It’s Good Friday and Morecambe’s football team should be in Devon today to face Exeter City at St James’ Park in League Two. By the time you read this, it could be that the season so far has been brought to a premature end because of the Coronavirus crisis. Alternatively, a meeting due later today between the EFL and its constituent clubs could consign the various competitions to the dustbin of history by being expunged from the record altogether. I hope not. Surely it would be fairer – particularly for run-away leaders of the National League, Barrow – just to act on the League Tables as they stand at this moment in time. Is Stevenage a better – or more deserving team – than the Bluebirds? I think not, personally: they are deservedly bottom and Barrer should never had been thrown out of the League in the first place (when they were given the boot during 1972, Stockport County were five points worse off than them and Crewe were rock-bottom with a massive eight points fewer…)
Anyway – as far as Morecambe fans are concerned, there is only one Memory Lane they would like to go down as far as Exeter City are concerned. What follows is my own recollection of this particular game…
“As soon as I got home again from Portugal, I went to Christie Park and bought the tickets for a trip to London.
Annie and me set off in her car at about half past six on the morning of Sunday 20th May 2007. A day that will live in infamy. There was literally nothing on the motorway going south until we reached J.34 at Lancaster. There, I moved into the middle lane to allow a large lumbering coach onto the inside lane of the M6. And this coach was stuffed full of Morecambe supporters. Annie thought it would be a larf to count the coaches we overtook on the way south. (If she hadn’t, I would have…)
We got to 21 when she fell asleep just short of Junction 15, where I meant to get off.
But I missed the junction because I was mesmerised by a flotilla of three relatively short coaches carrying disabled Morecambe supporters – mostly kids from what I could see – who were jumping up and down at the windows as if the best Christmas they have ever experienced was just about to arrive.
I know the feeling and – better still – it was…
I actually got off the M6 at Junction 15 and headed east. Beyond Stoke, I rang a geezer to arrange collection and payment for a guitar a mate of mine who we met at Wembley had recently bought on eBay. This happened at the Services at Castle Donnington – a place I have only ever been to once before in AA Daze: taking an RAC member who was in danger of being wiped out when her big Volvo ran out of fuel on the fast slip road approaching there quite late at night.
Money and a guitar were swapped. Annie and I drank strong coffee and soldiered on.
Via the M1 and M25 westwards (ok: anticlockwise) to Ruislip, where my own internet research had revealed we could take the Tube and thus avoid queues around the M1 and Wembley itself.
Once arrived (at about midday or maybe a bit later), we headed for Wembley Park, at which we arrived about 25 minutes before the game. In the meantime, we had encountered loads of Exeter supporters in the overground Underground station and had several ethnic encounters of an unusual kind. For us Northern hicks at least….
The first of these was at Ruislip Station. `Do they do returns?’ asked Annie, pragmatic as ever. I don’t think so. But they do…
“Are you not coming back?” asked the older (er – my age) Asian-looking ticket seller without any trace of irony. And sold us all-day tickets to go virtually wherever we wanted for less than the price of two standard returns…
Anyway, I was so nervous that I felt sick – my clammy hands shook as I drank the pint my mate for whom I had brought the guitar bought before the match and my armpits were cold and wet. In truth, I expected Morecambe to lose: I feared that the ex-League team would have too much experience for our lads. Also, their support outnumbered ours nearly 3-1. (It turned out that Morecambe also had the Unlucky Dressing Room: all the winning teams at Wembley had been allocated the other one so far…)
I didn’t know this at the time but it would have made no difference: in time-honoured fashion that I actually owe entirely to Morecambe FC, I hoped for the best but planned for the worst.
And the worst could be softened by the thought that at least a friend of mine who is a native of Exeter and her clan would be happy. So would a little lad I saw clad from head to foot in red and white Exeter gear as we left Wembley Park station: he was about 4, I would think: it would be an unforgettable day for him…
We had a drink at a posh hotel whose bar had been opened to the public next to the Tube Station… and then walked up to the new stadium. From a distance, this really is imposing. But the three of us decided it was not that extraordinary as we got nearer and nearer to it. Within, though, that all changed…
Polite Security bods lead us to our seats. I couldn’t believe it: the taciturn Southern woman I bought the tickets from at Christie Park gave me the first three seats that came to hand out of her roll of tickets – the only choice was behind the goal (£20) or side of the pitch (£25 for reasons totally lost on me). But the three we turned out to have got consisted of one seat on its own directly behind the corner flag on the right-hand side of the pitch from our point of view (with the dugouts and presentation balcony also on the right beyond it). And two others on the second row of the enclosure. My mate Dave sat on the single seat. Annie and I sat behind him on two seats slightly to his right. Comfortable. Fantastic view. No obstructions to spoil anything. We sat there and took in the atmosphere, all thoughts of the stadium being a tad disappointing well and truly dispelled: it’s a million percent better than the old one.
Over 45,000 people watched what was about to happen: Wembley was about half full.
This was the largest crowd ever for a Conference Final – it means nothing; most if not all of the others have been held on League grounds that couldn’t hold so many spectators…
Whatever, there was a fantastic feeling within the stadium. Our end was packed: 60+ coaches from Morecambe and lots of people like us who had made their way there under their own steam. Dark blue Morecambe balloons were everywhere and many people had blue shirts and/or scarves as well to suit the occasion: as if other portents weren’t already bad enough, Morecambe had also drawn the short straw and were wearing their away strip today.
At the other end, Exeter’s support was so massive that two tiers of the stadium were partially full. Their team sported red and white vertically striped shirts as a result of winning the Home Strip Toss as well…
The teams came out in brilliant sunshine (even that couldn’t have been better: this summer has been wet, wet wet even in London and it rained the next day there…) to a cacophony of noise reflected back by the specially designed concave (convex?) windows at the top of the terraces. The usual ceremonies went on – the players shaking hands; the National Anthem etc etc etc. And then we were off…
Morecambe were defending the end where we were sitting. Behind us and at the other end of the ground, huge screens showed the coverage of Sky, which my kids were watching in the Merchants in Lancaster: their text messages increased the excitement…
It was fairly even early doors but it was an open, attacking game right from the start. After about 16 minutes, Morecambe conceded a free-kick, Exeter took the ball down the right, their winger drew Chris Blackburn (or `Jesus’ if you prefer: this gentleman sports a big beard and long hair) into a sliding tackle, pulled the ball backwards once he’d gone to ground and slithered past, looked up and spotted the Grecian No.9 Lee Phillips unmarked in the box and plonked a cross straight onto his head.
1-0 to City. (I know the minutiae of this move because I’ve watched it millions of times since on YouTube and then subsequently on two DVDs of the game I have bought on eBay.) At the time, all I remember was seeing Blackburn sliding over the goal line and the ball in the air before Phillips headed it unchallenged into the net.
Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.
But – as had been the case against York City in the semi-final, going behind seemed to galvanise Morecambe because for the rest of the half, there was only one team in it. (Having said that, Exeter could have gone 2-0 up but for a good save and not such a good attempt from Exeter not long after they scored.) Paul Jones in the Grecian goal had all the work to do – and did it really well, apart from punching the ball against one of his own defenders at one point; fortunately for Exeter, the ball rebounded away from goal: it could have all too easily have gone in. But even Jones couldn’t stop Danny Carlton being flattened in the box by the Exeter City Captain. Penalty, Ref! He gave it straight away and I mean – it was a dead-cert equaliser, wasn’t it? Especially as Wayne Curtis was to take it – Wayne never misses…
Except today – Jones blocked his first attempt and threw himself at the rebound; the ball clipped his heel and was deflected for a corner. He didn’t know much about it but you have to admit, he had earned his luck with his performance so far.
(Only Wayne himself knows if this is true but – eighteen months later – I have read that he has gone down in history as the first player ever to miss a penalty at the new Wembley. This may not have affected his confidence at all: but there again…)
Dave turned to me at this point and suggested that this could be a psychological blow that would floor Morecambe. “It could equally spur them on!” I said – and luckily, so it was to prove. It continued to be one-way traffic and I can honestly say at this point that I was sure Morecambe were going to win. It was no surprise (although a tremendous relief) when, following a ball simply hoofed forward from the back by Centre Half Jim Bentley, Exeter’s full-back made a hash of a clearance when hounded by Garry Thompson who coolly lobbed the ball over Jones and via the underside of the crossbar into the net.
We went nuts…
It was a good time to score – only a few minutes before half time. But equalising seemed to re-double the team’s efforts: I think Exeter were beginning to hold on even before Morecambe made things all-square.
And so it carried on at the beginning of the second half, which was great because most of the first 45 minutes’ action had been at the far end of the ground from our point of view. But after about five minutes or so, I felt that the match was beginning to swing. Morecambe had less and less of the ball; the Grecians started to make chance after chance. Nothing spectacular; no last-ditch defending or anything like that and I can’t remember Davis (Morecambe’s 20 year old goalie) making any saves. The only time my heart was in my mouth was when he made a hoofed clearance himself. In the first half, he’d cleared his lines by booting the ball from the deck several times. And on each occasion, an onrushing Exeter forward had got nearer and nearer to making an interception. This time, it actually happened and it was sheer luck that the ball spun off his body harmlessly wide. As the half wore on, Morecambe attacks became fewer and far between and the game was increasingly being played in their – ok, our half. Oh heck. With about ten minutes left, Morecambe broke down the right and I think it was Thompson who slung a wasted cross over in the general direction of Danny Carlton – and the latter’s response was not encouraging: he swore at Thommo and gesticulated. Oh dear, I thought – that’s the sign of a team beginning to run out of adrenaline. Personally, I was just hoping that Morecambe would survive until the 90th minute – I hoped that Sammy McIlroy would be able to rouse the troops for extra time.
Which shows what I know…
With just seven minutes left, Exeter were attacking again. From where I was sitting, all I remember seeing was a familiar line of Morecambe defenders’ heads moving the ball across the penalty area and away from danger. Next moment, the ball was in the air, headed for the Exeter half. Two defenders moved towards the left to cover it but Danny Carlton (as, to be fair to him, he had been doing all afternoon) beat them to it, swerved to his left and carried the ball towards the right hand edge of the penalty area from our point of view as one defender stuck with him and the other floundered in his wake. He looked like he meant business – and he did – from about 30 yards out, he unleashed an unstoppable shot into the top right-hand corner of the net as seen from where we were sitting.
Time stood still: BANG!… it flies through the air for an eternity… is it in the net?
It IS!!!!!
And it was…
What a goal! What a way to win a game! What a way to win a final! What a Wembley Way! What a…
Seven minutes left. Eleven with injury time. Where did all that come from?
Interestingly, the only things the screens at Wembley didn’t show replays of were argy-bargy. And there was some: the Exeter Captain (Todd, I think) committed an appalling foul right in front of us in the first half which led to Bentley shoving the culprit: something the latter could have been sent off for doing in an `ordinary’ match. In the 90th minute, their No.4 (someone called Gill) used his elbow to flatten our Craig Stanley with a pretty hefty lunge into his neck from behind. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he then nutted Craig as the latter leapt to his feet to complain. Right in front of the referee. Who sent the stupid bastard off – I hope he’s not slept since because he let everyone from Exeter down. There was a bit of a fracas after this incident in which Christmas Cards were not exchanged. But at the time, I think all three of us were totally oblivious: I didn’t see the red card; I didn’t notice No.4 leave the pitch. But there again, I didn’t see McIlroy famously slip and fall over after Carlton’s goal only to be bear-hugged and thrown to the ground again by huge full-back Danny Adams…
These images – which I at least didn’t see at the time – will live forever thanks to television coverage…
It was sheer euphoria afterwards. Even now – over a month later – I simply can’t believe it: my childhood heroes actually in the Football League…
The presentations and laps of honour went on for ages but we finally left the arena, bumping into lots of local faces.
Outside, the Exeter City fans took it on the chin: there was no trouble and I heard one of them on a mobile phone telling someone Morecambe deserved to win. On the tube back to Ruislip, Exeter supporters got on and saw my own and other Morecambe shirts and one of them said to me “Well done – you were the better team!”
Wow! – what a contrast to those Dartford scumbags nearly a quarter of a century earlier…
(After Morecambe’s very first Football League game against Barnet, Annie and I were shopping in Booth’s supermarket here in Carnforth and bumped into an Exeter City supporter. He and his young son had just been to Altrincham to see the Grecians win 1-4. And virtually the first thing he said about the Play-Off Final was `Morecambe were the better team on the day – and what a goal to win any match!’ So I let go of his throat… But seriously though, I really am impressed by the way Exeter’s support generally seemed to take defeat on the chin and I wish them well for this season at least…)
We had another drink to celebrate afterwards and then drove back Oop North. Even the appalling traffic on the M25 and M1 to Luton didn’t spoil the feeling of euphoria we both had and we got home at just before One.
Morecambe in the League…
It isn’t possible.
Annie and my kids came with Yours Truly to attend a victory procession the week after the final: Morecambe was packed. Loads of people have bought season tickets for their inaugural season, me among them (£234 before July 1).
Danny Carlton’s last act as a Morecambe player – er, a Morecambe Non-League player as things were to turn out – was to score the winning goal at Wembley: he has departed subsequently for Carlisle. Chris Blackburn may be on his way to Swindon.
Will we prosper?
Time will tell but hope lives eternal in the Morecambe breast…”
