ONE FLEW OVER THE CROSSBAR ..Chapter 6 'Champions League, You're Having A Laugh!"
After all the hype, all the build up, Tony Cascarino’s
lucky dip and the clamber for tickets, the moment was finally upon us.
9,000 Exeter
City
JONES, HILEY, SAWYER, GAIA, JEANNIN, MARTIN, CLAY,
TAYLOR, MOXEY, DEVINE and FLACK.
United line up as expected with Alex Ferguson leaving
out most of his major stars, but still putting out a competent Manchester
The team reads; HOWARD, NEVILLE, BROWN, PIQUE,
SPECTOR, EAGLES, DJEMBA-DJEMBA, JONES, MILLER, BELLION and RICHARDSON
Even though Fergie gave youth a chance, he also
included six full internationals with over 100 caps between them.
Phil Dowd - the man in black, signalled to each
goalkeeper, checked his watch and shrilled his whistle into the air.
Here we go!
Now although Alex Inglethorpe would have had his
troops well drilled, motivated and ready to lock horns with the Red Devils, I
had my own plan in mind for the Grecians.
I’d broken the game up into seven different segments
with its own little target.
0-15 minutes - Get through this without conceding and
the chances of a 16-0 massacre could be really slim!
15-30 minutes - Still defending, but gain at least one
corner by this stage.
30-45 minutes - Highly important. Throw everyone
behind the ball and kick every United player in sight - thus not going behind
to a jammy first half injury-time goal and hear United being booed off the
pitch.
45-60 minutes - After the hair-dryer treatment from
Fergie - United swarm all over us, but Paul Jones will make the first of
fifty-seven important second half saves.
60-75 minutes - Still scoreless, we create our first
chance, prompting Ferguson
75-90 minutes - City build an eleven-man human wall in
the six yard area and defend the goalmouth like their whole life depends on it.
95 minutes and 34 seconds - Exeter
Great…now all they have to do is the simple task of
carrying that out!
Nearly twenty minutes pass before Liam Miler’s tame
header is comfortably saved by Paul Jones, who follows that up soon after by
smartly turning away Chris Eagles free kick. Amazingly, Exeter
A cry of unison up from 9,000 Grecians at the opposite
end of the stadium.
“PENALTY!”
But referee Phil Dowd dismissed the claim with a wave
of his arms.
“Bottled it!” - cried one fan.
“Typical” - roared another.
“When’s the last time you’ve seen a penalty given
against them here? I tell you there’s no fucking justice for the little teams…NONE!”
- said a slightly deranged fan on the verge of spontaneously combusting two
rows away from me.
It didn’t matter to us that we were at the opposite
end of the stadium, miles away from the action, and referee Dowd was no more
than ten feet away from the incident.
If we were to lose now the fans, press, and public
would conveniently have a scapegoat.
In truth it was a lame shout: more in hope that would
have been extremely harsh on United’s stand-in captain.
The heavens then opened and 67,000 people were greeted
with a thunderstorm of pelting rain and hailstones which could have killed a
man had he been running back to his seat with two hot dogs and a balti pie for
his mates.
Then Andy Taylor nearly gave us a heart-attack by
almost scoring. A route one punt by Paul Jones was not dealt properly by
ex-Barcelona player Gerard Pique and the ball landed at Taylor’s feet who
struck a stinging drive at Tim Howard who had to be alert to fist the ball back
out.
Just when the United faithful had got over that shock,
Andy had the bare-faced cheek to go even closer minutes later!
Marcus Martin, who covered every blade of grass on the
Old Trafford pitch, passed to Dean Moxey who was crudely tore down by the
increasing shaky Pique before he could access his options.
The scene was set for Andy. Taylor, who’d been frozen
out as a Manchester United trainee just three years earlier, lined up the free
lick on the edge of the area.
Wearing number seven, it echoed a similar scene to another
ex-United player of the same numbered shirt who used to thrill the Stretford
End with his mesmerizing free kicks. However Mr. Beckham had since departed for
sunnier climates and now the Exeter
To a man 9,000 Grecians jumped up in unison and an
almighty roar shook the rafters of the East Stand.
Greg turned to me, grabbed my throat, ecstatically
hopping up and down, shouting like a deranged lunatic.
“One Andy Taylor…there’s only one Andy Taylor”.
However I wasn’t sharing his enthusiasm.
Although City had technically hit the net, it soon
became apparent to me that it was the outside of it that had been struck with
the ball.
I searched for a sentiment of incredibly bad luck to
describe Andy’s effort but “BOLLOCKS!” just about summed it all up.
The joyous scenes were abruptly cut short when instead
of bringing the ball to the centre circle, United’s ‘keeper Tim Howard put it
down for a goal kick.
There was some light hearted ribbing from the United
fans as we realise our mistake and the scores stay 0-0. That moment, just
before half time when every Grecian heart missed a beat, proved to be the
closest Exeter
City continued to hold their own until half-time
(Moxey even had a half-chance) and left the field to a rousing reception from
the travelling Grecians and a mocking joke at the host’s expense.
“Champions League? You’re having a laugh!”
“Champions League? You’re having a laugh!”
Half Time; Manchester
United 0-0 Exeter City
The first half plan had worked brilliantly.
To get into the dressing room scoreless at half-time
was a massive achievement. Now all the lads had to do was carry out the second
half of my plan - defend for their lives - and score the winner in the fifth
minute of injury time!
A scoreless first half would have been part of the
plan for City manager Alex Inglethorpe as well. His troops had run themselves
to a standstill in the first forty-five minutes, tracking United everywhere and
closing off any avenue for Fergie’s young starlets to exploit.
They’d imposed themselves of United and created the
best chances of the first half, twice through ex-Manchester man Andy Taylor.
They’d been the better side in the half.
Now they had to do it all over again.
By the hour mark I was dreaming.
Thinking the unthinkable.
Allowing myself a moment of madness and imagining IF
Exeter City could actually get something from the game.
My reasoning for this seemingly absurd thought came
from what was unfolding right before my very eyes. Because with an hour gone at
Old Trafford, Exeter City Exeter could be more than
happy with their hours work.
But that had to change…surely?
At some point United would have to start turning the
screw, forcing the issue, and if need be, bringing on their big guns to finally
put this increasingly irritating pesky little non-league club to bed.
United’s starlets finally managed to beat Paul Jones
soon after, but the evergreen Scott Hiley was on his line to drive away the
David Jones effort. City began to sit a little deeper and the nerves began to
twitch in the East Stand as we willed the seconds to pass like minutes.
Finally, on sixty-four minutes Ferguson
had enough and conceded he’d need the help of two English internationals and a
Portuguese sensation to get rid of this annoying little team who were actually
threatening to take this to an almost unthinkable reply.
The Mancunian crowd breathed a sigh of
relief as Paul Scholes and Cristano Ronaldo came on and Alan Smith was warmed
up for further involvement should he be needed.
Now, thought the home crowd, this
should be put to rest once and for all.
Although there was a collective groan
from the Grecian contingent, I didn’t mind the sight of a wafer-thin Portuguese
teenager and the foul ginger hair of an English international one bit.
They way I saw it - Alex Ferguson had sent out the cream of his
young talent, who had failed miserably to see off a side four divisions and
ninety-four places below them, and had been humiliated into bring on his big
guns to see Exeter City off.
Seventy minutes in.
Twenty minutes left - and still the
travelling Grecian army is in full voice. Roaring, singing, willing their
heroes in their lucky centenary black on for possibly the most nerve-wrecking,
gut wrenching, heart-attack inducing twenty minutes of their life.
“Shall we sing a song for you?”
“Cider…Cider…Cider…Cider!”
“Are you Torquay in disguise?”
Even Bob - an argent United fan all
his life - was giving it socks!
“You filthy little cheat Ronaldo!”
“You ginger tosser Scholes! Piss off
home you fat lump of shit!”
“You dirty northern bastards!” - And
that’s some of his cleaner insults!
He may have followed the old Trafford
outfit all his life- but they were a poor second to his beloved home town.
Football was his religion, and he
worshipped at the altar of everything Grecian.
Alongside him Stuart was his
pessimistic self.
“They’re going to score, they’re going
to score. Don’t know when, don’t know how, but there’s one thing for sure…”
“Jesus Stuart stop… for the love of Christ...
It’s hard enough watching this without you being the merchant of fucking doom
for the last twenty minutes. “
United pile on the pressure.
Ronaldo jinks done the right hand
flank, cuts inside Jeannin and unleashes a fierce drive at Exeter’s goal, but
eighteen year-old Paul Jones is equal to it.
Danny Clay is replaced by Kwame
Ampadu. The equally young nineteen year-old has run himself to a standstill and
makes way for ex-Arsenal midfielder Ampadu.
The hair bristles on the back of my
neck.
Kwame’s Irish.
How proud am I.
United counter that with Alan Smith
for the woeful Bellion.
The blond striker strides onto the
pitch.
“Who are ya? Who are ya?” - roar 9,000
Grecians.
Inglethorpe goes to the subs bench
again.
Afful for Flack. City’s veteran
striker has seen enough of the Old Trafford grass to last him a lifetime and is
replaced by a young twenty year-old Liverpudlian.
Surely the fairytale couldn’t include
a goal from a man born on the soil of United’s most hated enemy?
Eighty minutes – ten minutes left.
I’m getting weak at the knees. Hoarse
in the lungs. Heart in my mouth.
Ampadu sits in front of the back four
and tries to break up everything United are throwing at them. Gaia and Sawyer attack
every lofted ball into their area like it’s a Plymouth
supporter - and kick the living daylights out of it straight back up the park.
Jeannin continues to knock heads with Ronaldo but sticks to him like a fly on a
cow’s arse. Scott Hiley continues to be inspired. Even the lord above wouldn’t
interrupt the thirty-seven year-old in the greatest game of his life.
Eighty-five minutes - five torturous
minutes left at the theatre of dreams.
By now I’ve lost the feeling on my right
hand side and I’m probably a few seconds from a stroke.
Christ this is unbearable.
I’ve travelled from another country to
put myself on the verge of being hospitalized over a game of football. I’ve
been on my feet for almost ninety minutes, my larynx is shattered, vocal chords
shredded and I’m praying to heaven that this fucking match would end.
And this was supposed to be
entertainment?
By this stage any notion Exeter had of pulling off the greatest shock in the
history of the modern game has gone out the window and anything that came in
City’s half was just volleyed back into United’s with interest. Only Sean
Devine stands out of City’s penalty area - and he’s not even on the half way
line. Despite this, Exeter ’s work-rate is
phenomenal. With just minutes before the final whistle every single man is
running, hassling, harrying, as fervently as they did from the moment Phil Dowd
blew his whistle at three o’ clock.
4.45 pm - The fourth official raises
his electronic board.
9,000 heads turn left to the man on
the sideline.
The tannoy announcer clears his
throat.
“There will be three minutes of injury
time ...Three minutes. “
The Grecian faithful defiantly raise
the roof from the East Stand.
“WE
LOVE YOU CITY, WE DO
WE
LOVE YOU CITY, WE DO
WE
LOVE YOU CITY, WE DO
It’s a hair-raising moment. Every
single voice that travelled from Devon to Australia
are on their feet - singing in unison. A crescendo of noise aimed to give the
eleven men on the pitch the strength to make that extra tackle, run that extra
mile, chase every single United player until every ounce of strength has
evaporated from their body.
Another attack. Neville races down the
line and sends over a cross. Smith chests it down, turns, but fires wide. A
collective breath is sighed.
4.48 PM - ONE MINUTE OF INJURY TIME
LEFT.
Having passed out two minutes ago when
the fourth official raised his board (a fact I put down to thinking the board
flashed up 8 minutes instead of 3), I come too only to find out the nightmare
isn’t over.
“Sweet lamb of Devine Christ I can’t
take this!” - I roar.
“Smith you twat! You cheat! You dirty Leeds reject!” - screams Bob.
“I just know their going to score. I
just know their going to score!” - moans Stuart.
“Are we going clubbing tonight?” -
ponders Greg.
Manchester United, realising the gig
is almost up, launch one final attack. Although there is little more than
seconds left, everyone in the stadium is well aware THIS is the time when
United are so routinely lethal.
How many times down through the years
have Fergie’s men won games with virtually the last kick of the game? How many
times has a 0-0 draw been transformed into a one goal victory be it from the
boot of Ryan Giggs or the head of Gary Pallister (remember Steve Bruce’s header
against Sheffield Wednesday - SEVEN MINUTES into injury time some years back
and the victory dance of Ferguson and the embarrassing Brian Kidd?)
So, not one of the travelling Grecians
or the Stretford End faithful were counting the proverbial chickens before the
final whistle has sounded.
One last time United get the ball.
City pull back. It’s now or never.
The ball comes to Kieran Richardson
who bursts into the area. Scott Hiley moves out and blocks the midfielder, but
the ball rolls to Paul Scholes from no more than ten feet out.
Stuart turns away.
Bob closes his eyes.
I’m now clinically dead.
He shoots…
The ball rolls...and rolls..and rolls....inches wide of City's left hand post.
The novena on the East Stand Worked.
It finishes 0-0.
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