The Day We Went To Wembley

My earliest memory of real football-induced despair came in the wake of Southgate’s heart-wrenching missed penalty in 1996. There must have been earlier moments closer to home, but that’s the one I remember – that huge pitch, and Southgate cutting a desolate figure, the physical sinking of my entire body when I realised it was all over, that we had come so close only to miss out by a whisker. Years later a friend of mine reassured me he felt the same, and couldn’t see how anyone had the energy to fight and riot in the streets after that. The whole experience was utterly draining.

Last Sunday was a bit like that, and yet also very different.

The build-up had been immense. Wembley did not just seem out of reach for a team like us – except perhaps for play-offs or the likes of the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy – it was simply inconceivable. There was Wigan, then, unbelievebly, Arsenal, then a two-leg that we assumed would be the end of a great run...then there was Hanson's goal. And then there was Wembley. So followed the scramble for tickets, growing media coverage to which we are unaccustomed as the day grew nearer, a blessing from the Dalai Lama, travel plans and texts and phone calls and then the Saturday build-up – pub crawling the well-heeled West End streets, complete with Bantams regalia, as we tried to make the time go quicker. London was suddenly full of Bradford supporters as fans gradually filtered in on coaches and trains and cars bedecked with claret and amber. Crossing the road in Marble Arch a taxi driver hooted to us and shouted “good luck” out of the window; an elderly man in the pub confided that he was an Arsenal fan, but that he wanted us to win “so we can feel less bad about you beating us”; in a restaurant that evening a family of three generations down from Swansea avidly discussed their hopes for the next day and we shared our experiences of what has, for both our teams, been a rocky ten years. We were so thrilled to be there and agreed this was the perfect final: this was beyond our wildest dreams.

And then, finally, it was Sunday. At each tube stop more and more City supporters crammed into the train, outnumbering and already outsinging the Swansea fans who were keeping a low profile in their less eye-catching colours. When we arrived, and came through the station barriers we looked ahead to the Wembley arch and then down to Wembley Way, which was a teeming mass of claret and amber. My dad, rarely speechless, could manage to say only “bloody hell!”

Everything before the match was excellent. Wembley is a slick operation – very little queuing for security, toilets or beer – the only thing with any significant wait was buying a programme, while the stallholder pointlessly moved merchandise around the counter, seemingly oblivious to the huge line in front of him. Eventually, beers drunk and looking like Michelin men with 5 layers to keep out the (almost unbearable) cold, we went out into the huge stadium. Again we were both speechless and starstruck – Wembley Stadium is both stunning and enormous, and the lower and upper tiers on our side were packed with City colours. When the announcer asked us to welcome the first of the finalists, Bradford City, and our team came out, the noise was immense. I cried. I was already very proud of my club, and also of my city, and now, the eyes of the world’s media were on us, and they would be proud of us too.

Unfortunately, I don’t think they would have been proud of the performance itself that day. If the whole cup run had been reliant on the standard of play exhibited in this much-coveted final match we wouldn’t have got past the first round. My dad and I muttered in surprise when the team was announced – Curtis Good, who in my opinion has done nothing at all all season (and who we’ve now sent back to Newcastle so he can do nothing for them) was in the line-up, which looked like it was going for the defensive, along with stalwarts Wells and Hanson and other scorers from previous legs, but no Reid, no Ravenhill – in my opinion, not enough speed.

And it all went downhill from there. Width of a Post’s Jason Mckeown, as always, summed it up better than I can when he said that we wanted this cup win so badly, but knew this was unlikely, so at the very least wanted to “have a go”. But we didn’t have a go. We did nothing. We looked outplayed to an embarrassing degree, barely touching the ball, and when we did seeming to panic and quickly give it back to the opposition, as if apologetic that we’d taken it from them in the first place. We looked a bit like sixth formers who suddenly found themselves up against Manchester United. We crumbled.

But the most devastating moment for me was not so much the humiliation of those 94 minutes (which was pretty crushing) but that fact that Duke’s red card not only happened at all, but happened in the 56th minute. Seconds before this we had risen to our feet and begun a minute’s applause in memory of those killed in the fire, those fans who were not there and whose absence was felt perhaps more acutely then than on normal match days, even by people like myself to young to remember it, but knowing many who did. I wasn’t really concentrating on what was happening on the pitch, and suddenly realised some altercation was going on as Duke, to his great credit, walked away without disputing anything. An angry spectator behind us bellowed “Sit DOWN” to the rest of us; tutting and confusion abounded. Wells, who had sadly made little contribution to the game, was substituted with McLaughlin, who probably never expected to make his Wembley debut that day. My heart ached for Duke, who must have felt terrible despite knowing, I hope, that were it not for his outstanding contribution over the last few months we wouldn’t be there at all. Meanwhile, my mum watched at home and confirmed later that no mention at all was made of the fire or why we were clapping on the TV coverage. For the second time that day I cried.

Things went from bad to very bad, with more goals and still nothing even resembling attempts from us until the 80th minute. It felt as though we were not trying. We looked massively outplayed, but, worse, we looked resigned to this. In my dad’s words, it was a cowardly performance. We seemed to shrug and say “well, it was good while it lasted” – we didn’t try to attack and our defence was lacking to a fatal degree. In a league game all this would be absolutely unforgivable. Against this backdrop, the fans’ behaviour, in the later stage of the match particularly, seems even more spectacular. Half way through the second half we stood, as one. We waved our flags like crazy and we sang and chanted and shouted and cheered at the tops of our voices until after the final whistle had blown. The vast majority of fans stayed to watch the team collect their medals before leaving, not in a crowd of despair but as a still-partying mass – a friend of mine said they seemed so joyful that one of the London Underground staff had to ask who had won, because it wasn’t evident from looking at us.

So in many ways it was an immense experience, but a painful one nonetheless. After the highs of beating Arsenal, then Aston Villa, then holding them enough in that final leg to push us on to Wembley against all our expectations, to lose 5-0 so decidedly was a genuine shock and a big disappointment. We had come to expect the unexpected, and even the sensible, logical parts of our minds were telling ourselves to at least expect a goal or two, and to leave dignified with our heads held high as the inevitable yet valiant losers. There wasn’t anything valiant, really, about that last game, and the next day there were, inevitably, sneering remarks about how it proved we didn't deserve to be there. But this isn't true: we did. And we deserved better on that last day. At the same time I am exceptionally proud that the press overwhelmingly hailed our fans as the best in Britain, praising our own sensational performance in contrast to that of the players we were there to support. As a kid growing up in the 80s and 90s, to see football fans commended is almost as big an achievement as those games that got us there – football supporters, a group of people vilified in the 80s, often treated with suspicion and even contempt by the media, the police and the government, were that day held up as a shining example of sportsmanship, of loyalty and of solidarity. For that we should be immensely proud. That aspect alone has done wonders, I think, for the city, for the game, and has, I hope, laid to rest some of the ghosts of the past.

We’d do well to remember this now that normality is back with a vengeance, reality hitting with a big bump at the realisation that we’re twelfth, and that a draw with the likes of Dagenham and Redbridge simply won’t do. The chat forums are already buzzing with criticisms and discontent. On the League 2 terraces, listening to some of the obscenities shouted at Parkinson on Saturday (despite the eventual 2-0 victory) at York, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Sunday at Wembley never happened.

I for one am immensely proud of my club and my city and, not least, of Phil Parkinson, who I would defend to the hilt as his future seemingly hangs in the balance. To see him go would not only be a mistake, it would be shameful. Last year that fight with Crawley left us facing the real possibility of relegation if points were docked. Today we are a few points off the play-offs, and although we are unlikely to make it we certainly don’t have relegation concerns on our hands, and what's more we have millions of pounds to play with for a real promotion push next season. And, for the first time in my life, I’ve been to Wembley, and I went there not to watch England or Manchester United, but to watch my home team. Bradford City, Phil Parkinson, thank you for (so far) the best season of my life: I salute you.