LITMIR.BIZ

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scoring a rare goal with his head. The Arsenal and the football media were gutted – how could this happen? Why did it happen? Many people didn’t understand, but came to learn that, no matter what the odds, West Ham fans of the time would never say die. A giant party was on again down the East End. The Arsenal fans were heard to say it did not matter as they were in a European final a few days later (which they lost – and did they moan!).

      So what is it that keeps the West Ham fans loyal for so long against all odds? Over the years the board has treated the fans badly and sold off so many good players. We had a name for playing entertaining football, but I’m afraid that doesn’t bring the prizes home all the time.

      The closest we came to winning the title in recent times was in the mid-Eighties, but even then the hero, Frank McAvennie, was sold to Celtic. No one knew why. He was hero-worshipped and his goals gave us a shot at winning the title for the first time ever. Shortly afterwards we bought him back, when the club was spiralling towards the lower half of the League. Why did they sell him in the first place? This question had so many wondering in amazement.

       CHAPTER TWO

       ONE FAN’S GREAT DAYS

      Saturday, May 2 was here. I had not slept the night before, or so it seemed, and I was bursting with excitement. This was the day I was going with my old man and his brothers to Wembley stadium to see West Ham play in the FA Cup final – my first senior game and first ever final.

      Normally the old man would not take me to first-team games, only some reserve matches at Upton Park, and then only if I behaved. But this was different. He wanted to go to the semi-final at Hillsborough against the Busby Babes and made a deal with Mum that if we made it through he would take me to the final no matter what. It was on. I remember listening to the squeaky broadcast on the BBC to see if we had won – we had. In the rain and slush we had beaten the Busby Babes 3-1. I was over the moon. I could not hide my pleasure and was out on the street cheering and carrying on. And I was not alone. Most of Burdett Road was doing the same. We were at Wembley, our opponents Preston North End. No problems for us, we were gonna win the Cup.

      The old man came home late that night, very late, and I was told to stay in bed. I could not wait till the morning when I could find out all about the game. The highly fancied Manchester United were picked to win the Cup that year and West Ham were given no chance. But young Johnny Sissons, Ron Boyce and Geoff Hurst made sure we went through. Now Wembley was next.

      In our house nothing else was talked about but the upcoming final. Loads of kids round our way were also going and those who weren’t were jealous of those of us that were – and we rubbed it in something rotten. We played games over in Victoria Park and there were always fights about who was West Ham and who was Preston, then more fights to see who wanted to be their favourite player no matter what.

      Anyway, back to the final. On the day I was up at sparrows’ fart, Mum wondering why I could not get up as quickly on school days. She was amazed! She would be glad when it was all over and said she could not bear it if we lost. Not just because she was West Ham as well – she said it would be like a funeral parlour round home if we lost.

      Dad had tickets, his brother had arranged them, and we were over the moon. The big day came and my dad met up with his mates outside his local, which opened early on the day. As a kid I had to wait outside with the mandatory crisps and lemonade, with instructions that he was not to be disturbed as they were planning the day and would not be long. It seemed ages before they all came out and off we set towards Mile End tube station, my uncles bunging me a few bob on the way. In fact, if I recall rightly I had nearly 30 shillings, a small fortune in those days and an even bigger one for a kid my age. I was chuffed!

      At Mile End there were many West Ham fans all dressed up in a variety of claret-and-blue colours, home-knitted jumpers, you name it. Loads were singing ‘Bubbles’ and as we got aboard the train it seemed to be full of joy as nothing else was mentioned but bringing the Cup home. The semi was talked about, and as a kid your ears tend to flap a bit so I picked up a few things. Being a naïve kid, I never realised until later on in life that they were talking about the crowd trouble that was starting to happen, even back then.

      Every stop up to and past Liverpool Street station, more and more West Ham fans were piling on. The carriage was packed. Many had half-bottles of rum or whisky, and one lot had a crate of beer. Everyone was happy as we changed lines to head to Wembley. I could not wait.

      The old man gave me instructions for if he lost me in the crowd – I was to get the tube home and wait at his local, he would not be far away – or better still go home and tell Mum he was not far away. He told me how to get home but was shocked when I told him a better way, and quicker. My days of bunking off school and riding the tube all day had its advantages! Being brought up in the East End made you street-wise. God help you if you weren’t.

      We got out at Wembley amid a massive sea of colour and people greeting us – I was so excited. There were programme sellers, rosette sellers, hat sellers, you name it. My old man bought me a scarf, which I have now entrusted to a mate who I know will look after it – but more about that later. Those silly hats with two colours, like trilbies, were all the rage – and a con according to my old man, who would not buy me one. I had forgotten that I had money, so I bought a big rosette instead, 2/6d I recall. ‘Bleeding con!’ was the cry from my uncle, who told me you’d only pay 1/6d down Green Street for it. ‘Bloody spivs,’ he remarked; he even wanted to take it back. I had to wait for what seemed hours outside the Greyhound pub while they went in for a drink, but it wasn’t long before they came out, with comments like ‘Bloody toffee-nosed prices, this ain’t the West End!’

      The noise around me was unreal. The sound of the sellers shouting, the mounted police horses clopping along, the cars trying to get through the mass of people. We walked down to the ground and finally got in and I could not believe the size of the stadium and the number of people coming in. West Ham fans were drinking from half-bottles they had sneaked in and it wasn’t long before ‘Bubbles’ went up as the band played their own version and the crowd sang along. This set the tone for the day. Many a West Ham voice could be heard calling out now, mainly having at pop at Preston. Many times the crowd seemed to all laugh at the same time. The atmosphere was great now. There was the sound of breaking glass as another empty half-bottle was finished and dropped on the terracing. The smell of drink was all around, the mandatory peanut shells everywhere and claret and blue all over. It had to be seen to be believed. Little did I know then this was to be the first of many journeys for me to Wembley, but this one was special.

      I was raised as a West Ham supporter; all my family were West Ham with the exception of my brother, who for some reason chose Wolves – I still dunno why to this day – but he soon changed after that final. Most of the family would not talk to him about football and many times me and my other brother were called upon to sort out a row with other kids or to back him up as he was always getting the mickey taken out of him. Kids down our way were unforgiving.

      The national anthem was played, the royalty met and it was warm-up time. Nearly three o’clock, only a few minutes to go, but it seemed like eternity for me. I remembered my granddad telling me about the 1923 final – how he walked to Wembley that day with the crowds and how the crowd spilled onto the pitch. I tried to imagine it but the whistle blew for kick-off and it was back to the game.

      I could not distinguish all the players and had to look at the numbers of both sides to see who was who. At Wembley behind the goals you are a fair way from the pitch and as an eleven-year-old I found it hard to follow. My old man put me in front of a crash barrier right by the upright and I was told to stay there all game as it was safer. I found out what he meant later on. With the sway of fans the pushing and shoving going on was unreal. I remember the crowd going deathly quiet as Preston scored. It was like someone had died. Moans about having played John Lyall’s testimonial match days before were going around – people were saying we were tired and that it should never have been played.

      If

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