This was going to be a bit of a jolly piece, saying that the season so far had been just a warm-up, and that the real business would begin today. We’ve been through what they irritatingly call the “learning curve”, we’ve worked out what we need to do to make a go of things, and the season starts against Reading. It was going to be full of nonsense about how Heskey has done more in two games than the rest of his England career, and England actually doing well in two consecutive days for a change. About the smashing weekend Judith and I had in the Yorkshire Dales with Stubber and Kathy, to celebrate a Sunderland-free weekend, a shared birthday (37 if you’re asking, he said convincingly), their wedding anniversary. About the hills we climbed, the nice weather we had, and the nice pubs we visited.
Then came the news on Tuesday evening. You all know what it was, and the papers and the internet have been full of tributes to Ian Portefield. All the papers, that is, except the Guardian, for whom Brian Glanville managed to produce a piece that came across a particularly unpleasant. Everyone else managed to express their appreciation of what Porterfield had done for Sunderland, and what he would be forever remembered for. As the man who scored what was probably the most important single goal in the club’s history, he already had a special place in every red and white heart, but now he’s gone, we all realise a bit more just what he brought to Sunderland. It wasn’t just a cup-winning goal, it was a goal that has become synonymous with the FA Cup, just as team-mate Monty’s save and the result itself. Ask any football fan around the word who won the FA Cup in 1977, and they’d struggle for an answer. Ask any football fan around the world who won the FA Cup in 1973 and they’d say “ Sunderland, and Porterfield scored.” That’s what he did for Sunderland. In thirty years, how many Chelsea fans will remember who scored their goals in their current trophy triumphs? Not many without a great deal of thought.
I was lucky enough to be there in 1973, right behind the goal into which that famous right-foot shot was despatched at 31 minutes past three on the fifth of May, a time celebrated every year between Sunderland fans the world over by means of countless phone calls and emails. I was old enough to appreciate what it meant, and I still do appreciate what it meant. That monochrome image of Ian’s goal is one which is stamped indelibly in the minds of all Sunderland fans, whether they were born at the time or not. Those fans who were not born until after ’73 know fine well what the goal meant for the club, and what a big part of Sunderland’s history Ian Porterfield created 34 years ago.
He did his part for football around the world, as well, managing and coaching from the Caribbean to the Far East with Africa in between, and there have been messages of condolence from every one of those places. Recent results achieved by the Armenian national team had elevated him to the status of folk hero in that country, and the fact that he was at work until last month shows a passion for the beautiful game that stayed with him right to the end.
Ian Porterfield 1946-2007, thanks a million, marra, and rest in peace.
Perhaps fittingly, Reading were one of only two other English Clubs Ian Porterfield played for, and it’s a shame that we don’t have one or two more players like him available to take part. After the talk early in the week of an unexpectedly early return for Carlos, his hamstring did what hamstrings tend to do in such situation and pinged in a different place. Keyring’s iffy back turned out to be a stress fracture, which sounds pretty bad and is, and we already know that we’ll be Deano-less until well into next year. All of which is bad for the midfield, while Mr Cole’s time on Wearside is beginning to run a bit like his time at Birmingham last season - perpetually injured. On a slightly brighter note, this morning’s news seems to indicate that Deano could be back before Christmas, which would be nice.
Flash Gordon performed exceptionally in Scotland’s win in France carried on his recent good form, and at least in defence we can choose basically who we want. Up front we’re only missing the aforementioned Cole, so it’s midfield where Roy will be either playing people out of position or adopting our formation to suit.
Slightly off the subject, did anyone else notice that George McCartney lost his pip with the man who cost Norn Irn the game the other night? In a row that was allegedly about who had Jonny Evans’s passport (I’d have put my money on Jonny Evans if you asked me), stinky ex-mag slapped George, who responded by giving the weasel-faced chav a bit of a thumping. Not the best idea on a packed aeroplane, but once a mag, always a mag in this case. Speaking of the influence of the mags, look what happened to Northern Rock. Go over to the Dark Side, and nasty things happen – let that be a lesson to you all.
We managed to find Sunderland, despite our driver never having done the journey before, and we lowped off in the town centre, leaving Charlie to direct the driver over the bridge. South Shields for the pick-up, then.
There was the obligatory visit to the Stokoe statue, which has become, over the last three days, a Porterfield shrine, and a very moving experience it was. As was the playing of the Z Cars theme as the players ran out, accompanied by almost all of the ’73 team, followed by the commentary from that goal, and the applause that followed. Dry eyes? Not me.
The a strange thing happened. The same eleven players who’d started our last game started this one – a first for Roy. Having said that, it took Reading only half a minute to conjure up a chance which Lita hoofed hilariously high over the bar, which was an early lesson for us. The visitors looked sharp and neat in their passing without doing much damage in the box. We got in a good shot from distance (sorry, I didn’t see who it was) which was spilled, but Chops was just too late in arriving at the loose ball. After four minutes they won a corner on their right, but we cleared the danger to win a free kick on the left about 30 yards out, from which we won a corner. This was followed by another corner, then Leadbitter’s shot was again spilled, but Chops headed over the top from an offside position.
Quite a lively game, to be honest, in which Jones was getting the better of the Reading defence and winning almost every ball in the air and on the ground. Noz did some good work at the back and set up a break, but McShane’s cross was right into the keeper. They hit back with a great through ball which Noz did well to tidy up, then there was a five minute tea break as their number six went down injured. Cake and sandwiches for all, then back on he came, complete with comedy Terry Butcher head bandage.
Again we broke down the right, and again our cross, this time from Leadbitter, found the keeper rather than the head of Jones. Our big new Trini boy had been unlucky with a couple of flicks, but when he decided to turn with the ball instead, he created the time and space to unleash a vicious shot low into the corner of the net – at around 31 minutes past three. Great timing, great goal, great (if unacceptable to the Health and Safety people) celebration. Have any other team in England had four Trinidadians score for them? I think not.
Reading didn’t sit back, and soon after there was a moment or two of Noztasticness as Nyron produced not one, not two, but three drag-backs to play himself out of trouble. Chops then headed wide, Noz cleared another Reading corner, and we won a free kick wide on the left for a foul on Chops. It only came to another corner, then we had another decent break on the cards when the ref decided to spoil an otherwise quite acceptable performance by refusing the advantage. McShane took another bang to the head, got up to put in cross that won us another corner, then beat everyone in the air to head it well wide. Wallace took a pass from Collins, and, unlike earlier when neither of the two could find it in their hearts to cross the ball, he kinked and turned to get one on Ken’s head. Unfortunately, Ken’s head directed the ball into the turf and it bounced over the top, and he took a knock in the process – so another five minute tea-break ensued, with waitresses scurrying around the pitch with trays of Darjeeling and petit-fours. Actually, I exaggerate, but they do seem to take on enough fluids to drown a cat.
The half ended in comical fashion when Chopra brushed their huge number 22, and he writhed around like a cat being drowned in a bucket before leaping to his feet to moan at the ref. We were well worth our lead, and, if you’re interested, I did once see someone drown some kittens in a bucket, and it’s stuck with me ever since. Don’t worry, that’s the cat-killing analogies out of my system for today. Perhaps.
No changes for the second half, and no reason to make any. After barely a minute, Jones beat four (yes, four) men in the right hand corner and fired in a hard, low cross that found Chops but the effort was cleared – only as far as Wallace, who found himself ten yards out with the goal gaping in front of him. So he did what footballers are supposed to do in such circumstances, and popped it away. Shirt off, silly boy, booking. Why can’t he get Jones to teach him how to somersault?
Noz and Leadbitter were both injured soon after, but both recovered without the need for another intake of fluids. Jones headed a corner away for another, then we escaped a spot of pinball in our box, during which there appeared to be a hand struck, but no real appeal was made, and we broke away. Jones won another header to set up Chops, but the ball was hoofed away by the keeper, then Big Ken beat off the attentions of their soppy number 22 to win a corner. Unfortunately, the ball ended up in our half of the field, and Noz under-hit his back-pass, forcing Gordon to produce some neat footwork to clear. The Jones – Chopra combo produced the goods again, ending with a shot just wide form the latter, then Jones again did the business in the right hand corner, only for Chops to see his goal-bound effort deflected wide for a corner.
On 60 minutes, and probably influenced by a slightly dodgy tackle, Roy replaced Wallace with Stokes, and young Tony’s first touch was a shot straight at the keeper. Jones set off again, but was fouled just inside their half, and Stokes’s second touch was the start of as great run into the box that only ended with the keeper at his feet. Gordon did well to save free-kick, then Dicka had a shot knocked wide for another corner. Their Mr Headwound was replaced by a midfielder as they went to three at the back, and on 78 minutes there was a nice, spontaneous stand up for Porterfield moment, and the whole ground rose to its feet as one and applauded again. McShance showed his commitment by tackling a player as he ran to take a corner, but the ref saw the funny side and let him off.
Miller replaced Chops on 81 minutes, allowing Reading to go to two at the back, then Roy decided that Murphy should replace Jones, not a decision many of the crowd agreed with. We seemed to be inviting Reading onto us, and they duly obliged, with Kitson heading home with six minutes to go.
Oh, bugger, here we go again. It wasn’t exactly backs to the wall, tin hats on defending, but we had to endure seven or eight minutes of pressure that we shouldn’t have allowed. They won a late corner, the keeper came up, they won a dangerous free-kick but put it wide there were three extra minutes and we survived. From two up and comfortable to only a goal in it and nail-biting stuff.
Man of the Match? All four defenders performed admirably, but for me it has to be Jones. Won the lot in the air, and on the ground.
Cheers, Ken.
Keep the faith
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