It is sometimes hard to be sure if childhood memories become clearer with age or are so deeply ingrained they are never likely to fade.
Where there is television footage of say a football match or rock concert this can, but not always, form the basis of our recollections, enhancing the personal experience of such an event – although this old curmudgeon would draw the line at music videos which have served only to detract from the joy of interpreting songs for oneself.
Shame on those who thought it a good idea to take the individual element out of a song by attaching an explanatory film clip, whereas before the advent of videos the same track could stir differing emotional responses among a group of listeners depending on who or where it reminded them of.
In other words I remember the exact circumstances in which I heard the first Clash album, but when it comes to ‘Thriller‘ by Michael Jackson mine is just another in the worldwide collective vision shaped by the accompanying four minute video.
So what the hell does any of this have to do with a football match (two in fact) which are the crux of this piece, that took place exactly forty five years ago this weekend? Given my tendency to draw broad analogies, virtually nothing, pretty much everything – with the truth, as ever, to be found somewhere in the middle.
While not blaming the music video for all the ills of the world, it is possible the frequency with which these pieces were cut contributed to the lack of attention span evident where ever you look. Within ten minutes of kick-off at a present day football match a quick scan of the ground will bring sight of people on their phones or on the move, the need for chips, coffee or sending a text message more pressing than the outcome of the corner about to be taken.
While your own attention span will have been tested by this long-winded introduction, the point attempting to be made is that on Saturday 2nd March 1974 my Dad and I saw two football matches – Watford v Shrewsbury Town (noon kick-off) followed by the Football League Cup Final between Manchester City and Wolves (3.30pm) at Wembley – when at least two pairs of eyes saw every ball kicked in both games.
The contrivance of these fixtures falling in such a way was the first in a largely happy set of occurrences during the day, the only negative being an only goal defeat for Shrewsbury (our home town) as they slid closer to the relegation that would befall them at the end of that season.
When the Vicarage Road encounter ended my Dad, a Wolves Wembley veteran of the 1949 and 1960 FA Cup wins, developed what appeared an air of worldly confidence in plotting the train journey to the Empire Stadium, still referred to as thus on the cover of the match programme.
Indeed, what twelve year-old would not have been impressed by the directional sense of a man who had been to Wembley at least half a dozen times by that stage of his life, the knowledge of where to go and familiarity with the surroundings still evident on fruitless Play-Off Final visits with Shrewsbury Town in 2007 and 2009.
By March 1974 I had made plenty of visits to Molineux and seen matches at least half a dozen other major grounds, but the enormity of the crowd pouring toward the stadium took my experience to another level.
My first thoughts once inside were of how compact Wembley seemed for a venue with a 100,000 capacity, the terracing less imposing than the South Bank at Wolves whose roof seemed to be just a few feet short of the sky.
Shuffling across to a position on the upper section of the North Terrace the portents felt good as this had become known as the ‘lucky‘ end, especially as it had been filled with Sunderland supporters at their shock FA Cup Final win over Leeds the previous year – the theory shot to pieces two months later when from behind this goal the majority of Newcastle fans in attendance would see their side demolished by Liverpool in the FA Cup Final.
For Wolves it was to prove the end on which fortune shone. Goalkeeper Gary Pierce made two fine first-half saves in front of us before a series of excellent stops at the other end kept Wolves in the match.
At the same (Tunnel) end where Pierce truly excelled, Kenny Hibbitt had given Wolves a 44th minute lead before Colin Bell levelled on the hour for Manchester City, their ‘Famous Five’ forward line (how ancient that term now sounds) of Mike Summerbee, Bell, Francis Lee, Denis Law and Rodney Marsh, taking control of the match – my foremost memory of the day being a comment made by my Dad when Wolves kicked-off after conceding, a touch on my shoulder followed by: ‘The best we’re getting out of this is a draw.’
From highlights of the game it looks a well-founded observation – for City the League Cup looked theirs for the taking with Wolves carrying such little goal threat.
For much of the time Wolves strike force of John Richards and Derek Dougan had been peripheral figures, Richards having barely had a touch in a match he is unlikely to have started due to a niggling groin injury had it been a first division fixture – but his last kick of a ball in the entire 1973-74 season would prove the most decisive of his career.
In the two proceeding seasons Richards had been at least the equal of any striker in the country, his interplay with Dougan, blistering pace and composure in front of goal taking him to the upper reaches of the goal scoring charts – one England cap scant reward for a forward of such prowess.
But as the 1974 League Cup Final became an increasingly one-sided affair the gamble to play Richards looked to have failed, Wolves manager Bill McGarry ready to replace him for the closing stages as substitute Barry Powell stood poised to enter the fray – plans thrown into disarray when winger Dave Wagstaffe pulled up with an even more debilitating hamstring strain, leaving Richards to labour away through what time remained of the ninety minutes, the spectre of extra-time now beginning to loom.
When a rare Wolverhampton attack resulted in a corner that City were unable to fully clear, Wolves skipper Mike Bailey maintained the pressure with a smart pass to Alan Sunderland whose low centre struck Marsh on the heel.
Cometh the moment (the 85th to be precise) cometh the front man par excellence – the ball rolling into the path of Richards who drilled home a fierce low shot from ten yards to decide the outcome and give Wolves their first major honour for fourteen years.
For my Dad his Wolves Wembley hat-trick had been completed, while on the strength of it the son breezed through the next few months of school, the World Cup of that summer arriving in a flash.
All this time later the memories forged that day can be summoned at mere mention of the League Cup and if my Dad can still recollect his first Wembley visit from a distance of seventy years, the mental images of mine in 1974 will last a lifetime.
So with the anniversary of the game once again falling on a Saturday this weekend will feel more poignant and nostalgic than most – and even if forty five isn’t a round number it is still a big one in context of the decades that have elapsed since we climbed into a Ford Corsair just before dawn broke on the morning of Saturday 2nd March 1974.
This Saturday afternoon my Dad and I will share a couple of long-distance telephone calls in discussing the half-time and full-time situations of the football taking place, although reference is sure to be made of where we once were on this day.
After saying our fond farewells we will both pause a moment to reflect not just on a cup final we saw in a time of economic hardship and political upheaval (which suddenly gives it contemporary connotations) but to remember the two close friends we attended with, a father and son of comparative ages to us, who were both tragically gone before the game was thirteen years into the past.
In the warmth of a Spanish evening I will then order a beer at a sea front café, reminiscing quietly with the break of every wave. When my attention span fails, as it inevitably will, I’ll join the other diners and drinkers in looking at my phone – thinking myself so superior in watching highlights of a football match from the 1970s as opposed to taking a photograph of an evening meal.
On second thoughts I will leave my phone at home – who needs videos on YouTube when you have memories.
This article was first published on 2/3/2019.
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NEIL SAMBROOK is the author of MONTY’S DOUBLE – an acclaimed thriller now available as an Amazon Kindle Book.
