The following weekend we drove to Manchester for the FA Cup semi-final against Second Division Chesterfield at Old Trafford. Boro were red-hot favourites to reach their second cup final of the season, but things were never going to run that smoothly. The cup always throws up surprises, and we were nearly another victim of a giant-killing. For a moment, I felt sitting there in the huge main stand of Old Trafford and supporting Boro, stranger still to watch the Chesterfield fans, most of who were probably at the only game theyâd ever been to in their life, trying to goad Boro fans with oh-so-original chants of, âgoing down, going down, going down!â I didnât feel so smug when Chesterfield raced into a 2-0 lead. Boro seemed to freeze in the headlights, and worse was to come as Vladimir Kinder got red-carded for fouling the young Kevin Davies (heâll be back). It was looking pretty grim, but somehow, the team got their shit together and dragged us back into it. We survived a horrible moment when David Ellary, the referee, decided to deny the âSpireitesâ what looked like a perfectly legitimate goal for a reason only he knows, but took charge of the game, going into a 3-2 lead in extra time with a Festa goal. We felt sure weâd be going to Wembley again, but for the second week running, there was to be a late twist and Chesterfield snatched a last-minute equaliser. I left the stadium feeling numb. This couldnât be happening.
Another replay, then, and we saw off Chesterfield 3-0 in the end, but the league fixtures were now piling up thanks to the cup runs. In April, there was a flurry of games, but the form dipped again just when wins were sorely needed. A rain-sodden night at Old Trafford saw Boro leading Manchester United 3-1 with some absolutely stunning play, but they were pegged back to 3-3. There was a frustrating 0-0 with Blackburn in the re-arranged, apparently illegally-postponed fixture, a 1-1 draw with fellow strugglers Nottingham Forest, and another horrible local derby against Sunderland, which ended 1-0 to the Mackems. In the last home game of the season we played Aston Villa, needing a win to have any chance of staying up. I had to leave early to travel to a family gathering in Scotland, and had to pull myself away from a nail-biting game that was poised at 2-2 as I left the stadium. I missed Ravanelliâs dramatic late winner from the penalty spot.
It was all down the last game. We still had a chance, but would have to beat Leeds United at Elland Road, and that was not going to be easy. Leeds were another club with which there was no love loss, given the Yorkshire connection (oh no, donât say Middlesbrough is in Yorkshire, thatâs asking for a 200-post internet debate), so they werenât likely to do us any favours. Coventry, Sunderland and Forest were also in the danger zone, but our fate was in our hands.
I watched the game on Sky Sports. It was nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching and everything else that youâd come to expect from a relegation decider. Given the circumstances, Boro played OK, and even managed to come back from 1-0 down (Brian bloody Deane AGAIN) to level, but we just couldnât find the winning goal. Beck missed a sitter, and our fate was sealed. The season that had started so well had ended with the awful reality of relegation back to Football League Division One, along with Forest and Sunderland. I was devastated, and the players looked shell-shocked on TV. Juninho sat on the turf, his head bowed and in tears; a small, dejected figure oblivious to the sickening schadenfreude raining down from the terraces. It was well-known that he would probably be on his way to another club now, and all I could think of was what could have been. We could and should have survived and got even more world-class players in during the summer. We could and should have probably played that Blackburn game, got heavily beaten, and still survived. If only Heskey hadnât scored, because Iâm convinced that took the wind out of our sails for the rest of the seasonâŚ.so many if and ands and pots and pansâŚbut no glory. It was my first taste of this kind of pain, but Iâm sure it doesnât get any easier however many times it happens.
The FA Cup Final was a waste of time, in the end. I travelled by coach this time, unable to afford another weekend on the lash in London. At the stadium I sat in my seat and tried to enjoy the Cup Final atmosphere with the military band and the singing of âAbide With Meâ, but it all felt a little flat, to be honest. Boro fans roused themselves to make their point about the deduction of the three points to the FA dignitaries as they dragged their suited carcasses away from their comfy executive seats onto the pitch to meet the players. Later on the radio, some pompous arse tried to make out we had been chanting, âSeig Heil,â rather than, âThree Points.â The game itself was over after 40-odd seconds when Roberto Di Matteo was given the freedom of London to pick his spot from 30 yards and launch the ball over the despairing dive of Ben Roberts and into the net. A wrongly-disallowed Festa goal only served to irritate as Chelsea went on to win 2-0 and take the cup. It wasnât really a surprise. The coach journey home was long and quiet, punctuated by freakish lightning storms on the M1.
There was an open-top bus parade through the town centre a week after the cup final. It obviously wasnât a victory parade, more a thank you to fans. The crowds came along and waved at their fallen heroes, wondering if theyâd ever see the likes of Ravanelli and Emerson again, and wondering where Juninho was. I hoped that he just couldnât bear the thought of saying good-bye to the fans he had made such a connection with.
So that was the season that was, and there was enough in it to fill four seasons. The dream that had begun with a bang ended with a nightmarish whimper, like the last bit of air coming out of a balloon. Boro had to face the next season in the second tier and would probably face it without most of the great players they had bought. What hurt most about it all was the sense of injustice over the three point fiasco. We felt that our little club had been singled out and made an example of. Whilst there was great sadness, lurking beneath there was a feeling that we had to roll our sleeves up, dust ourselves down and bounce back. Boro had come back from the dead in â86, hadnât they?
As for me⌠well I wasnât put off supporting them in the slightest. There was no way I was giving up on them. I was still in the honeymoon period, even if I was married to a rollercoaster addict.
