March 1985 – Norwich, Sunderland, Wembley and the Milk Cup.
They all go hand in hand but while many City fans will have fond memories of Asa Hartford, Gordon Chisholm, Clive Walker and Chris Woods, I’ve got another reason to recall that great month for the Canaries.
Of course I was celebrating in front of the telly on Sunday March 24, 1985, but eight days earlier I had my very own Norwich v Sunderland cup final – I was a Carrow Road ballboy for the dress rehearsal in the league.
Saturday March 16, 1985 was always going to be a special day for me – I woke up that morning to start celebrating my tenth birthday and, after a regular Saturday morning session of the athletics club at my school, Hingham Primary, we made our way to Norwich.
My school had been chosen some weeks earlier to provide ball boys for that game, long before Steve Bruce had secured City’s place at Wembley. It was a vital league match but the fact that the two clubs would meet in a cup final a week later made it all the more intriguing.
Twenty-five years on I have great memories of Carrow Road that season. I’d seen my first game four months earlier when City had demolished that season’s eventual Champions Everton 4-2. That game was just a few weeks after the old Main Stand had burnt down.
Health and safety rules weren’t then what they are now – after saying goodbye to my parents and brother who went to take up their seats in the front few rows of the South Stand, myself and my nine school buddies were taken under the burnt out stand and shown what to do.
A Subbuteo pitch was laid out on milk crates and we were each given a position to take up, marked by a Subbuteo man. Mine was in front of the South Stand – incredibly, right in front of my parents.
I was given an extraordinarily sweet cup of tea and told to drink it quickly while the four boys positioned nearest the corners were given a special task – to carry the corner flags in after the game.
We then ran out across the pitch minutes before the game wearing tracksuits and carrying dark green wooden stools to sit on.
Sunderland’s fans were in their element with “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be, we’re going to Wemberlee” ringing out at the start of the match.
Sat on my stool in front of the South Stand I had one thought: ‘So are we’.
The players had a bit of a warm up just before kick-off and as I gazed around the ground from this new pitch-side view I suddenly was aware that one of the balls was rolling towards me.
I got off my stool and passed it about ten feet to Barry Venison, then 21 with his long blond hair flapping around in the chilly March breeze.
I thought I would be in for a busy afternoon but the reality was that was my only touch. My brother had cottoned on to the fact that I was sitting a few rows in front of him
“Come on Richards” he kept shouting during the game.
The match itself was pretty uneventful. I remember some great skill from Mick Channon creating a goal for John Deehan. Indeed there was far more drama off the pitch.
After the final whistle all us ball boys wandered in to the centre circle ready to swap stories of our day. One of my school pals had been in front of the Sunderland fans who would have been in the corner of the Barclay and revelled in showing us all the change he had in his pocket from the coin-throwing Wearsiders. Other friends had scooped up some of the cinders from around the track with used camera film cases to make their own keepsakes.
One of my presents that birthday was a green autograph book with pink and yellow pages. It was empty that morning but by the time we left the ground it was crammed full of signatures.
The players emerged from the yellow temporary changing rooms where the club shop is now situated one by one and I took great pleasure in getting the likes of Greg Downs, Peter Mendham and Sunderland’s Howard Gayle to sign it.
Last to come out was Dave Watson.
“Can you sign this please” I asked, handing him my book.
Without breaking stride he took my book and pen, signed both and kept walking.
He was surrounded by quite a few fans as he made his way into Strikers, the bar that’s now located where Squires is.
“Can I have my book back” I asked as he had one foot inside the door.
He laughed and passed it back – I thought he was going to walk off with my new prized possession.
They all go hand in hand but while many City fans will have fond memories of Asa Hartford, Gordon Chisholm, Clive Walker and Chris Woods, I’ve got another reason to recall that great month for the Canaries.
Of course I was celebrating in front of the telly on Sunday March 24, 1985, but eight days earlier I had my very own Norwich v Sunderland cup final – I was a Carrow Road ballboy for the dress rehearsal in the league.
Saturday March 16, 1985 was always going to be a special day for me – I woke up that morning to start celebrating my tenth birthday and, after a regular Saturday morning session of the athletics club at my school, Hingham Primary, we made our way to Norwich.
My school had been chosen some weeks earlier to provide ball boys for that game, long before Steve Bruce had secured City’s place at Wembley. It was a vital league match but the fact that the two clubs would meet in a cup final a week later made it all the more intriguing.
Twenty-five years on I have great memories of Carrow Road that season. I’d seen my first game four months earlier when City had demolished that season’s eventual Champions Everton 4-2. That game was just a few weeks after the old Main Stand had burnt down.
Health and safety rules weren’t then what they are now – after saying goodbye to my parents and brother who went to take up their seats in the front few rows of the South Stand, myself and my nine school buddies were taken under the burnt out stand and shown what to do.
A Subbuteo pitch was laid out on milk crates and we were each given a position to take up, marked by a Subbuteo man. Mine was in front of the South Stand – incredibly, right in front of my parents.
I was given an extraordinarily sweet cup of tea and told to drink it quickly while the four boys positioned nearest the corners were given a special task – to carry the corner flags in after the game.
We then ran out across the pitch minutes before the game wearing tracksuits and carrying dark green wooden stools to sit on.
Sunderland’s fans were in their element with “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be, we’re going to Wemberlee” ringing out at the start of the match.
Sat on my stool in front of the South Stand I had one thought: ‘So are we’.
The players had a bit of a warm up just before kick-off and as I gazed around the ground from this new pitch-side view I suddenly was aware that one of the balls was rolling towards me.
I got off my stool and passed it about ten feet to Barry Venison, then 21 with his long blond hair flapping around in the chilly March breeze.
I thought I would be in for a busy afternoon but the reality was that was my only touch. My brother had cottoned on to the fact that I was sitting a few rows in front of him
“Come on Richards” he kept shouting during the game.
The match itself was pretty uneventful. I remember some great skill from Mick Channon creating a goal for John Deehan. Indeed there was far more drama off the pitch.
After the final whistle all us ball boys wandered in to the centre circle ready to swap stories of our day. One of my school pals had been in front of the Sunderland fans who would have been in the corner of the Barclay and revelled in showing us all the change he had in his pocket from the coin-throwing Wearsiders. Other friends had scooped up some of the cinders from around the track with used camera film cases to make their own keepsakes.
One of my presents that birthday was a green autograph book with pink and yellow pages. It was empty that morning but by the time we left the ground it was crammed full of signatures.
The players emerged from the yellow temporary changing rooms where the club shop is now situated one by one and I took great pleasure in getting the likes of Greg Downs, Peter Mendham and Sunderland’s Howard Gayle to sign it.
Last to come out was Dave Watson.
“Can you sign this please” I asked, handing him my book.
Without breaking stride he took my book and pen, signed both and kept walking.
He was surrounded by quite a few fans as he made his way into Strikers, the bar that’s now located where Squires is.
“Can I have my book back” I asked as he had one foot inside the door.
He laughed and passed it back – I thought he was going to walk off with my new prized possession.
*This entry was published in the book City 'Til I Die in September 2010
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