Back through the mists of time, in 1992, came what was arguably Gordon Armstrong’s finest hour in a Sunderland shirt. A fair way through an FA Cup run, having already disposed of Port Vale, Oxford, and West Ham, we were extremely unlucky to get only a draw at Stamford Bridge – as ever, the ref messed up and awarded a corner that never was, then missed a clear foul on Tony Norman to allow Chelsea’s goal.
Replay at Roker it was, one of those nights that will live forever in the memory of those that attended, and one of those games that had “Cup game, Roker Park, night game, full house” written all over it – and we know what they could turn out to be. Shades of Man City in ’73, albeit with a smaller crowd thanks to the safety work that had gone on since. Division Two against Division One, but there was nothing between the sides in this game.
Shot, save, and Davenport reacted with an instant left-footer into the Fulwell net with 20 minutes gone to send the crowd wild. Here we go, and there we went, past half-time and still in the lead. We did our best not to think of how we were going to get tickets for the semi-final or even, dare we think the thought, the final, and, to be honest, the game was so tense, the crowd so noisy, that it was difficult to think of anything other than the action on the pitch – the real matter in hand.
Just when we believed that we could hold onto the lead and start worrying about Norwich at Hillsborough, Dennis Wise popped up with a well-worked, five-a-side type goal, with only five minutes left. Well-worked, but hardly deserved, and its effect was massive - for an instant. The crowd went flat, our dreams of cup glory temporarily crushed, then the individuals present merged into the entity that was the Roker Roar, and pumped life back into the shattered players.
We were absolutely drained watching the match, but the players had to compete physically as well as mentally, and we could do no more than encourage them the best we could. Which we did, and steam rose from the massed supporters as the minutes ticked away and the roaring continued at fever pitch. “I couldn’t stand extra-time” said Mick, and I knew what he meant.
Cometh the hour (or the 88th minute in this case) cometh the man. As we checked our watches for the twentieth time, Brian Atkinson slung in a corner from the right at the Roker End, and time slowed down as we watched it curl deep, deep to the edge of the box, where Gordon Armstrong was already moving through the air at the end of a run, and the ball cannoned off his brow, over his left shoulder, and into the Roker End net. The ground simply exploded with pent-up emotion. Oh, Gordon, you absolute beauty! All of those people who were thinking exactly what Mick had said to me just minutes earlier let out their tension and relief with a roar that had the pigeons scattering for safety in Gateshead.
I don’t remember what happened in the game after that, but it wasn’t much because we’d knocked the stuffing out of our illustrious opponents and they were dead on their feet, just as we had briefly been a few minutes earlier. Had it gone to extra time, I doubt if we on the terraces could have survived, we were that drained. How the players were feeling I can only imagine. As it was, we were through, and we remembered why it was such a special thing to be a Sunderland supporter. OK, fans of other clubs thinks that the relationship they have with their club is special, but it’s nothing compared to what we’ve got, to the affinity we have with our club – we’re part of it, and it’s part of us.
..and to be a Sunderland fan who scored that goal – I’ll bet Goalden Gordon still remembers it as if it were yesterday.
