Four Seasons in One Year - Smiling as the sh*t comes down… Well, if you don’t laugh, you’ll probably cry

 
1996 was actually quite a tumultuous year in modern history. Looking back through the history books (or Wikipedia as it now known), it looks like the world was starting to go slightly mad. There were wars and conflicts sparking or re-igniting all over the place, with the Middle East and Africa making the most smoke. Osama Bin Laden declared a Jihad on US presence in Saudi Arabia; civil war erupted in Chechnya, where the lines between terrorism and rebellion became blurred to many observers.

Massacres and bombings weren’t the reserve of these areas, however, with horrific shootings occurring in America, Australia and a primary school in a Scottish town called Dunblane. A bomb went off during the Olympic games in Atlanta, Georgia, the IRA bombed Canary Wharf to end their fragile ceasefire, and the aviation industry had a terrible year with planes crashing with indecent regularity.

Cinema-goers seemed to get an appetite for destruction with films like “Independence Day” and “Twister” topping the box-office. The public’s music tastes included “Killing Me Softly” by The Fugees, and “Wannabe” by the newly-manufactured, squeaky-clean Spice Girls, a definite sign of emerging insanity if ever there was one. 

The world of sport was an interesting and welcome diversion. There were the Olympic Games in Atlanta, of course, and a British driver triumphed in Formula 1, with Damon Hill taking the World Championship. In international football, England hosted the European Championships, and the home team, roared on by Skinner and Baddiel’s infectious anthem, went agonisingly close to exorcising the demons of the last 40 years, but once again being denied in a penalty shoot-out by the Germans. A certain Gareth Southgate became the latest tear-soaked fall guy as Andreas Moller strutted like a peacock in need of a good slapping. And then there was the start of THAT season.

Boro had enjoyed a reasonably good first season back in the Premier League, and any season that didn’t involve a protracted relegation battle was deemed to be good. I was seriously considering buying a season ticket myself, and the decision to do so was made quite simple when Boro announced the signings of Emerson and Fabrizio Ravanelli. I heard the news of the latter transfer coup on the radio as I left work one summer evening, just as I drove through the gates at the Wilton petrochemical site. It was stunning news; a renowned European Cup-winning striker coming to the Boro. I was shocked, and couldn’t imagine how other, longer-term fans must have felt on hearing that news.

The anticipation for the new season became unbearable. Everyone at work was buzzing and looking forward to the Boro actually challenging for major honours. The fact that the team had an embarrassment of riches up front and in midfield but hadn’t significantly strengthened the defence didn’t seem to bother anyone. Yet.

So on a hot and sunny Saturday, the 17th August 1996, I took my seat in the South East corner of the Riverside stadium, relishing the prospect of seeing a whole season of excitement and maybe even history. The opening fixture was against Liverpool, who everyone knew were going to give us a good game and hopefully provide some early clues as to how the team were going to fare.

No-one was disappointed.

The game ebbed and flowed, Liverpool took the lead three times, but Boro fought back to level, earning a 3-3 draw, and the new players showed what we had in store. Ravanelli was the silver-haired star attraction with his debut hat-trick, getting the chance to do his famous shirt-over-head-look-at-this-six-pack-ladies celebration three times. Emerson showed muscular power and elegant poise in the midfield, his enormous mane of hair glistening in the afternoon sun as he put himself about with fearsome strength - I swear I heard the smack up in row 24 as a hapless, weedy Liverpool midfielder bounced off him in one passage of play - before pinging perfect passes out to the wing or up to the front men. Juninho looked even better with quality players round him. The crowd were in raptures. This was very, very promising, despite the 3 goals conceded.

The party atmosphere continued as we left the stadium, and I passed a group of men at the Bridge Inn singing about how, “when the White Feather scores, you can hear Boro roar…RAVANELLI!” to the tune of “That’s Amore”.

A 1-0 away defeat to Chelsea was followed by a 1-1 draw away to Forest before I got the chance to see the team again, at home to West Ham in early September. In that game, and the following midweek fixture against Coventry, Boro played some sparkling football the like of which had never been seen - and rarely seen since - by the team in red and white. Both visiting teams were destroyed by a rampant strike force. Ravanelli and Juninho linked beautifully and even Robbie Mustoe got in on the act with a goal. If the anticipation had been in orbit before, it was on it’s way to Alpha friggin’ Centauri now.

A 2-1 victory away to Everton did little to reduce it, and by mid-September, Boro were in the top four of the Premier League again, hoping that this time they could stick around. Even the media were sitting up and taking notice of these flashy upstarts. In the meantime, Boro were making quiet progress through the early rounds of the Coca-Cola Cup with consummate ease, slamming in hat-loads of goals against the likes of Hereford and Huddersfield. Promising wasn’t even close: Boro were in dreamland. 

It’s hard to put a finger on where it started to go wrong. Nigel Pearson suffering a serious injury didn’t help matters, particularly in a defence so reliant on his leadership, and teams started to suss out the pattern of play. Arsenal brutally exposed the frailties of the side in the next home game by stifling the creative play in midfield. They left with a 2-0 win and the first cracks started to show. Ravanelli became a frustrated figure, taking out his anger at the linesmen who flagged him offside or the team-mate who failed to tee him up. For the first time I was getting a sense of what life is really like for long-suffering Boro fans…short bursts of hope followed by long periods of crushing disappointment; the stab to the heart as the away fans cheer another goal, the awful sight of their air-punching making me feel slightly nauseous; the long, torturous trudge back to the car in the biting docklands wind…

A 4-0 mauling at Southampton was followed by a hard-fought 2-2 draw at Roker Park, where Emerson answered the disgusting monkey chants from a section of the home support with one his specialty net-rippers.

The league form had nose-dived and there wasn’t another win to celebrate until boxing day, when Everton were beaten 4-2 at home with more magic from The Little Fella.

This didn’t seem to worry people too much, however, because the League Cup form was still very good. Newcastle were given a football lesson and beaten 3-1 as Juninho ran them ragged, and Liverpool were sent tumbling out of the competition 2-1. Before we knew it, we were in the League Cup semi-finals, and only - yes, only - Stockport County stood between Middlesbrough and a Wembley final. It had to be written in the stars, right?

Not even a dreadful, insipid 2-0 defeat at home to Leicester City was raising any eyebrows.

The next away game, or lack of it, was to become the moment that defined the season. An already injury-affected team was decimated by a virus, leaving squad options for the away game at Blackburn looking terribly limited.

If they had managed to pull a team together to play, it would have consisted almost entirely of junior players. Rather than field a team of this nature and face a drubbing, the club management attempted to obtain official dispensation to postpone the fixture, but something apparently went wrong with a moustache and a fax machine and the club were left facing sanction from the Premier League for failing to fulfil a fixture. The eventual sanction imposed was a 3 point deduction, and this was upheld as being “just and fair” despite an appeal by the club supported by a top-ranking barrister. Yer jokin’ aren’t yer?