Alex Steine
(Ed’s note – We promised to bring you the winners of this competition today – they are listed at the bottom of this article.)
What were you doing when the news of JFK's assassination came through? Not born, most would reply. I was about to leave the house to catch a bus to see two friends. The chats between us when we met up was about the world's end, a seminal moment which illustrated the world I inhabited. That May night was to an Arsenal fan as stunningly graphic. We had taken the trophy. We took it from the champions in their own stadium, with the last kick of the season. That was as emphatic and astoundingly dramatic as it was ever going to get. The young rebuilt Arsenal team also announced their arrival with the loudest fanfare imaginable. The Arsenal are back!
My story of this memorable occasion lives long in my memory. I have relived it in part, and in total, when time allowed and the fancy took me. It still sends those customary shivers down my spine. As I travel the day in my mind, knowing the final outcome, I have an urge to rush to that moment when Mickey Thomas' goal went in. As at a dinner party, I placate myself with fine anticipation of the after-dinner drinks, whilst enjoying the fare before me. Patience! Now, join me on my personal journeying of that day.
My day was an uneventful work day. We had a lottery for the result. I was teased as the only one insisting we would be crowned champs with a 1-3 score line, the only Arsenal fan, and who would scoop the pot on the following Monday. He who laughs last - and a Gooner as a Champion laughs a lot! Nothing else of significance occurred. I was commuting at this stage in my life, so a finish in London meant scampering to the station to travel home to the sticks. I would have just under an hour from arriving home before kick-off. Thank goodness for that. My train pulled out and my journey began.
After a while, possibly around an hour from home, that gut-wrenching feeling every commuter is aware of came upon me. The train had slowed, shunted along for a few hundred yards, stopping and starting throughout, before finally coming to a halt. Oh no. I need to get home tonight more than any night. Nothing on the train's internal communication; that was typical. I sat gazing through the huge picture window at the countryside. Long sunlit grass waved gently in the evening's still-warm breeze. Time passed.
In those circumstances time becomes elastic, it sped up. I was agitated beyond control. I stood and walked a few paces along the carriage, trying to engage in conversation with a sporadic sprinkling of other commuters. Griping that this was so typical to be kept uninformed, and wondering out loud what the problem might be. I had no takers from the others on board. They were used to this, as I was. It was only my circumstances which had an acute relevance. I went and sat back down. A few minutes later we moved. I breathed a sigh of relief, and I felt a fool that my sanguine persona had been shown as an act.
We travelled for a mile or so, then we slowed once more. The shunting stop-start routine began. We travelled in this fashion for a couple of miles or more. Very peculiar. This was unlike normal delays, and still no information. We stopped with a rasping, screeching shriek from the wheels on rails. I waited. The others waited. I gritted my teeth. The others didn't. I was up on my feet again, this time stomping off through the train to wrest some story from the guard. I walked the wrong way. He must be at the other end of the train. Damn! I about-turned, marching to a likely confrontation, when just as I re-entered my own carriage an announcement was made. There was a fire some twenty miles down the track. It had the effect of making me appear even more ridiculous than I was.
I changed my determined gait, equipped with furrowed brow and grim visage, and found myself meekly sitting back in my seat. I'd leapt out of my seat, goose-stepped down the carriage, banged my way through the train, swivelled around, stomped back to my seat, then calmly sat down. An Englishman's fitness routines can be highly suspect. So now I knew what was happening, or not, in terms of forward motion. I looked at my watch for what had to be the fiftieth time in less than an hour. Time was still on my side but, like the sand which symbolises it, was rapidly trickling through my fingers. Oh hell, this couldn't be happening to me. No, please, not tonight of all nights. Yet it was.
We did a start-stop journey for a while longer. Then stopped. I waited, but a new gripping fear took over. I might not make it home in time. Then the 'crazy' in me surfaced. I stood and surveyed the image outside my window. Probably all eyes were upon me. I checked the distance from train to tracks. I measured the fall of the ditch beside the wheels. It fell away quite sharply. I checked the little incline to the fence, it was all doable. I ranged my sight across the field. It was flat, and it was a big field. I couldn't see civilisation beyond. I didn't want to jump from the train, scramble up the incline and clamber over the fence, then get lost in long grass wandering towards some place which may have been miles from anywhere. I also thought that, if I twisted my ankle or anything like that, my fellow travellers would have been highly entertained. This odd twit, rummaging around in the ditch, crawling up and over, and then limping off into the distance as the train started up and left on its homeward journey. Yet, even so, I was prepared for all this. What was my game plan after this then, assuming that I could manage it and found myself on an open road?
I thought of the likely prospects. We were perhaps near a small rural community. What chance was there that they would have a TV in a pub? What chance that they even had a pub? I could stumble into a weird scene from The Archers, “Arrr, wha’sat youse saying, be a fitball match tonigh? Naw me yold marrer, not in this village, we don't holds wi' tha' kinda thing.” I could finish in a wicker man for my team! I thought of throwing myself on an innocent’s mercy. I allowed the idea to ferment in my mind. I would walk up to the first house I came to, explain my predicament. They would be kind and understanding, and would allow me to sit in their front room and watch the game. No they wouldn't! Or I could buy myself in. I was loaded that day. I could give them my gold Omega watch to hold, as a kind of insurance, or I could sit in the garden if they were fearful, and just watch through the window, whatever made them more comfortable.
Oh heck. This was a difficult one to call. I opted to wait until the last minute, then jump from the train. Time passed. Suddenly, the train began to move. I sat, wringing my hands, and for the tortuous next handful of miles, very slow miles I might add, I did the sums. It was touch and go. Then we picked up speed and were heading home. As we inched towards my station, I knew the clock was running down, this big diesel had taken the ball to the corner flag once too often for my liking. I would go straight through it, cut its legs off to win the ball. I went to the door, opened it and checked to await the slowing, braking process. I jumped, too soon! I was on the platform and running as fast as the train, I began to overtake it! Those commuters still aboard were not even raising an eyebrow now at my actions. I was running alongside them grimacing. They would just remember to choose a different carriage tomorrow.
I slowed as the train did. It slowed a little more, but not me. I flew off the end of the platform down the facing stairs. It was like a comedy sketch. To coin the Superman blurb, people on the platform now believed a man could fly! Two, three, four at a time, who knows? It was a minor miracle that I never turned an ankle at least, but I didn't. My season-ticket in my hand I scooted up the stairs to the ticket office, no one there, joy! I shot out of the station doors calling at a waiting cabbie. “Get me home fast, please!” Polite to the last. I was only going to miss a few minutes at the worst way; it was a couple of minutes past eight. I asked the fare as he drove, had cash ready, and shoved it into his hand as he stopped outside my house. Calling my thanks over my shoulder I leapt over my low garden wall, and with key in hand fell into my house. The telly was on, but the match wasn't! The KO had been delayed for five minutes due to crowd congestion. Oh, the deepest of joy!
The match? Well you saw it! Those that didn't, know its drama and import. I remember one amazing thing that I have carried with me from that game. As the ball went in for our second and decisive goal I screamed, “Yes!” Throwing my head back and leaping into the air. I still see the ceiling rushing towards my face. It never made contact with my face, just my knuckles, but its intent would be worthy of a yellow card. Within seconds, the whistle had been blown and the silly dance I was doing continued unabated. What a game, what a result, what a team, what a journey, what a day, what a basket case, what a ceiling.
Official Arsenal Book of Records competition winners:
Russ Poole, Thatcham
Alan O’Connor, Aylsebury
John Deasy, Swords, Co. Dublin
David Messer, Stanton
Debbie Vickers, Witham
Your prizes will be sent to you from the publisher. There will be a further chance to win copies in the next issue of the Gooner (number 240) which comes out in mid-January.
