But the unpleasant Dennis Wise, disliked at Wimbledon and despised at Chelsea. Andy Townsend all huff and puff and not much else. Not the stuff Dynastys are built on...

And so it started, the pitch all olive and cutting up, the ball bobbling. Rucks at the far end in the distance, some scrambles and a time delay on the crowds anguish as it set sail across the breeze towards us...Chrissy got kicked in the head going down in front of Wise didn't he? Our shouts and yells evaporated from this open terrace into the lunchtime air. Thousands of our hearts thumping stood on this open concrete crescent. We had them in check. Carlton elevating us physically above them in the middle. The far end began to raise a sign that read 'Oh poo , your'e quite good'. The yellow began to flow around the blue which became more bogged down. The milky Sun began to come through defining the Chelsea faces down the side and in the distance, the air became hazy and warmer and I could smell the grass. We pulled them about some more and Danny had an overhead kick which was getting close. 'Oh my God, we're in this, we're better than them', it's getting too much to bear, the thought we could do this..Richard gripped my fist and smiled 'This could be it, Jim.' A wave of togetherness and collective belonging drifted over us all with a massive 'Barmy Army, Barmy Army!!...half time.

We started again playing towards the Chelsea faces at the far end. They were quiet. It was a quiet stadium, so hard to make noise count. We were still superior. A good side, soon to be a top side were making their way against a poor side of no consequence. You could feel them all around their three sides of the ground waiting for us to come at them, even more confidently than us. Us, the Wednesday, not daring to believe. And so it came. They did fall for Father's step over, Shirty swung and then there were fists and screaming and hugging and the sky and people's trousers almost falling down. The man I was hugging was not Richard I don't know who. It was pandemonium in the rubble, the Chelsea thugs gesturing to our right in the distance. When I looked up we were one nil up. The game had better start again. Now the agony of having something to hang on to. Cream towers with flags in the distance appeared behind the tower blocks. Rescue Me by Madonna was echoing from there. A lump in my throat for all the bad times, the realisation that this could be it.

Time passed calmly for a while. There was still more yellow than blue in front of us, Helen tired with the tension draped against her boyfriend, a new set of faces around us since the goal because we had all moved around. This match, this game, the only thing going on in the world right now with us in the centre of it. The moments of our lives being made in front of us. Then we shunted one up the left channel, Willow headed back in to the on rushing path of the magic man who steadied himself and planted an arrow of glory into the far net. An explosion of humanity a total loss of control went on. Just screaming and more fists and yelling with no throats left, just hysteria and silver stars in the air. All the people who have ever known me smiled at me and said that's for you Jim....when I removed myself from my brother's bear hug, I looked up to see we were two nil up.

We stood all bunched together in a swaying mass of ecstacy that then calmed to disbelieving satisfaction. There were no alarms, Chrissy saved one in front of us that bobbled from Townsend and they petered out in front of us, the blue. Then the worry about how the hell do we get out of here alive? came to bear. Followed by what if the biggest Canoville collapse happens at Hillsborough next Wednesday?! But that was for another day. We stayed in our 8,000 strong pen for at least an hour as the abject cockneys dispersed, we had been here for hours, the heroes. Could anyone bear the second leg?

For those who were there, that's for you, and for all others who love the Wednesday. Time may pass, we grow older but we never forget the people who gave us our dreams when they were young. That's for you David.

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steelowl Grand Master

steelowl

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thanx for that reminder of the pace Hirsty had - truly fantastic striker there will be a few on here never actually seen him,

- watch that clip and others and weep as we do who saw him live cos I doubt we'll ever see his like again.

I will still not test my brakes should bould ever be in my path

Edited by steelowl
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asteener1867 Grand Master

asteener1867

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It didn't seem to take long to get here from Luton, it was worryingly easy to infiltrate into North London. It was an eerily quiet, cloudy Sunday morning and the sense of foreboding was palpable. We had got to Kilburn tube station ahead of time where we would drop Richard's lucky Fiat Panda off and ask it to wish us good luck once again. Not that we had needed it at Coventry. A date with our old friends was just two tube changes away. We wished each other luck as we headed onto the tube together. Me, a pale 21 year old released from a miserable sales office at Sheffield Newspapers but now with a head spinning full of League Cup dreams and fear in my heart. Richard, my older brother, soul mate and protector and fellow dreamer and Helen, his girlfriend and light of his life since 82, all the way through University to this day. We stood and rocked in silence as the tube drew us closer to Fulham Broadway. No colours today, not if you wanted to live; but of course my yellow Wednesday away shirt was pressed against my skin underneath all the layers. I'd long since got the shakes and we exchanged some nervous conversation, surrounded by arrogant cockneys who gave us disdainful glances as we slowly moved towards the top of the escalator. Be bold and be brave sounded Ron in the Star yesterday, what a master of the big occasion. I wasn't sure if he was talking to the team, or us. 'Cahn Chewsee!!!' one of them spewed as we approached the daylight of the high street. There were hundreds of them everywhere strutting around like the ***** that they were, assuming a thumping win today.

We were out in the fresh air on Fulham Road. The air was mild but the cloud would not give way to any spring brightness but we made our way towards the ground looking for our blue, not their blue. Hear me wherever you may be- we are the famous CFC!!!!.....they were full of themselves. A high street like every other high street in London, we could have been in any borough. This was a personal journey. I badly wanted revenge for that sickeningly late defeat at this cesspit in the 85 quarter final marathon after we had battered each other in the 4-4 game. We started to sense blue and yellow and sure enough we could see our way towards the away end. We were met at the turnstiles by grey corrugated sheet metal but the Wednesdayites were in good spirits, if not a little subdued by the Sunday morning feeling we all shared. Such a big moment, on a weird Sunday morning.

There was some sort of Chelsea radio channel being broadcast on the p.a as we made our way in gradually. Ken Bates was talking about his £1 empire that is Stamford Bridge and how one day Chelsea would be kings of London, the Bridge would be a globally renowned football ground, Chelsea a powerhouse in English football. Like some sort of wartime propaganda. This crumbling old ground with loose masonry and an aspect that left you miles from the pitch, this old 1950's oval with no soul...The 'new' stand to our left which virtually bankrupted them, the millstone round their neck rusting away and temporarily made over with green plastic seats...In the distance the Shed end, that rounded terrace with a small roof at the back, grim London towerblocks behind in the gloom in the distance. To our right straight concrete block terracing with some seats, some real hardcore Chelsea were on there. Soon enough the teams came out and Wednesday looked pure in yellow, our boys that we loved so much, each of them special, each with a story worth telling. How could you not love Chrissy Turner, always too small but the bravest shot stopper and comforting to have since Kev lost his radar on Boxing day and Ron knew it like we did. Johnny Harkes, this young buck with energy to burn from New Jersey and a thunderbolt in him...Shirty, since Watford at home in 78/79, I would love for him to win this thing. Pearson, the driving spirit looking after them all...Sweet Sheri, sublime, orderly and simple- making us find the short inside pass that only good teams play..Danny, snapping away at them, full of spike with a goal around the corner. Carlton, braking up glaciers and ploughing the field up through the middle....father Worthington, so square, so solid, nobody would fall for the fake cross then little pass instead to the byline, the bridge from Howard and the 80s to this.....

And David. The boy wonder. The blistering pace, the hammer left foot, the cover on FHM, the best there might ever be. Never grow old, stay young forever, meet me up the field when we get to heaven, we'll play football until it gets dark.

Chelsea, limited and royal blue. No lithe, toned Kerry Dixon anymore, he's been in the pub and grown old, try as you might Kerry you might get a consolation, no Pat Nevin buzzing around, no little pig Micky Thomas bending them into the top corner, no nasty little Speedy, not even a Dale Jasper on the bench. But the unpleasant Dennis Wise, disliked at Wimbledon and despised at Chelsea. Andy Townsend all huff and puff and not much else. Not the stuff Dynastys are built on...

And so it started, the pitch all olive and cutting up, the ball bobbling. Rucks at the far end in the distance, some scrambles and a time delay on the crowds anguish as it set sail across the breeze towards us...Chrissy got kicked in the head going down in front of Wise didn't he? Our shouts and yells evaporated from this open terrace into the lunchtime air. Thousands of our hearts thumping stood on this open concrete crescent. We had them in check. Carlton elevating us physically above them in the middle. The far end began to raise a sign that read 'Oh poo , your'e quite good'. The yellow began to flow around the blue which became more bogged down. The milky Sun began to come through defining the Chelsea faces down the side and in the distance, the air became hazy and warmer and I could smell the grass. We pulled them about some more and Danny had an overhead kick which was getting close. 'Oh my God, we're in this, we're better than them', it's getting too much to bear, the thought we could do this..Richard gripped my fist and smiled 'This could be it, Jim.' A wave of togetherness and collective belonging drifted over us all with a massive 'Barmy Army, Barmy Army!!...half time.

We started again playing towards the Chelsea faces at the far end. They were quiet. It was a quiet stadium, so hard to make noise count. We were still superior. A good side, soon to be a top side were making their way against a poor side of no consequence. You could feel them all around their three sides of the ground waiting for us to come at them, even more confidently than us. Us, the Wednesday, not daring to believe. And so it came. They did fall for Father's step over, Shirty swung and then there were fists and screaming and hugging and the sky and people's trousers almost falling down. The man I was hugging was not Richard I don't know who. It was pandemonium in the rubble, the Chelsea thugs gesturing to our right in the distance. When I looked up we were one nil up. The game had better start again. Now the agony of having something to hang on to. Cream towers with flags in the distance appeared behind the tower blocks. Rescue Me by Madonna was echoing from there. A lump in my throat for all the bad times, the realisation that this could be it.

Time passed calmly for a while. There was still more yellow than blue in front of us, Helen tired with the tension draped against her boyfriend, a new set of faces around us since the goal because we had all moved around. This match, this game, the only thing going on in the world right now with us in the centre of it. The moments of our lives being made in front of us. Then we shunted one up the left channel, Willow headed back in to the on rushing path of the magic man who steadied himself and planted an arrow of glory into the far net. An explosion of humanity a total loss of control went on. Just screaming and more fists and yelling with no throats left, just hysteria and silver stars in the air. All the people who have ever known me smiled at me and said that's for you Jim....when I removed myself from my brother's bear hug, I looked up to see we were two nil up.

We stood all bunched together in a swaying mass of ecstacy that then calmed to disbelieving satisfaction. There were no alarms, Chrissy saved one in front of us that bobbled from Townsend and they petered out in front of us, the blue. Then the worry about how the hell do we get out of here alive? came to bear. Followed by what if the biggest Canoville collapse happens at Hillsborough next Wednesday?! But that was for another day. We stayed in our 8,000 strong pen for at least an hour as the abject cockneys dispersed, we had been here for hours, the heroes. Could anyone bear the second leg?

For those who were there, that's for you, and for all others who love the Wednesday. Time may pass, we grow older but we never forget the people who gave us our dreams when they were young. That's for you David.

Excellent read mate...I went first in the 70's when we were winning and Mickey Droy tw*tted us in the last few minutes....then again when we lost to that bloody stupid header iby the smallest bloke on the pitch in the replay after the 4-4...forgot his name...Thomas?.....but went down to that league cup semi in '91....great day out...but so much better at home...when Paul Williams lofted that last one in...i simply span round like a fvcker and headed to Wembley.... and.What a bloody day that ended up as

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Birstall Owl Mentor

Birstall Owl

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What a day, what a season. I only missed 4 games home and away that season - the memories will last forever.

Hirst - the best striker to ever play for Wednesday in my lifetime

Sounds similar to me, as I missed 5.

Swindon League Cup Replay (A) - only game I didn't go to by choice, was p*ssed off we drew the home game

Coventry Qtr Final (A) - couldn't get a ticket

Hull City (A) - car broke down on the way

Plymouth (A) - couldn't get off work

Oldham Ath (A) - couldn't get a ticket

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