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by MrTopTier » Thu Feb 23, 2017 4:17 pm
Bit before my time, but remember Redbeard posting this about the 72/3 season
'We were now four points clear of QPR - and of Blackpool, who had sneaked into second spot on goal average, having played a game more. But - just to make things interesting again - a competent fifth-placed Oxford United took a point from a 1-1 draw at Turf Moor on Saturday December 23, and although we were yet three clear of QPR and five of Blackpool, next up was a Boxing Day derby at the Bloomfield Road home of those third-placed Seasiders.
There would be even more spice to this match due to Blackpool’s new manager being none other than Harry Potts - our own ex-manager who had led us to the First Division title in 59-60 - and, moreover, it was to be his very first home match in charge of them.
The main body of away fans, making up perhaps half of a 25,000 crowd, stood at the north end of the ground, but dad, brother and I ended up near to the front of the east side, roughly halfway along, where we and a few other Clarets became closely surrounded by home supporters. There were a few nasty looks and one or two unwelcome comments (indeed, us lads were actually threatened by a couple of slightly older donkey-lashers), but there was no way my eleven-year old brother nor I, just turned fourteen, were about to hide our colours from anyone. Especially since Dad was big enough to take care of us anyway.
Game on, then - and the three of us were soon celebrating amidst lots of stunned lashers as Casper (my favourite player at the time) gave us a tenth-minute lead. But the ’Pool hit back and levelled it, midway through what was a cracking first half.
The second period proved to be something of a contrast, however, as a series of niggly fouls developed into outright nastiness. There were some shocking challenges, four bookings, and a sending-off for a young Blackpool player on his debut. Another sending-off then reduced ’Pool to nine men, and yet they continued to hold out stubbornly until, inevitably, Frankie did the business again ; lobbing the keeper from 20 yards to put us 2-1 up on 78 minutes, and sending the travelling claret-and-blue hordes bananas.'
'We enjoyed a two-week break now, taking the timely opportunity to relax (made easier with the news that QPR had lost their game in hand, at Oxford) and to recharge, before what would be a crucial Roses match at Huddersfield.
Despite the county boundary this was almost a local derby, since the two towns are only 20 miles apart. Dad couldn’t make this one all the same, but there was no chance of me staying at home : I travelled on a supporters’ coach with a few of my mates, and we were part of a huge noisy following that filled a full side of the ground and delighted in taunting the Town fans about their clapped-out cowshed of a home end.
The home club were only two places from the foot of the table, and in increasing danger of being overtaken by Cardiff and thus obliged to occupy a relegation spot. They were hardly expected not to put up a fight - and that was exactly what they did. Nevertheless, we kept our composure, played well, and were full value for a 2-0 victory secured by second-half goals from strikers Casper and Fletcher.
A further win now would see us definitely promoted !'
'...on the way to Preston in the car, father was just as excited and enthusiastic as were sons. Perhaps ultimately, as they say, it’s the hope that kills you - but as a football supporter you can hardly live without it, all the same.
Burnley fans seemed to number almost two-thirds of a 21,500 crowd. Similarly to our Boxing Day trip to the seaside, the three of us found ourselves in the front middle section of the east side of the ground, but on this occasion surrounded by fellow-Clarets rather than mostly rival fans. We could hardly hear ourselves speak above the noise.
Many urban myths still abound in reference to Saturday 28 April 1973, and I will therefore tell strictly only what I recall for myself, for the sakes of both accuracy and brevity.
Preston started quite well, and it appeared that nerves might be getting the better of us at last. Alan Stevenson had to make one of the best saves I’d ever seen to prevent them from going in front. He seemed to lift off horizontally from the ground and almost hover high in the air, arching backwards at full stretch, and somehow managed to get a strong hand to a rocket-shot that was going just inside the angle of post and bar.
However, he could not prevent the home side from taking the lead just two minutes before the break.
We upped the tempo in response, and just seven minutes into the second half it was our centre-half, Colin Waldron, who levelled it with a glorious 25-yard piledriver that nearly burst the top corner of North End’s net.
Cue absolute pandemonium !
The game settled down after that, with both sides clearly happy at a point apiece. Further chances were created, yet one or two seemed almost deliberately spurned. Our triumphant manager later denied that there had been anything like a fix - but no-one there had appeared to care much anyway by the time of the mass pitch invasion at the end
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