11 year old me was in the back garden in November of 1984. City were away in London and just after half-time struggling Leyton Orient scored a fourth goal to stun promotion chasing Hull City and lead the game 4-1. My Dad had heard enough and had gone upstairs away from the pain that
Hull City AFC can give you on a Saturday afternoon, as he was coming off shifts it meant he wasn’t in a position to have made the long trip to London, and at this point he was thanking his lucky stars he didn’t make that mistake. Anyway, just then Radio Humberside (through our kitchen window) broke the news that City had made it 4-2 and with twenty minutes or so perhaps it wasn’t quite over. I headed into our house to offer the hopeful news to the old man, however, remarkably, by the time they went live to London, we’d just made it 4-3, with still fifteen minutes left, my walk broke into a run.
I breathlessly shouted this news up the stairs and my Dad walked down dumbfounded. “They’ve scored twice? Are you sure?” I assured him I was and we once again serenaded the small silver Hitachi radio in the kitchen in the blind hope that a miracle might be in the offing. Now, ninety nine times out of one hundred, this scenario would most probably just as easily deal you further heartbreak but a few minutes later the bamboozled reporter (I’ll definitely need a City historian to source me who was covering the game, but I’ve a vague memory of them being southern based) was describing a Stan McEwan equaliser in the dying embers of the game. Me and the old man jumped around the house in celebration, somehow City had snatched a point in the most unlikely of circumstances, three goals in the last 20 minutes and our day wasn’t to be totally lost.
We’d only just stopped celebrating when they went live to Brisbane Road again, only it wasn’t the full time whistle that they were describing, somehow, some way, a cross had arrived at the back post and Andy Flounders had tapped in an injury time winner. It was 5-4 City. I can’t remember the next period of time but I do recall running around and around the back garden like a demented cocker spaniel with the zoomies. It was a full on, actual miracle, within a minute or so they confirmed the final score and despite listening to this we still waited for it to be read out on national radio minutes later. My old man just grinned.
This emotion, excitement, despondence, hope, heartache and finally vindication, and all we’d done is tune in a radio and listened to the events second hand. I’d have given anything to be one of the 300-400 City fans in the away end that day. I think historically speaking it’s our greatest statistical comeback of all time, although that Brian Horton team rarely knew they were beaten and came back from 2-0 down at home to Derby County with 10 men the same season to beat them 3-2 with a towering last minute goal by Mr William Whitehurst, which was the last game my Grandad Hanson ever saw City play… he couldn’t have chosen a better one.
Why am I telling you this story you may ask? Well, with pre-season training about to start and another season now on the horizon, it’s sometimes easy to forget it’s moments like these that make our football lives worth living. And the really beautiful thing is, you never know when they are going to happen. 35 years later I made the last minute decision to finish work and go straight to south London and watch us play Charlton Athletic in the pouring rain. 2-1 down in the 96th minute, this didn’t seem like the greatest call, but as the seconds ticked away, Kamil Grosicki picked out a peach of a cross and KLP (with the help of our new back up keeper) headed home. Chaos in the away end, someone flew over my shoulder, Lee Bowyer’s half a pound of ham face convulsed with agony, and it was all suddenly worth it.
Those moments, when Mo Diame opened up onto his right foot and sent a beautiful arching, dipping, curling effort beyond the reach of Live Aid Wednesday’s keeper, when Jacob Greaves headed in at Huddersfield in injury time seconds after they’d equalised, when City broke from a corner and Andy Robertson makes in 3-0 at Derby, dancing round a hot and bothered Steve Bruce as the away end was engulfed in orange smoke, when Deano hits that volley, when Ian Ashbee swivels and swings in that glorious curler at Yeovil, when Geo hits the shot of the century that swirls and dances and laughs at the Arsenal keeper as it seers into the top corner. They all make it worth it. The nonsense, the travel, the expense, the stupid sales of players and the broken promises, the sneering of “big club” fans and the near misses, the struggles and the boring turgid 1-0 defeats. In those great moments the rest of the world can go and hang, they can whistle, because you are actually free in that exact second, free from the mundanity of normal life and connected in a way to hundreds or even thousands of virtual strangers. It’s why we go back, it’s why we can’t walk away and it’s why we’ll never stop.
So the new season is looming, a few signings in, no doubt quite a few out, will we go up? You’d need to be quite the optimist to think so and a season of mid-table consolidation would be snatched up by most city fans I know. But you never, never know and that’s the beauty of it. I don’t know diddly squat when it comes to predicting this mentalist club, and if you think you do, I’d suggest you’re probably wrong. There’s a million rumours about who will be coming in, some will happen, many won’t and we’ll all check the #hcafc hashtag about fifty times a day. Sergej Jakirović seems in principle a decent move to bring in, his career has shown he wins more than he loses which we’ll certainly take after last year. But let’s see what it brings, it might be awful, it might be brilliant and it’ll probably be both, often at the same time or moments apart. And just when you think like leaving the game, or turning that metaphorical radio off, it might just all fall into place. Here’s hoping…
Thanks for reading. UTT.