No need to make the apology too formal mate - a simple sorry will do. For the rest of you I have started a crowd funding page #getGHBtoeveryhomegame - please give generously.
I'm very sorry. Please feel free to jinx us more often. Well, you asked for it: ____________________________ Coming out of the car park, we aren’t quite sure which way to go. Dad hasn’t been back to Newcastle for twenty years and half the buildings have changed. We follow the steady stream of people wearing black and white, and suddenly, as we round a corner, there it is. The stadium is too big and too close to appreciate properly. Besides, we’re swept up in the tide of humanity. A squeeze through the turnstiles, and we’re inside. The stairwell is bare, ugly concrete. It looks like the multi-storey where we’ve left the car. Damp streaks run down the walls. We climb, and climb, and emerge into a concourse that smells of chips and spilled beer. Access 18. Up we go. I grab my dad’s arm. The pitch appears, bright green contrasting with the grey walls and grey steel roof. It’s beautiful in the sunlight. Without being able to do a thing about it, I fall in love. But I always knew I would. I’ve been waiting more than thirty years for this moment. There are tears in my eyes. We make our way down to Row S. A father and his two sons come past, and ask us to take their picture. They return the favour. We’ve got better seats than I thought, middle of the goal, in the Gallowgate. A woman and her boyfriend show up. She’s a season ticket holder. We’re in her seat. Turns out we’re in a different Row S, right up in the gods. We get altitude sickness climbing up. Still central. The pitch looks small, but a clear view. I’ve brought binoculars, and start to identify players in the flesh. Shelvey, I spot immediately. Richie, I know. That must be Almiron. Rain thrashes down. The seats around us fill up. The stadium is full. The players come out, leading the mascots. A little boy plays one-twos with Dubravka then plants the ball in the back of the net. He wheels away in front of the Gallowgate, one arm in the air. He can’t have been born when Shearer retired. I’m a grown man. I’m a little bit envious of him. I miss the kickoff, looking the wrong way. That’s fine. I always try to miss it; it’s my ritual. Ever since my dad, in a valiant effort to spare me a life supporting Newcastle, took me to see a local team. I missed the kickoff and they won 3-0. The atmosphere is incredible. It reminds me of the Western Wall in Jerusalem. Surrounded by people in a black and white, chanting and singing words I struggle to follow. I feel both out of place and that I’ve found my home. Five minutes pass. I look at the clock. Where have eighteen minutes gone? Then, suddenly, Everton break. A glancing header loops up, over Dubravka. The ball trickles into the net below the stand. There’s a moment of stunned disbelief. Then a collective groan from 50,000-odd Geordies. Then, hope. Even from the far end of the pitch we see Pickford scythe down Rondon in the area. We’re on our feet, in glorious anticipation of the clear red card. He’s not even booked. It’s fine. Still a penalty. 1-1 and we’re back in it. There’s a delay. Players still arguing over Pickford’s foul. Richie has the ball. A small boy behind me whispers to his dad “I really hope he scores it.” Amen, brother. He doesn’t. A tame effort down the centre, right into the legs of Jordan bloody Pickford. There’s a sort of resigned acceptance around the ground. We rarely get penalties. We never score them. Gloom sets in. Lascelles makes a firm but fair challenge. Yellow card. Two Everton players go down in the box. Presumably there’s a machine gun hidden in the crowd – I’m sure no one touched them. It gets worse. We keep giving the ball away. Suddenly blue shirts are carving apart our defenders. The back of the net bulges again. It’s not looking good. Even my insurance prediction was optimistic. Pickford saves again. Half time blows. The ref is booed off, with chants of “You’re not fit to referee.” Dad and I look at each other. Is this better or worse than the last match we went to, away at the Etihad? That time, we were a goal down before we even got in the ground. Still, 2-0 down and a missed penalty. It feels like it could turn into a rout. We twist our way through the crowd on the concourse. The toilets aren’t as bad as I’ve been warned. The queue is surprisingly efficient. There’s a fug of smoke from two lads having a not-so-crafty ***. It’s like a nightclub, circa 2005. Dad is outside, watching the goals replayed on a TV that keeps stuttering. A lot of people are complaining about the ref. The bloke next to me observes that if he gives you a penalty, it’s not the ref’s fault if you don’t score it. We go and get a photo near the pitch. It comes out better in the sunlight. Shame about the sports direct signs. The second half starts. Everton come out fighting, looking for the killer blow. Rondon puts it just wide. It's not our day. I keep thinking that not606 will start a petition to have me banned from the ground. Pickford is in the goal below us. He’s roundly booed every time he’s on the ball. The boos stop dead whenever another Everton player takes possession, just to make clear that it’s personal. He’s reminded that he’s a Sad Mackem Bastard. In response he struts around his area. His team are 2-0 up. He’s the hero. Saved a penalty. C*nt. Kenedy comes on. His first touch gives the ball away. Ki goes off. Poor old Sean Longstaff. Shelvey on. His first touch is a raking pass that almost releases Perez. Then he gets carded for dissent. Then all at once Perez and Rondon have made space in the area below. I leap to my feet, remembering too late the little lad behind me. I half crouch. Rondon strikes. The net bulges. Crowd erupt. I’ve seen a goal scored at St James’. That’s worth coming 250 miles for. We’ve made a fight of it. Then I realise I was too busy celebrating to hug my dad. I wonder how long it will be before I get a chance to celebrate a goal with him again. We get a corner. A free kick. Another corner. There’s pressure on, but I could see them scoring too. Then Almiron scythes down the left, our right, crosses, Rondon shoots. Pickford spills it. Perez scores. My dad hugs me. An equaliser. An unlikely point. If we can hold on, I won’t be banned after all. The crowd is loving it. Pickford isn’t. Shouts of ‘dodgy keeper’ ring out. I haven’t heard that since I was at school. I was in goal. 83 minutes gone. Rondon holds it up. There’s a mass of blue shirts in the box. I can’t see. Perez scores. We go mental. I can’t quite believe it. If this were a Michael Hardcastle book, 7 year old me definitely wouldn’t believe it. I want the game to be over right now and I don’t want it to end. The clock hits 90:00 and stays there. I can’t hear the PA clearly, but the man next me wonders out loud where the ref got 5 minutes from. 5 minutes that last twelve times longer than the opening eighteen. Perez tries to take the ball to the corner. An Everton player punches him three times in the face and choke-slams him to get the ball back. Play on. Richie makes an inch perfect tackle. Free kick to Everton. The final whistle goes. I see it but can’t hear it. Mad cheering. My dad is fumbling with his phone, trying to get a photo. I grab him and take a selfie. I hate bloody selfies. This one is amazing. We stagger out into the fading sunlight. A bit shellshocked. Need a cup of tea. Can we do this every week?
As long as you write match reports like that then of course you can! That was a great read. Don’t need to watch the highlights now.
Also I've just watched MOTD and realised I initially got the penalty and their second goal the wrong way round. You may want to fire your accountant. P.S. Does anyone know how to download/record MOTD (even questionably legally?) For some reason I quite want a permanent record of today.
Doesn’t the file delete after a day or two? I want to be able to re watch that game in another 30 years.
https://highlightsfootball.com/video/newcastle-united-vs-everton-highlights-2/ You want the one hosted by stream able. Hit the 3 dots bottom right of the video and download to your phone.
Great post mate, buzzing for you that the lads turned it round for you for your first game, what makes it even better is that it all came at the Gallowgate end where you were sat as well. Your "miss the start" ritual seemed to do the trick as well ;-)
Great post mate. Apart from complimenting the bogs. They make the worst toilet in Scotland from trainspotting look like the Queen’s en suite.
