I’ve never written a blog before and given
the current parlous state of the club I love this could be the first and last
that I do, so if you’ve gotten this far in reading firstly thank you and I’ll
try and make it a worthwhile read.
I can remember my first game at Fratton
Park vividly. It was February 4th 1989. I had played football that morning, Dad
had watched me play then drove us down the Eastern Road in his clapped out
Vauxhall Chevette.
We parked up and walked towards what seemed
to me as a kid a massive stadium, having negotiated the heavy iron turnstyles
and paid the princely sum of £1.50 I took my place on the terrace in the
‘Junior Blues’ enclosure down in the South Stand by the dugouts. Truth be told we played pretty poorly that
day and lost 1-0 to the now super-rich Manchester City, but it didn’t matter,
that day was the beginning of a life long love affair for me.
Over the following seasons Dad and I would
follow the same ritual and during the drive he would tell me the stories of his
favourite players and memories from Pompey from the very pinnacle of the
English game in the fifties right down to the bottom of its league pyramid in
the early eighties. Fortunately over time the cars improved but often the
football didn’t. That was of course until Jim Smith and his young guns
including the likes of Symons, Awford and Anderton started to play the kind of
football I had only previously seen on the TV – we were winning most weeks and
in some style.
My first true Pompey idol came from this
period – the midfield enforcer and ‘footballing genius’ Martin Kuhl. Dad has
always preferred a bit of pace and guile down the wing (he still goes on about
Stevie Stone!) but for me Kuhl epitomised how I thought footballers should
play. I did have my memories of him somewhat shattered when I saw him turn out
in a Kanu charity match a few years back, let’s just say I think he has spent
the time since giving up the game eating pretty much anything and everything in sight!
There was that magical trip to Highbury and
the long drive home from Villa Park in ’92 and the promotion we missed out on
by goal difference to West Ham - I still hate Leicester and Ian Ormondroyd to
this day.
The middle nineties brought us a succession
of new managers and players, but still Dad and I would go down every week and
cheer on those lucky enough to wear the star and crescent, I remember some odd
games from that period – when we were 3-1 down to Leeds with injury time left
to play for example, but somehow Corporal punishment turned it around to salvage
a draw, the cheers we could hear walking away were enough to ensure we never
ever left a game early again.
I’ve been lucky to witness some great
matches and memories but that Tuesday in February 1998 when a less than half
empty Fratton Park generated the kind of noise a full Old Trafford would
struggle to match against Stockport County to start our ‘great escape’ under
Bally was right up there – my voice was still hoarse the next day at college
and as ever Dad was there singing and clapping alongside me.
We’ve ploughed up and down the motorways of
Britain together to Bradford (Dad won a bundle on Festa scoring in his last
game!) Newcastle, Liverpool, Norwich, Walsall, Manchester and many others –
often on the end of a hiding but still I’ve enjoyed quality time with my Dad.
During the nineties Mum had been getting progressively
more poorly with Multiple Sclerosis and finally succumbed to it in January 2003. It’s fair to say the tears Dad and I shed on that night in April when we
celebrated promotion against Burnley were tears of joy and great sadness, I remember
hugging him tight that night.
I can scarcely believe when I look back but
I’ve been to Wembley five times with him times to watch us play, I’ve seen
Arnold Mveumba of all people (remember him?!) score a belter on a Baltic night
in Wolfsburg and the mighty AC Milan come oh so close to being beaten at a
rocking Fratton Park. The premiership years were full of great results against
the mighty sides of the English game and that goal by Mendes against Jamo in
the City goal still makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I think
of it. But for all the great results and great players it was the beginning of
the fiscal irresponsibility that has led us to the position we now find
ourselves in.
By my reckoning Dad and I have been to more
than 400 games together since that Saturday in February 1989 and whatever happens
those memories can’t be taken away from me.
But what Chainrai, Gaydamak and the various
other foreign owners of ill repute will it seems take from me is the simple
pleasure of a Saturday afternoon spent with my Dad watching the team we both
love. For that I will never ever forgive them.
