Alex Steine
I went to this game, and, although forty-five years have elapsed, the game's outcome still cuts through me. Now, writing an account of a match which nestles in mothballs at the back of the mind's old-suitcase-under-the-bed-in-the-spare-room is a task in itself. I think it requires a discipline of mammoth proportions, demanding a litany of pre-requisites. It has to be interesting, humorous, well-written and factual. Oh well, one out of four will have to do. I'd suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune along the way in my support of the Arsenal; I was not alone. Many barren years had passed but something was evolving, a new Arsenal perhaps. The previous season we'd flirted with winning a trophy, but went down to a gruesomely effective Leeds United side. The gangsters of English football. They would win their first ever league title come May. This year would be our redemption. We were firm favourites, so what on earth could go wrong? With hindsight that question in itself could have provoked a mailbag of replies. Yet even so...
I lived near Wembley in those days and, as an aside, would say I saw more matches at Wembley Stadium than possibly any other general member of the footballing public. I would be at work and a colleague might say, “Doing anything tonight? Fancy going to see England?” Invariably I'd find myself paying at the turnstile, and wandering in to watch England perhaps play Switzerland in a friendly. To endorse this point, a while ago my wife discovered a carrier bag full of Wembley counterfoils I'd stashed away, just some of the matches I'd attended, including all the Wembley '66 World Cup games (including the one game played at the old White City Stadium). Odd that one of the few who witnessed England winning the World Cup in that July sunshine is very much an anti-international football man. At Wembley, I had a routine. I knew the less congested roads, where to park, and then a twenty minute walk through the High Street found me beneath the shadows of the Twin Towers. Even so, it was a little odd going to watch my lads. Two consecutive appearances, this was becoming a good habit.
Now, I am not superstitious or cosmic in any way - fundamental and realistic would more aptly describe me. Yet a Cup Final does some funny things to a person. On my way, wandering past Henry and George Cooper's greengrocers - they were nowhere to be seen today, perhaps Our Henry, an Arsenal fan, was already at the Stadium - I espied a silver 'A', in the road. It was from a car number plate, and, scooping it up, I determined it was a good luck symbol; in fact it proved portentous. The 'A' - for Arsenal - lying in the gutter. This was an age of male peacock-style clothing, and I didn't let the side down. I went in a floppy-collared royal blue dress shirt with a yellow neckerchief tied flamboyantly around my neck. I cringe as I type the description. Still, with one flick of his musketeer-type hair, I see the younger me grinning and shaking his head at the older version telling his story. It is his tale after all. Concorde had made its first test flights, then its inaugural flight, and The Beatles had performed their final live performance on the rooftop of the Apple building in Savile Row (and yes John, you most definitely passed the audition). On the subject of the Mop Tops, they'd released Yellow Submarine, and this was pertinent to the North Bank choir, as we all lived in our very own Red Submarine for the remainder of the season, and in seasons to come.
Now the match is infamous for the ruined playing surface. The wisdom of our elders had allowed the Horse of the Year Show - a big event in this Spartan England - to take place on the hallowed Wembley turf. They never let us down, do they? So during a wet period these gigantic beasts, weighing well over half a ton with rider, were allowed to gallop and jump all over the pitch. Incredible, and all just before a cup final! We needn't have worried - the problem was in hand. Lorry-loads of sand were tipped and spread around, filling holes and, in so doing, producing a passable resemblance to Ramsgate beach. Interesting to reflect that television would never allow them to do that now, another case of the tail wagging the dog in today's world, but in this instance it would have arrived at the correct decision. Leading up to the match, the rain continued to fall so heavily that men in the area were seen hammering planks and making large wooden floating vessels. Our boys took to the field wearing...yellow! They looked good. A resurrection of the 1950 Liverpool FA Cup Final kit. Yellow would attain a magical sense of importance to Arsenal fans from hereon in. Despite the attempt at camouflage, it didn't prove worthwhile. The sludgy effect of the saturated sand, mixed with mud (mud at Wembley? You really couldn't make it up) made for an unspectacular mess. So did some of our play.
Early on, a mix-up with Willow and Ian Ure, who was the main culprit in overhitting/misdirecting a back pass, led to the opening goal. It rebounded off Bob and fell into the path of Smart, who after a pinball moment with Peter Simpson, put it away. We then spent the rest of the game pummelling Swindon. The keeper, Peter Downsborough, played the game of his life, being awarded ten out of ten in Sunday's newspapers. As the game wore on - I was stationed behind Swindon's goal - it became more frenetic as the clock ticked down. We rained shots and crosses into their box.
I remember, to my eternal woe, one wonderfully piercing, diagonal ball from right to left, perhaps from Jon Sammels, which came into the area. Stroller Graham came hurtling in and was a toecap away from nudging the ball across the line into the unguarded goal. In anger and frustration I stamped down so hard I injured my back. I was like a cartoon character who is hit on the head. You know, they shudder and wobble. I did too, with my eyes like catherine wheels and this pain running up the length of my spine like an electric shock. I have had a back complaint since. What a clown! There was just a handful of minutes left when Bobby Gould chased down a ball into the box, a collision tackle saw the ball loop up and drop kindly for him as he continued his run, nodding the equaliser. Wheeling away, with arms outstretched, muddied shirt and face, with that personable cheeky boy's smile his pose became an iconic photograph. If only it had heralded a success story. We learnt later that his blind father was at the game. Reflections of the ecstasy and agony that man suffered on the day epitomised every Arsenal fan's hurt.
Extra time saw Swindon take the lead again, with a Keystone Cops comedy clip. A corner, ball dropped into the box, and a dozen or so men tried kicking the ball or each other in the quagmire, which was a lamentable description of our area. It was a miracle that no player lost a boot. Finally it bobbled across the line. With Arsenal pushing forward, searching for a last-minute equaliser, it fell to that hapless man Ian Ure to tamely lose possession through poor control. A through ball saw Rogers with a free run at goal to get his second of the game and win the cup for Swindon.
This was perhaps a seminal moment for Arsenal. We struck out after this massive disappointment to capture the European Fairs Cup in the following season, and we established the 'new' Arsenal the year after in attaining the Double. It was also a seminal moment for the UK, as an Australian had entered society at a frighteningly persuasive level - Rupert Murdoch had arrived and one extreme man's narrow and nasty views of life were about to be foisted on our society and to change it for the worse.
Ian Ure's Arsenal career lay in tatters and, by August, he had become a Manchester United player. He epitomises much of Arsenal's performance to me in the 1969 Final, and the platform we built on. He was a centre-half of some repute - but failed in his attempt to convert from the demands of a very good Scottish centre-half to that of an English one. Our game was changing fast with big men using aerial dominance to lead attacks, and the flick-ons to other speedy players. Ure was exposed, unable to adapt his easy clearance style; slow in turning, he was at sea on many occasions. Sad for the '68 and '69 Arsenal, sad for the man - he wasn't a bad player, just unable to convert to the rigours and demands of a new requirement. Stepping from the wings onto centre stage though emerged Terry Neill and the young midfielder, Frank McLintock. The cementing in defence of the latter marked Arsenal's rise to dominance. Frank was fast, with great timing, and a footballer; reading the game better than any, rarely out of position and having this incredible three-dimensional awareness of where others should be on the pitch at any one time, most importantly the ability to convey in words what he expected. These qualities made him the greatest skipper of all time for me. With Don Howe as a cohort, Frank was going to take us to the summit. Still, that unexpected defeat would always just be around the corner, perhaps waiting to come into view. It did in 1978, 1980 and 1988. It again came back to haunt us in 2011; it mustn't in 2014.
