Our first season at the SoL hadn’t really gone as planned, as getting relegated just before it opened didn’t provide the most auspicious of starts as we kicked off the 97-98 season in the Championship. We saw Quinny score the ground’s first goal as we beat Man City 3-1, with an unknown chap by the name of Kevin Phillips getting the third. After the Nightmare at Elm Park, when we lost 4-0, Reidy shook things up and our league form improved to the extent that we didn’t drop below third place after January. After weeks in second place, behind Forest, a defeat at Ipswich knocked us down a place, meaning that automatic promotion depended on us winning at Swindon and Boro losing to Oxford. As it was, Boro whupped the Os 4-1 while we, with our fans occupying three sides of the sun-drenched County Ground, watched SKP net twice as we also won. That set us up for two legs against Sheffield Utd, with the away leg coming first on Sunday May 10th.
The Blades would be no pushover, but we knew we could do a job on them. There we were, high up behind the goal, with our Ian’s teacher Mr Johnson sat just behind us, so we hijacked the Magic Johnston song to give him a bit of a laugh. I don’t think it helped with the lad’s exam results, but I’d like to think it did. Despite SKP getting into a sixth minute tangle with Borbokis that saw both men booked, Bally banged one in following a corner, right below us, and we went into the break happy with that lead. Of course, it didn’t last, as sub Marcelo and Borbokis scored to set up the home leg nicely. It was the new ground’s biggest game so far – could it match Roker for the big occasion? Hell, yes.
With the Roker Roar having moved up the road, there was a real air of confidence that we’d do the necessary, and the atmosphere arrived with a vengeance - the darkness, the floodlights, the damp, the big away following, the roar, and own goal, the obligatory Phillips strike, and a brilliant double save from Lionel Perez all added up to a top night. The Blades just couldn’t come up with an answer and seemed resigned to their fate by the end of the game. Charlton were to be our opponents, having beaten Ipswich twice, both by a 1-0 scoreline.
Wembley. Scruffy old hole in the ground that it was by then (had been for years, actually), it was where we had to do the business on Bank Holiday Monday May 25th. The match-day traffic in the way south was 90% red and white, fans waving at each other, waiting for the big moment. Having chosen to drive, I had a packed car bedecked in our colours, and parked up in Harrow. We met the usual crowd as planned and turned a pavement bar into a little bit of Wearside down south. That little bit of Wearside eventually marched to the tube, bugles sounding (sounding pretty awful) and voices warming up for the match. The last member of our party, nephew Mat (for some reason wearing an Afro wig - at least it made him easy to spot) was found outside the ground and presented with his birthday present – a match ticket. Canny day for a birthday, and the hope was that his best present would arrive just before five o’clock in the form of a result in our favour.
If you don’t know what happened on the field that afternoon, you’re probably looking in the wrong place. It’s been variously described as the old stadium’s most dramatic game, Sunderland’s most dramatic game (and presumably Charlton’s as well) – amongst other things. In our sweaty-looking gold shirts, the Lads marched defiantly and confidently onto the field. We had a great view, low down (but not too low) behind the goal, and the atmosphere was atomic as the sun blazed down.
Lionel Perez
Darren Holloway, Jody Craddock, Darren Williams, Micky Gray
Kevin Ball, Lee Clark
Nicky Summerbee, Niall Quinn, Kevin Phillips, Allan Johnston
In those simple times, before “number tens” 3-2-4-1 formations, and “false nines”, we played a flat back four from which Micky Gray would explode forward to exchange passes with Allan Johnston. In the middle, Bally would win it and give it to Lee Clark, who’d find either Johnston or Summerbee out wide. They’d then cross it to Quinn or Phillips, and the ball usually ended up in the opponents’ net. Simple but effective, and usually very entertaining.
Their first goal reduced our Ian to tears, so Pos told him that it was only a game. It was (still is) an in-joke with our match-day gang, but its utterance on that day seemed to bring about 40,000 killer stares. The same number of killer stares were directed at the goal-scorer, as he was Wearside’s own Clive Mendonca, who seemed to have been at school with most people in the Sunderland end, if claims were to be believed. That 23rd minute strike meant we were behind at the break, but with our style of football there were always going to be more goals, and we had a perfect view of our equaliser five minutes into the second half. With Chris Makin on for a clearly unwell Holloway, we maintained our straightforward shape and piled forward from the off. As Summerbee teed up a corner on our right, Quinny pointed to exactly where he wanted the ball to go – and it did, with the big fella running to meet it with a perfect near-post heard that flew into the net. That’s it, we were away, back in the game, and plenty of time to win it – and Phillips hadn’t even scored yet. Eight minutes later he did, when Bally won a header forty yards out that turned into the perfect through ball which SKP ran onto and calmly lobbed it over Ilic for his 35th goal of the season. The Sunderland crowd were on their feet in celebration, the noise went up a notch, and we were jubilant - hold the lead for another half hour and we were up.
Of course, Mendonca had other ideas, taking a pass from defender Richard Rufus on 71 minutes and making space to shoot, which he did – beyond the reach of Perez. Bugger – from the thirteen-minute high of having the lead to the low of being pegged back. Only for a couple of minutes, though, as Quinny produced what he calls a larrup – standing at the back post, taking Lee Clark’s cross from the right, and chesting it down to whack it, left-footed, beneath Ilic at his right-hand post. A beaut, from a player who was playing like a man possessed in the second half, having gone close twice before that goal. Yee-hah! We were on our way again, Premier League here we come! Dancing on the seats, in the aisles, screaming our delight, and singing our songs for the next twelve minutes. No matter that SKP had limped off, replaced by Danny Dichio, they were twelve joyous minutes that could have been even more joyous, when Clark set Summerbee galloping down the right to curl a cross to the far side of the box. Dichio was clear of the defence and the ball dropped invitingly, but with virtually his first touch, got his effort all wrong. It was one of those slow motion things that seem to happen when something negative occurs to Sunderland - we readied ourselves to celebrate, then our stares of anticipation turned to stares of disbelief as the ball bypassed Danny’s right foot and hit his left thigh, bouncing down into the turf rather than fizzing into the net. As the commentator said, “it would have helped if he’d kicked it properly.”
Still, we were in the lead, and we looked to extend it by bombing forward at every opportunity while Charlton did the same. Somehow, the score-line remained unchanged - until Perez effectively ended his Sunderland career. He’d only just made a tremendous reflex save when a free kick took a deflection and was flying towards the net, before Gray conceded a corner. Lionel came charging out into a crowded penalty area in the vague direction of a cross he had no chance of reaching, and the ball simply bounced off the head of Rufus and into the net. Five minutes from time. Five bloody minutes. Lionel, man!
Extra time. I was knackered, and I’d only been watching, so I can only imagine how the players were feeling. More than one had gone down with cramp already, and there were still another thirty minutes to play. Four minutes into the second period, at the far end of the field, Quinny knocked Gray’s pass to Summerbee on the edge of the box in the inside-left position, and Buzza whacked it along the ground and beyond Ilic’s right hand. In the lead again. Up went the roar, up went the spirits, and we had surely done enough. Defending the lead for twenty-five or so minutes was surely not too much to ask, even in this game, but nobody in the ground was really expecting the score to remain unchanged after the way things had gone so far. We brought on Alex Rae for Clark, who was absolutely paggered and probably still suffering the after- effects of his bout of cramp half twenty five minutes earlier. There was a comedy moment when play was stopped because the linesman had spotted Quinny discarding his shin-pads, which was apparently against FIFA rules, and the offending items were grudgingly pushed back down socks.
Hold onto the lead? When the ball was played into our box from Charlton’s right a mere four minutes later, there was Mendonca again to turn on the ball and fire past Perez from a few yards out. Sunderland heads were held in hands, then shaken in disbelief. How many times did we have to score to win the damned game? Somehow, there were no more goals despite the best efforts of both sides, and it was penalties. At our end, and after the emotion-sapping two hours of football we’d just witnessed, our nerves were shredded as the songs bounced around the stadium before Lionel took his place between the sticks and a deathly silence descended. Up stepped Mendonca – who else? – to smash the ball high to our keeper’s right. The reaction of the Charlton fans was delayed by a split second due to the distance, but it came sure enough. Hold your nerve Lads and hit the target. With no SKP on the field, Summerbee (no shin-pads, as it wasn’t during normal playing time) was first up for us, and he put it in virtually the same place as Mendonca.
To a cacophony of Wearside whistles, Steve Brown hit his pen high to Lionel’s right. With many of our fans unable to watch, Johnston placed his shot carefully to the keeper’s left before Jones banged his high to our keeper’s right. Bally put his in just about the same place, then Kinsella sent Perez to his left and fired into the other side. Ilic went the right way for Shooot Makin’s kick, diving to his right, but went under the shot and the ball hit his left hand and flew in. By this stage, we were asking each other how many penalties had been taken and repeating the score. Bowen’s kick was a simple boot to Lionel’s right, and it was 4-5. Alex Rae needed to score otherwise it was all over for us, and he did just that, placing it neatly into the same place as Johnston had.
Sudden death. Next to miss loses. Again, Lionel was sent the wrong way, this time by Robinson, and it was down to Quinny – who’d never taken a penalty in a competitive game, but cool as you like he placed it to the keeper’s left to level things up at six all. Tense? I’d known nothing like it. I’d been at tense games before, but in open play it’s different as players can change things, speed up or slow down play. With penalties, it’s just a case of a player versus a goalkeeper, one on one. Newton took a short run-up and placed the ball high to Lionel’s left. All good pens so far, and up stepped Micky Gray. We all knew the Lad had a decent shot on him, he’d taken pens before, but he didn’t strike the shot well and Ilic, dropping to his left, saved it. Right in front of us, and that split second later the Charlton roar arrived as we looked at each other and asked “is that it?” My question was genuine - two and a bit hours of absolute drama had left me uncertain as to what was happening, as it seemed like a contest that would go on forever. It had ended though, and we sat in stunned silence, struggling to come to terms with what had just happened. Charlton did their inevitable lap of honour, jogging past the prostrate Sunderland boys, and Reidy hugged Micky Gray. I felt bad, but how did Micky feel? He’d supported us all his life, he’d scored on his first start, firing into the Fulwell end net, and now he’d failed with the penalty that could have taken us up.
As we eventually and gradually drifted away from our seats and towards home, I’d never seen so many pairs of eyes looking down. What is Phillips had lasted the whole game? What if Deech had connected with that effort properly? If you could have bottled the emotion of that post-match moment, you’d have made a fortune selling glumness and resignation by the pint. Outside the tube station, as one of Mendonca’s erstwhile classmates told anyone within earshot that he should have “knacked the bugger in a games lesson”, the police held up the crowd to allow traffic to pass. As a mounted officer was explaining this, someone shouted “I’m Spartacus.” A second later, someone else echoed the comment, and then a host of Wearsiders joined in. The policeman looked suitably befuddled, and those of us in the crowd didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It could have been what seemed like the worst day of our footballing lives, but we were Sunderland fans, and we weren’t going to let the small matter of losing out in the most dramatic domestic game that Wembley had ever experienced knock the humour out of us.
It had, however, knocked the life out of us, and the 250 miles home was the quietest car journey I’ve known. Five people, one car, one football team, not a single word.
In an effort to forget, I took my lads off camping, while Micky Gray disappeared off the face of the earth for several days, apparently staying at Reidy’s. He then went to Aya Napa with some mates, in an effort to avoid the inevitable Wembley fallout, where one of the first people he bumped into had gone to the same school. His name was Clive Mendonca.
We might have failed in that most dramatic of matches, but had we succeeded, we wouldn’t have experienced the swashbuckling season that followed, as we smashed the rest of the league on our way to 105 points, 18 ahead of second-place, and scoring 91 goals in the process, with SKP bagging 23 of them in only 26 games.
