In my lifetime, I’ve seen us beat them up the road several times. Up the road being the operative phrase in that sentence, and I was hoyed out of the spring chicken club a considerable a good few years ago. Since that day in 1980, when I was at work (at probably the second worst job I’ve had the misfortune to have had) and only managed half of the home games that season, I’ve got married, stayed in the same job for almost 28 years, owned twelve cars, run twenty-odd half marathons, countless 10ks, and two marathons, had several near-death experiences, and raised to children to adulthood. They’ve never seen us beat the buggers at home, and neither have I.Way back when it happened, I was in a shitty job and equally shitty frame of mind, making my music of the moment, Joy Division, fantastically appropriate. Since then I’ve travelled far and wide through many different times, and seen Sunderland directionless, so plain to see, Sunderland shirts in different shades, over each mistakes were made. We gave them everything and more.

Don’t walk away, pleaded Ian Curtis in his Mancunian drawl. A few weeks after Stan Cummins did the trick for SAFC, Ian Curtis did for himself in his kitchen, with the aid of a piece of rope and clothes airer. Not the most romantic of exits from this mortal coil, but there you go. That was the end of him, and that was the end of Sunderland beating the mags on Wearside until 2008. Why? Nobody knows, as there have been numerous games from which we should have emerged triumphant. Your confusion, my illusion.

I, like thousands of others, didn’t walk away from SAFC in the intervening years, despite there being numerous occasions when any shrink on the planet would have accepted that it was a perfectly valid thing to do. A lifetime later, in what could be happily described as a mature stage of life (physically if not mentally), I’ve had the butterflies that always migrate to my stomach prior to any game against the barcodes, but in huge numbers when it’s a home game. I know I should be beyond that, but I’m not.

Nervous, nervous, nervous, meant a quiet night in and an early start. Stupid kick-off at 12:45 meant that distant fans had a hell of a time getting to Wearside, while those of us living relatively local saw it as a challenge to spend at least as much time in the pub as we did for a normal kick-off. So the week was filled with message of breakfast-time bar opening, and beer for breakfast for many. We of a sensible nature, and already worked up to a frenzy with thoughts of the game to come, opted for a FEB. Sausage, beans, eggs, back, the original Full Monty, before a quick pint (well, it would have been rude not to, what with them having opened up just after they’d closed) and onto the bus.

I was lucky that I had a couple of Chelsea tickets to pick up and therefore no chance of any more beer in Sunderland, so I was seated and back on my feet in a frenzy way before the wall of sound erupted. £600 lighter, courtesy of having picked up ALL of the Chelsea tickets, I still had to shell out for our Ian’s beer and the taxi from Bish (having over-refreshed myself and slept in). As it turned out, £600 well spent. After collecting the tickets, we joined the scrum in the Colliery (I paid again, it’s the bairn’s birthday on Monday) then hit the SoL at the ridiculously early hour of twenty minutes before the fun began. As atmospheres go, today’s was right up there with the best. Take that, Paul Merson.

After the early news that Gordon had turned his ankle, it was no surprise and no real problem to see Fulop in goal, with the rest being....
Chimbo Anton Danny George
Richo Deano York Diooooof Steed
Cisse

It was a fairly frantic and fast game for the first 20 minutes, but without the added irritation factor of the mags getting into our box. We fired a couple harmlessly wide before the ball came in low from the right, passed the hilariously stupid Steven Taylor, and found Cisse at the back post. Out went his leg, in went the ball, up went the crowd. Unlike our past incarnations, we kept at them (which wasn’t that difficult, given how shite they really are) and Richo fired just wide of their right hand post from distance. What was that I said about us not being like our former selves? Come 29 minutes, in came the Toon to our box for the first time, and in went the header for a crap equaliser. Ten minutes later we had what I thought was a good shout for a penalty when Cisse looked to have been pushed, but we got nowt, as usual. In the minute added, we continued to dominate, and if there was any sort of justice in terms of stats (number of times in the box) we’d have been 10 -3 up when the whistle went.

No changes at the break, and we kept pushing at them. Taylor cemented his position as the stupidest person ever to pull on a football shirt with the most obvious handball since Tommy saved the penalty at Sid James Park. Unfortunately, we hit the free-kick wide of the far post. Jones replaced Yorke on 57, and we kept at them with added Kenwyne. Richo played Cisse in, but the wind took the ball that vital inch away from Djib’s toe-end and the chance was gone. Again we played our way into the danger area, with Steed , Diouf, and Richo combining for Keyring to shoot just wide. On 67, Steed looked to have a good chance, but miscued and then Diouf burst into the box only to be felled. Looked well in the box to me, but the ref gave the free on the edge (chicken). Up stepped dead-eye Richo, a change of speed, a change of style, to keep the ball beneath the wind and into the net for one of the great all-time derby day goals. Ooooh yer bugger, get in.

While the crowd were still bouncing, Cisse got off a shot that he had no right to and watched as it zipped a foot over the top, then they brought on the dead funny Spaniard with the hair, we sat back a bit, and started to make hard work of things. Cisse bucked the trend by finding space for a shot that beat Given and did a Richo off the post. How did the wind not blow it in? With 5 to go, Teemu replaced Steed and did what he does best – slow the game down. With Reid on for the last couple of minutes, pus the three that the ref added, it was us pushing forward as the game died off. When the whistle went, I can honestly say that it was the best I’ve felt after an individual game since 5/5/73. I’ve never hugged so many random almost-strangers in my life. Weight off our backs, mobile going bizwack for the next hour, staying in Sunderland to cuddle even more people I barely know. Yippee. Isn’t it great to be a Sunderland fan?

I travelled far and wide through many different times. They had tears in their eyes. Ha Ha.

So we’ll share a drink and step outside.

Man of the Match? Hard one, this. Anton was superb at the back, and Richo scored a belter, but I’ll have to give it to Cisse for the way he rose to the occasion and took the game to the unwashed. Who are still waiting for the sprinklers to come on for their yearly wash as I write. Ron has just rung, on his way to his niece’s wedding in Low Fell, to say that he’s currently following the dirty mag convoy back towards the hovels of Tyneside. What fun he’ll have at the reception.

Keep the faith

Sobs

Sobs' Book click here...