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CHELSEA v MIDDLESBROUGH BLAST FROM THE PAST
Chelsea. Forget your Abramovich's, your over-paid prima-donnas and your ridiculous ticket prices- there are many more reasons to hate the west Londoners.
The ZDS Cup Final anyone? THAT FA Cup Final? Dennis Wise? Precisely. And why is it we always seem to play them in games when it matters, thus intensifying the intensity of the encounter?
After all, Boro Chelsea has always been a charged fixture, often more like a local derby than one between teams on opposite sides of the country. Indeed there has been little love lost between the two sides throughout the years and some very memorable games have resulted from it. Some of your memories therefore provide a very fitting testament.
Andrew Morgan
Middlesbrough 0-0 Chelsea, 14/04/1999
The season 1998-1999- the one and only time I have ever had a season ticket. And after enduring the likes of Villa, Leicester and Tottenham in three exciting consecutive 0-0 draws earlier in the season, my teenage mouth was salivating at the thought of witnessing the big three for the first time in my life; Arsenal, Man Utd and first, Chelsea- a perfect footballing feast to end the season, with prawn sandwiches included.
Yet for me this match was more important for what I was missing rather than what I was going to see. It was a mid-week game, a rearranged fixture (I can't remember why now) and on the box was Man United versus Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final replay. Back then I was a big football fan, a Boro fan at heart but any match, anywhere and I would watch it- not like now, when the thought of Fulham versus Portsmouth quite frankly leaves me wanting to grout the tiling in my bathroom, or fill in the gaps in Pompey's defence using the aforementioned grout.
Either way I wanted to catch both games and the (cynical) newspaper build up focussing on the semi-final only made me want to see that game more. In the end however, my heart won out- Boro first and foremost (plus I had already paid for the ticket) so off I went with my uncle into the surprisingly cold mid-April night to catch a glimpse of Gianluca Viali's beautiful bald head.
I don't know if I should have bothered. The match itself was a non-event, I think Dennis Wise hit the post or something but beyond that we held them pretty comfortably without doing too much ourselves. But this is not the reason why I remember the game. This was the time when Graham Rix was in the papers about his relationship with an under-age girl, along with the (unrelated) rumours that were flying around about Greame Le Saux's sexuality.
And the fans did not need an excuse to torture both men mercilessly. Indeed the next day, the national press spent more time talking about the barracking that Le Saux got that night than on the match itself- although whether that was testament to how dry the match or how powerful the rhetoric in the Boro fans' singing was, is difficult to say. Suffice to say that being a 16 year old fan, I found all this highly amusing, much to the annoyance of my family once I started joining in with the barracking (indeed this may have been the first time I have ever sang at a match as well- not that mean a feat considering I was in the SW Corner where to raise a voice beyond whisper is to invoke the disapproval of Mr. and Mrs. Prude of Yarm with their teenage grandson, Billy). This continued throughout the first half until we all got bored and gave up. The players had given up some 30 minutes previously.
0-0 then, and a satisfactory result all told, nothing spectacular but a pleasant feeling nonetheless. Leaving the Boro and listening to Five Live in the car we heard Alan Green screeching in near-orgasm about a 'wonder-goal' that Ryan Giggs had just scored in extra-time against Arsenal in the F.A. Cup semi-final. I remember feeling annoyed I had missed it, a feeling that only intensified upon seeing it on the news the next day. That goal or a dull 0-0 against Chelsea.
Well the Boro should always take priority I thought, but on that day, for the one and only time in my life, I wished I had watched Giggs' run live and not been at the Riverside. But then to be in the middle of that anti-Rix/Le Saux maelstrom maybe you did just have to be there. Nothing beats live football I suppose, particularly when it's tinged with bile.
Steve Goldby
Middlesbrough 7-2 Chelsea, 16/12/1978
It's always good to see the big names fall but when Peter Osgood's Chelsea went in at half time with a 1-0 lead, it didn't look too good for Boro.
This was an extraordinary game because we were outclassed in the first half. But when John Neal's men came out for the second, everything changed. Eight goals in forty-five minutes, seven of them to Boro and four for Micky Burns, who teamed up with Terry Cochrane to form the most potent strike force that I can recall seeing in Boro shirts.
Cochrane slaughtered the Chelsea defence that day and every time Boro got the ball in that magical second half, you could see a goal coming.
And most of the time, it did come. I was in what was then known as The Boy's End, which was opposite The Holgate, on the same side as the Away Supporter's End. A Chelsea fan, a stereotypical skinhead thug who was clearly incensed at the thrashing that his team was receiving, broke out of the away end, made his way along the touchline and stood at the foot of The Boy's End making threats and being generally aggressive.
This guy was big. Really big- and I was a little nervous, to say the least. I do not support football violence in any way, shape or form but what happened next will never ever leave my memory. As the big Chelsea nutter stood there waving his fists at us, a Boro fan jumped over the barrier and just smacked him one and down he went, like the sack of shit that he was. The Boro fan got a cheer that was almost as big as the one that Terry Cochrane got when Boro's glorious seventh went hurtling into the roof of the net. A wonderful, wonderful day.
And now those games when, for 90 minutes, only one thing seemed to matter. Beat the Londoners at ALL costs as it would be the start of something big.
Harry Haverton
Chelsea 1-0 Middlesbrough (agg. 1-2), Play-off Final 2nd leg, 28/05/1988
For my favourite Chelsea memory, I will have to take you right back to Boro's second season in existence.
No, not 1878 but 1988. I'm not that old, you know. The background is that Boro had gone bust two seasons earlier, woken up in the old third division, got promoted in their first season and were now in the play-offs for a place in the top flight.
But the play-offs were different back then. It was the nearly teams from the second division and the third bottom of the first who contested it, and Boro got into the final against first division Chelsea.
There were no rich Russians in those days. Or any poor ones for that matter and it didn't cost forty-eight quid to get in either.
We won the first leg 2-0 at Ayresome in a grizzly encounter and had high hopes for the return. It was a rough affair with the tackles flying in hard, blood and guts everywhere and no quarter at all from the officials. And that was just on the tube to the ground.
At the match, the atmosphere was hostile, the aggressive Chelsea crowd antagonising the Boro support and the action on the pitch matching that in the terraces. Boro held on bravely to finish 1-0 and take the tie on aggregate and mark a welcome return to top-flight status.
But the Chelsea lads weren't through yet. I was all set for leaving the ground as quickly as possible but when the Chelsea fans made a rush for the away end, en masse, it became impossible.
The battle on the pitch and in the terraces was frightening but strangely exhilarating as well. Difficult to say who won but as we took the tie and dumped Chelsea out of the top flight, I think we have every right to claim victory for the scrap as well.
The Wizard of Smog
Chelsea 1-0 Middlesbrough (agg. 1-2), Play-off Final 2nd leg, 28/05/1988
Out of many, the stand-out is the play-off game at Stamford Bridge. The play-off was for a place in the (old) First Division, i.e. the top flight. The first division team finishing third or fourth bottom (Chelsea) played the winners of a knock-out tournament for the teams finishing third to sixth in the second division (which Boro won), over two legs. The winners would start the next season in the First Division, the losers, the second.
It was a really hot day.
We'd won at Ayresome 2-0 so I think most of us, despite the natural defensive pessimism of the long term Boro fan, thought we were going to do it. Certainly where we were drinking before the game, despite everyone being acceptably cautious, the atmosphere belied the words- we were there to party!
On to the tube (we'd been drinking with MSS in Holborn) and when we got to Earl's Court there were lots of Chelsea around and the atmos was starting to crackle. And not in a good way. I'd gone with a Scots friend, a Jags fan. On the tube he fell into a conversation with a Chelsea fan. I attempted to join in a couple of times but the guy wouldn't acknowledge me, wouldn't even look at me. He kept glancing in my direction but was careful not to catch my eye and I could hear the adrenaline thickening his throat, making him choke on his words almost, so I shrugged and gave up. I realised then that this wasn't going to be a normal day.
Walking up to the ground from Fulham Broadway, we were part of a big group and we had a big police escort. Chelsea were pouring out of the pubs and screaming at us as we passed- standard 80's shit I'd seen a thousand times before and yet there was something less ritualistic and more visceral about them than normal, you looked at some of them and they were, to use the sportsman's term, zoned, oblivious to anything but the job in hand- which was screaming death threats at me. Wasn't scared but I was...dunno...impressed I guess.
Younger readers will be astonished to learn that for this almost unbearably important game, I bought my ticket on the gate! That's how low the game had sank in the 80's. We were on the terrace behind the goal at the north end, opposite the Shed (which was still there then) at the south end, where away fans go now. There was a big perimeter between the fans and the pitch back then, it felt like you were miles from the game, and there was no roof. The sun was fierce by now and I envied the people in the stands their shelter. The only bit of the ground that's still there from that day is the east stand, now the Matthew Harding stand, to our left.
The game was impossible. They scored first half and the tension second half was so bad. I literally didn't see the last twenty minutes. But we held out. We were up!
On the final whistle the team came over to us clapping, dancing, etc. Some Boro fans scaled the fence (we were caged in those days) and joined them on the pitch to celebrate. I think that was a goad too far for some Chelsea fans. There was a breach in the fence at the shed end (reports varied as to how, but the one that had a steward deliberately opening it rang true for me, of which more later) and 400-500 or so came streaming through towards us.
More of them ran round the back of the Matthew Harding stand and emerged on the corner terrace to our left; it had emptied quickly on 90 minutes but now started to refill with wannabe murderers. The Boro players sprinted off quick for the dressing rooms and none were hurt. While all that was happening, the Chelsea in the Matthew Harding's upper level were shotting coins at us, hard and from a height. I got a 10p (for the youngsters, in those days it was only slighter smaller and lighter than the 50p is now, quite a substantial coin) on the collar bone, which stung. I've still got the coin.
Anyway the police regained control of the terrace to our left quickly but the Chelsea on the pitch were starting to climb the fence in front of us. People were coining them, jumping up and battering their fingers, anything to stop them- it was proper mediaeval for a couple of minutes. The ones who got to the top looked behind to see how much support they had coming, then looked down at the Boro waiting for them, and thought better of it. That was the turning point, their momentum was lost and the police got them shot out fairly soon after. There were sporadic incidents for a few minutes but that was basically that.
Oh yes the stewards - hoolies in hiviz tabards mate, nothing more or less. At least one (he was distinctive looking, long blond hair and green checked shirt is how I spotted him) pulled off his steward's tabard and was one of those climbing the fence. He'd also attempted to hit one of the Boro fans on the pitch. As we were leaving another steward, totally contorted with anger, said "Go on, fuck off to the First Division where you don't fucking belong". That might have turned nasty but instead we laughed long and hard in his stupid, ugly face the fucking Chelsea tramp. He was in tears as I went past him.
One thing I never found out was how the Boro fans who'd got over the fence to celebrate with the team ever got away. I wonder if they went to the changing rooms with the players?
Once order was firmly restored the team came back out and we had a sing and dance with them, which was cool. I shook the hand of one but I'm buggered if I can remember who!
I'm told there was trouble at Notting Hill tube later but I never saw it, I'm glad to say. When I got in I saw that the sun had burned my right side so I had a very Boro half red/half white face! Marvellous.
So that was a day.
Big Shot
Chelsea 2-0 Middlesbrough, FA Cup Final, 17/05/1997
The FA Cup Final. the flaming FA CUP FINAL!!! Having watched every cup final since I could remember on TV, we had finally made it. The Boro in the FA Cup final, I could hardly believe it!
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As tradition always seems to dictate, the weather was beautiful that day. If you want good weather on your wedding day, get married on Cup Final day. Emerging from the tube station and starting to walk up Wembley Way, I was overwhelmed by the colour and the atmosphere of Red and Blue, London and Teesside, North and South. I'd been to Wembley before for England matches but this seemed so much better and so different.
Whilst walking up towards the Twin Towers, I was caught up in the atmosphere and sense of occasion, and allowed myself to get a bit sentimental. I started to think about those Boro fans, like my grandfather, who had supported the Boro for donkey's years in packed Ayresome crowds but who hadn't lived to see anything like this. What wouldn't they have given to have seen this or been here in their lifetimes?
Then, as if the day wasn't special enough already, who did I notice walking not more than half a dozen paces in front of me, but Wilf Mannion. I wasn't the only one to notice him and the chant immediately went up: "ONE WILFY MANNION, THERE'S ONLY ONE WILFY MANNION!".
Dozens were joining in and all the Golden Boy could do was to smile (slightly embarrassedly), raise his hand in acknowledgement and carry on walking. A legend.
Getting into Wembley, I had no inclination to hang around on the concourse even though there was still almost 30 minutes to kick-off - I wanted to be in my seat and soaking up the atmosphere. And I wasn't disappointed- it was special. I've now got to come clean and say that I did have a tear or two in my eye as I sat and surveyed the stadium; I was about to watch the Boro play in the final of the oldest and most famous club competition in the world.
As the clock ticked down, the atmosphere started to build and build and then 'HERE WE GO' the teams came out. The roar of the crowd was incredible!
Now at some point during the start of the royal line-up, I heard a chant start somewhere behind me. I concentrated trying to pick out what it was. Within seconds it had swept throughout all the Boro fans down to my position in the second row.
"THREE POINTS, THREE POINTS, THREE POINTS, THREE POINTS..."
Everyone had joined in, right arms extended signalling the three points to Graham Kelly and his motley crew of old farts. It is one of those moments I will never forget for the rest of my life. The word 'poignant' does not even remotely do it justice.
Then on to the match itself. Well what can you say? I had barely settled down into my seat before Chelsea picked the ball up from an Emerson mistake. Di Matteo advanced and advanced but no one picked him up and then BANG... he smashed it from a full 30 yards straight at Ben Roberts. But Roberts (not being the tallest keeper) couldn't keep it out. The statisticians will tell you that it hit the back of the Boro net 43 seconds into the match. I was stunned.
The bloke next to me, showing himself to be a master of the Teesside art of understatement, could only utter the words "Oh God, we could have done without that".
The rest of the match was a blur: Ravanelli limping off after 24 minutes, Boro working hard but never really getting back into the match, a moment's hope when Festa scored at the end of the first half (but ruled offside), Juninho getting marked out of the game and then right at the death, getting caught on the break and Newton scoring.
So, that was that then. The dream was over. We weren't going to watch Pearson climb the steps and hoist the trophy in the air after all. Although, as we'd never really been in the match and I'd had pretty much the full 90 minutes to get used to the idea, I wasn't as gutted as I had been about losing to Leicester in the League Cup Final earlier that season.
I stayed to watch the lads collect their medals (Hignett appeared inconsolable) and Chelsea lift the trophy. And then to the tune of "Blue Day" by Suggs (I haven't listened to a Madness record since) I made my way out of the stadium and home.
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