We Are Going Up!
It's difficult to write about last weekend. It's difficult because a chest infection, piggybacked by the gloom that comes with being ill, has left me staring at photos of my ecstatic self and wondering how on earth I could ever experience such joyous emotion. But even for the well and sane it's probably difficult because, after years in the wilderness, words simply cannot convey quite what this season means to Bradford City supporters, and this was a joy that, in my wildest dreams, I didn't expect to experience quite so soon. After all, we'd already had an astonishing season, and to expect promotion to cap it all off seemed to border on greedy.
The crowds that turned out to cheer on the open top bus tour said it all; the thousands that travelled down to London for the second time in a season despite the cost said it all; the ecstatic chants as half the stadium emptied itself of Northampton Town fans said it all: "We're Super City and we're going UP!" (And in parenthesis, every supporter added under his breath "FINALLY.")
I don't need to preach to the converted about the past few years, suffice to say that this time last year we'd just breathed a sigh of relief at having stayed in the bottom tier of the football league (along, incidentally, with this year's other finalists, Northampton.) This time last year that fight with Crawley and bleak defeat after bleak defeat cast a shawdow over our season. City fans were praised for their loyalty, because at the end of last season, loyalty was pretty much all we had.
City in garish pink away strip, ahead of a defeat by struggling Barnet (sadly now relegated) at gloomy Underhill
Fast-forward 12 months and suddenly we were not only at Wembley, but we were there for the second time that year, significantly richer and with League one painfully within our grasp. And we hadn't half gone for drama along the way.
A week before our last visit to Wembley I stood on a freezing platform at Norbury following a gloomy and unexpected 2-0 loss at Wimbledon. This was the sort of away game to which we'd become accustomed over the years: a walk down a residential road to the away "entrance", a side gate that led into what looked like a field, a track leading eventally to a shed with a corrugated iron roof where fans clustered on an old-fashioned terrace, devoid of any sort of bar or indeed toilets that belonged in the 21st century. And we'd lost 2-0 and played badly. One grumpy fan voiced his frustrations vociforously, liberally peppered with swearwords: "I don't care what anybody says. This ****ing cup has ruined our ****ing season." Nobody said anything, so he continued, angry with the world at large, "it's ****ing disgraceful, we were ****ing shite. We deserve to be in this ****ing league. This season has all been about that ****ing cup." Everyone seemed to politely ignore him, and few I spoke to would have agreed - the cup run was stunning, whatever happened the next weekend - but inside me, at least, a little bit of me thought "what a shame it had to be one or the other."
Away entrance, AFC Wimbledon
Well, it turned out it didn't. I was wrong, and I happily - joyfully - admit to my misplaced pessimism, because we did it. Admittedly we did it by the skin of our teeth, with 1996 fresh in the minds of those of us ancient enough to remember it, but, when it mattered, we did it, and we did it in style. After the awful, tear-inducing defeat against (the excellent) Swansea, our players seemed to emerge battered and bruised and faltering. The chat forums muttered, then gnashed their teeth and bemoaned the end of the season. Every draw and defeat led to cries of "well, that's it then", the occasional victory to murmurings of "maybe, just maybe," that were quickly shot down by cries of "nope, that's just wishful thinking", then... we won at York. We won well. In the last few games of the season we produced a run of stunning wins whilst those around us crucially stumbled. On the second to last match, where a win one way or the other would decide whether Bradford City and Exeter would secure the final playoff place, we beat Burton; Exeter lost. We were through to the playoffs.
So. Plain sailing from now on? Of course not. This was Bradford City, the team that came back in an epic second leg semi-final playoff in 1996 to eventally win the final; the team that had to beat Liverpool to stay in the Premiership...and did; the team that took Arsenal to penalties and won. And so, true to form, we were the team that let Burton walk all over us in the first playoff, while fans watched through their fingers, hearts physically dropping as they tried to control tears. As the Southern Supporters gathered in the pub for the second leg it seemed merely a formality: an act of loyalty, raising a toast to our beloved club that had given us the best season for over a decade, taken us to Wembley, and would surely finally leave League 2 behind this time next season.
And then...
...we were brilliant. We played more tightly as a team than at any time since the second Villa match. We thrived on set pieces and lightning speed and clever passes. Wells was brilliant - twice - and my personal favourite James Hanson scored an outstanding and crucial goal as cries of "He used to work at the Co-Op!" echoed round the stadium from the exhuberant but vastly ounumbered City fans. We were ecstatic. In the pub, we went crazy, as a nice Latvian family smiled confused smiles and tried to eat their lunch. We'd done it. Again. We were going to Wembley.
We never expected to be here, but we have now been here, twice. City fan after City fan posted variations on "City fan walks into a bar at Wembley. Barman says "The usual, sir?"" Actually, walking from Wembley Park tube we found that most bars had been set aside for Northampton Fans. We eventally settled on the ironically named "Quality Inn", a pre-fab 1960s monstrosity that would have looked drab in communist Russia, but that still charged an eye-watering £4 a pint (welcome to London, folks). On this occasion, I, at least, found that Wembley Way wasn't buzzing in the way it had been in the cup final. City fans were cautious. We were on the edge. We had got this far by the skin of our teeth and a defeat now would be so agonising, so sad, so absolutely, truly awful, even though we knew that really this season was already better than we could ever have hoped for. So we took our seats, we wrung our hands, and we held our breath. Some of us (sorry Dad, I'm a bad Catholic) prayed.
Pre-match nerves - not quite daring to dream...
And then...
We were amazing. We annihilated Northampton, a side which, despite what some of the arrogant comments on the various City fan pages would have us believe, had finished higher than we had, not through pure luck, but through merit. But we were wonderful. We played as though this were a mere training exercise at which we were well-polished, and the opposition might as well not have been there. The ball flicked effortlessly across the pitch, leaving no opportunities to Northampton's players to intercept it, and into the goal once, twice, then three times in the first 30 minutes. It was as though all those unexpected, stupendous victories had merged into one: here were the players that had delivered us from Watford, Wigan, Arsenal, Villa, then Burton, then finally here, when it mattered the most, making up for our last Wembley appearance before the whistle even signalled the end of the first half. At half time we were 3-0 up, and I danced with Lenny in Club Wembley and bought an overpriced hot dog in celebration. My friend and ally throughout the season (THANK YOU, ADAM), a diehard Hull supporter, said we didn't deserve to be in League 2 because we were playing like a Championship side.
Lovely Lenny. And Beer
And we continued to do this in the second half, defending like demons, though without any further goals, because, nice though 5-0 would have been, we didn't need them. We had done it. The Bradford half of the stadium erupted, and I kissed my dad and hugged my friend, and I wept.
I wept for reasons that don't make sense if you're not a football fan. I wept for reasons far beyond football that I've tried to express on my blog before, but probably not quite managed to do so eloquently enough that they seem sincere, though I promise you they are. So many things were tied up in that victory. So many emotions built up over so many years spilled out. My wonderful team, that I had followed for so long, my club, with its long history, both joyful and tragic, tied up so inseperably with my beautiful and besmirched city, was finally becoming something again. Your team is everything. Your team is much more than the 90 minute game played on the pitch, it is a bonding experience between generations, part of the family, part of who you are and where you've come from. Your team is a part of you, a part so deep that when times are hard, you hurt. You physically ache.
Thirteen years ago, riding high, we never expected to be down here, floundering season after season in League 2; at the end of the last season we were relieved to be here, clinging on. At the start of this season we were realistic, hoping for but not expecting a playoff place. Now, at the end of the season, yet again, we never expected to be here, at Wembley, twice, and now here, in League One. Finally.
Richer, stronger, prouder, we are Bradford City. And the only way is up, baby! Thank you, Bantams, Phil Parkinson, fellow fans, for what has been, truly, the greatest season of my life...so far. CTID xxxxx
Post-match celebration, with empty Northampton seats behind
The crowds that turned out to cheer on the open top bus tour said it all; the thousands that travelled down to London for the second time in a season despite the cost said it all; the ecstatic chants as half the stadium emptied itself of Northampton Town fans said it all: "We're Super City and we're going UP!" (And in parenthesis, every supporter added under his breath "FINALLY.")
I don't need to preach to the converted about the past few years, suffice to say that this time last year we'd just breathed a sigh of relief at having stayed in the bottom tier of the football league (along, incidentally, with this year's other finalists, Northampton.) This time last year that fight with Crawley and bleak defeat after bleak defeat cast a shawdow over our season. City fans were praised for their loyalty, because at the end of last season, loyalty was pretty much all we had.
City in garish pink away strip, ahead of a defeat by struggling Barnet (sadly now relegated) at gloomy Underhill
Fast-forward 12 months and suddenly we were not only at Wembley, but we were there for the second time that year, significantly richer and with League one painfully within our grasp. And we hadn't half gone for drama along the way.
A week before our last visit to Wembley I stood on a freezing platform at Norbury following a gloomy and unexpected 2-0 loss at Wimbledon. This was the sort of away game to which we'd become accustomed over the years: a walk down a residential road to the away "entrance", a side gate that led into what looked like a field, a track leading eventally to a shed with a corrugated iron roof where fans clustered on an old-fashioned terrace, devoid of any sort of bar or indeed toilets that belonged in the 21st century. And we'd lost 2-0 and played badly. One grumpy fan voiced his frustrations vociforously, liberally peppered with swearwords: "I don't care what anybody says. This ****ing cup has ruined our ****ing season." Nobody said anything, so he continued, angry with the world at large, "it's ****ing disgraceful, we were ****ing shite. We deserve to be in this ****ing league. This season has all been about that ****ing cup." Everyone seemed to politely ignore him, and few I spoke to would have agreed - the cup run was stunning, whatever happened the next weekend - but inside me, at least, a little bit of me thought "what a shame it had to be one or the other."
Away entrance, AFC Wimbledon
Well, it turned out it didn't. I was wrong, and I happily - joyfully - admit to my misplaced pessimism, because we did it. Admittedly we did it by the skin of our teeth, with 1996 fresh in the minds of those of us ancient enough to remember it, but, when it mattered, we did it, and we did it in style. After the awful, tear-inducing defeat against (the excellent) Swansea, our players seemed to emerge battered and bruised and faltering. The chat forums muttered, then gnashed their teeth and bemoaned the end of the season. Every draw and defeat led to cries of "well, that's it then", the occasional victory to murmurings of "maybe, just maybe," that were quickly shot down by cries of "nope, that's just wishful thinking", then... we won at York. We won well. In the last few games of the season we produced a run of stunning wins whilst those around us crucially stumbled. On the second to last match, where a win one way or the other would decide whether Bradford City and Exeter would secure the final playoff place, we beat Burton; Exeter lost. We were through to the playoffs.
So. Plain sailing from now on? Of course not. This was Bradford City, the team that came back in an epic second leg semi-final playoff in 1996 to eventally win the final; the team that had to beat Liverpool to stay in the Premiership...and did; the team that took Arsenal to penalties and won. And so, true to form, we were the team that let Burton walk all over us in the first playoff, while fans watched through their fingers, hearts physically dropping as they tried to control tears. As the Southern Supporters gathered in the pub for the second leg it seemed merely a formality: an act of loyalty, raising a toast to our beloved club that had given us the best season for over a decade, taken us to Wembley, and would surely finally leave League 2 behind this time next season.
And then...
...we were brilliant. We played more tightly as a team than at any time since the second Villa match. We thrived on set pieces and lightning speed and clever passes. Wells was brilliant - twice - and my personal favourite James Hanson scored an outstanding and crucial goal as cries of "He used to work at the Co-Op!" echoed round the stadium from the exhuberant but vastly ounumbered City fans. We were ecstatic. In the pub, we went crazy, as a nice Latvian family smiled confused smiles and tried to eat their lunch. We'd done it. Again. We were going to Wembley.
We never expected to be here, but we have now been here, twice. City fan after City fan posted variations on "City fan walks into a bar at Wembley. Barman says "The usual, sir?"" Actually, walking from Wembley Park tube we found that most bars had been set aside for Northampton Fans. We eventally settled on the ironically named "Quality Inn", a pre-fab 1960s monstrosity that would have looked drab in communist Russia, but that still charged an eye-watering £4 a pint (welcome to London, folks). On this occasion, I, at least, found that Wembley Way wasn't buzzing in the way it had been in the cup final. City fans were cautious. We were on the edge. We had got this far by the skin of our teeth and a defeat now would be so agonising, so sad, so absolutely, truly awful, even though we knew that really this season was already better than we could ever have hoped for. So we took our seats, we wrung our hands, and we held our breath. Some of us (sorry Dad, I'm a bad Catholic) prayed.
Pre-match nerves - not quite daring to dream...
And then...
We were amazing. We annihilated Northampton, a side which, despite what some of the arrogant comments on the various City fan pages would have us believe, had finished higher than we had, not through pure luck, but through merit. But we were wonderful. We played as though this were a mere training exercise at which we were well-polished, and the opposition might as well not have been there. The ball flicked effortlessly across the pitch, leaving no opportunities to Northampton's players to intercept it, and into the goal once, twice, then three times in the first 30 minutes. It was as though all those unexpected, stupendous victories had merged into one: here were the players that had delivered us from Watford, Wigan, Arsenal, Villa, then Burton, then finally here, when it mattered the most, making up for our last Wembley appearance before the whistle even signalled the end of the first half. At half time we were 3-0 up, and I danced with Lenny in Club Wembley and bought an overpriced hot dog in celebration. My friend and ally throughout the season (THANK YOU, ADAM), a diehard Hull supporter, said we didn't deserve to be in League 2 because we were playing like a Championship side.
Lovely Lenny. And Beer
And we continued to do this in the second half, defending like demons, though without any further goals, because, nice though 5-0 would have been, we didn't need them. We had done it. The Bradford half of the stadium erupted, and I kissed my dad and hugged my friend, and I wept.
I wept for reasons that don't make sense if you're not a football fan. I wept for reasons far beyond football that I've tried to express on my blog before, but probably not quite managed to do so eloquently enough that they seem sincere, though I promise you they are. So many things were tied up in that victory. So many emotions built up over so many years spilled out. My wonderful team, that I had followed for so long, my club, with its long history, both joyful and tragic, tied up so inseperably with my beautiful and besmirched city, was finally becoming something again. Your team is everything. Your team is much more than the 90 minute game played on the pitch, it is a bonding experience between generations, part of the family, part of who you are and where you've come from. Your team is a part of you, a part so deep that when times are hard, you hurt. You physically ache.
Thirteen years ago, riding high, we never expected to be down here, floundering season after season in League 2; at the end of the last season we were relieved to be here, clinging on. At the start of this season we were realistic, hoping for but not expecting a playoff place. Now, at the end of the season, yet again, we never expected to be here, at Wembley, twice, and now here, in League One. Finally.
Richer, stronger, prouder, we are Bradford City. And the only way is up, baby! Thank you, Bantams, Phil Parkinson, fellow fans, for what has been, truly, the greatest season of my life...so far. CTID xxxxx
Post-match celebration, with empty Northampton seats behind
Labels: Bradford City, football
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