Night Out
Paul Hughes goes to a special footie tournament…
Well, no matter how bad things seem, Welsh international football has had
some good times over the years. No, seriously. We have had the occasional glimpses of brilliance in between
the barren normality of mediocrity and, Urhm, ‘playing for pride’ or ‘UEFA
seedings’ - and still losing at home. So, onto the magic eight minutes...Remember Ian Rush scoring against the World Champions
(West) Germany? (Although that did not occur with just eight minutes remaining, I
think). What about the victory in Denmark recently? There could well have been about eight minutes between the Coleman and Bellamy goals. No, that’s
not the answer I’m after either. Wales' finest footballing moment in recent years did not come on Welsh soil, nor did it occur in Copenhagen, but in
Manchester! An unlikely setting perhaps, but so the story goes…
On a humid Wednesday afternoon last September I hopped aboard a National Express bus bound from Leeds to Manchester. I was joined on this trip by two friends from Prestatyn, who now both reside in Leeds. Steve, who was in my class at school, is a Man United fan and recently got out of the army. His younger brother Mike is a Spurs supporter, yet his real allegiance lies with rugby not footy. The reason for this excursion, apart from to sample the creamy delights of Manchester, was to attend the (not so wonderful beer) Carling Masters Home Nations tournament that was being staged at the city’s Evening News Arena. 'The what?' - you might well proclaim! This is fair enough as I would not expect you to have heard of it, unless that is you happened to be watching Sky Sports that particular evening. If so, then I am sure you will not begrudge me reliving events from this tremendous night in Welsh football.
DEFINITION: The Carling Masters Home Nations was an indoor six-a-side football tournament comprising ex-professionals
(Over-35’s) from four participating teams: England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. The format would
see each nation play in a league format with the top two sides meeting up a second time for the grand final. Having previously enjoyed a boost in
financial fortunes on a fruit machine in Yates’ Wine Bar, I reluctantly splashed out on a £5 programme for the event on entering the arena. To my
delight I noticed that the first scheduled fixture was Wales v England. Oh, at this point I really should mention that the Potter brothers who
accompanied me to this footballing extravaganza have English roots - which are vehemently retained. They are only too pleased to
indulge in a few Welsh jibes at my expense whenever the opportunity may arise. For example, a
pathetic and much over-used favourite of theirs at the moment goes something like this, 'Oi Boyo, you see those two houses over there? Well that’s mine
in the middle see?' Hilarious. As luck would have it, I’ve had the last laugh in recent times. Mike had trotted round to my house with the intention
of blatantly gloating over the Five Nations decider a couple of years back when Quinnell spoiled his fun by storming over the line to
deny his allies' success - making Scotland instead the ever so grateful champions. Naturally
I took the **** all that day and night.
Anyway, after that pleasant diversion I return to the point of this
article. Having purchased pint and pop-corn (it was quite a family occasion) we took our seats for this crunch opening tie. Prior to kick-off I saw
Mickey Thomas juggling the ball - and then Joey Jones emerged. It appeared that from the squad of 11 players that these two would be among the six
Welsh players to get the first game underway. I gave out a cry of 'OH JOEY, JOEY, JOEY…!' The man himself looked rather astonished at exactly what he
was hearing. He gave a disbelieving look around the arena until he focused in on my clenched fist halfway up the seating. The trademark signal was
customarily returned to the Potter brothers' amazement - and chuckles from all the English, and a couple of Irish fans, sat around us. I happened to
glance at the England right-back Kenny Sansom - all 5ft 8 and I4st 10lb of him - and in an urge of excitement I mumbled: 'We’re goin’ to beat you, we’
re going to beat you!' - mumbled a little louder the second time. No you're not, or something along those lines, was their reply, courtesy of my mate.
Within a couple of seconds the banter had been settled over a £10 bet. Now we were in
business. So, with the bet adding a matter of personal pride to the looming passion of national pride, I asked myself: With all the
ex-Wrexham players out there, had I succumbed once more to the kind of deranged bias that usually sees me place a ‘l’ or ‘2’ for a
Wrexham victory on a William Hill football coupon week-in, week-out? Kick off. The game blasted into action at a ferocious pace and before I had
the opportunity to think of which song I could do a solo rendition of, we had fallen behind to a well-worked close- range
shot. However, the assured grin on Steve’s face was soon to be wiped away as Wales quickly equalised. I
was far too relieved to notice who had scored and I was still reeling in ecstasy to appreciate the build-up to our next goal. This was followed in
quick succession by another, and finally a fourth, before the interval whistle sounded. I had witnessed Wales' finest- ever eight minutes during
a ‘football match’…and the compound time in which all this had occurred finally lay to rest the bitterness of an away day at Port Vale
some years back when Wrexham, who had defended very well up to half-time against a
promotion- calibre side, conceded three goals in three minutes early in the second-half. Watching a team capable of such unlimited depths of ****ness
has an effect on a typical supporter's perception of the game - so back to the game in hand. I was taking nothing for granted, appreciating that if
Wales could score four goals in such a short space of time, what was stopping England doing likewise in the second half? The answer of course was
Big Nev - but only just. True enough, the English did manage a fightback but fortunately for the Welshies this only culminated in two
goals taking the scoreline to 4-3. We had won. As the full-time whistle sounded, I rushed off
to get the beer in and as a result missed the beginning of the next match between the Paddies and the Jocks - captained respectively by Ray Houghton
and Gordon Strachan.
The news on the grapevine was that Bryan Robson had failed to lead out the English side as arranged because at the time he was otherwise engaged getting Juninhio right ****** up in Spain so he would re-sign for Middlesbrough. Everything comes at a price! And if that rumour was correct - I am sure it was, at least partially - then Captain Marvel took a little over two weeks to complete his mission! While on the topic of old Manchester United boozy boys, I turn to Paul McGrath who as ever gave a very solid performance, unlike another of Fergie’s victims, Gordon Strachan. The funniest thing at the event, aside from Joey’s mistimed challenges, was the fiery Scotsman’s antics. I remember Strachan as a player; he had a nice touch (when not on his on goalline in a Charity Shield match) and not particularly an aggressive kind of midfielder. Who can forget the moment he scored for Scotland in the World Cup and couldn’t make it over the advertisement boards. How cute (cue the satirical laughter). Well, what the hell has happened to him of late? Something of an image makeover; he’s always sulking, ranting and throwing wobblers and nothing was spared at this ‘light-hearted’ event. He gave his side a right ********** after they slumped to a 4-1 defeat to the Irish and came out for their next game against England so fired up that when Waddle nutmegged him…he stomped up and down on the spot to a chorus of laughter around the arena which, sure thing, made him even more annoyed. Yet his enthusiasm paid dividends.
Wales may not have won the 'league' phase, but we did make it into the Grand Final of the tournament. In the final Ireland took a first-half lead through the tournament's star player, Bernie Slaven (although my personal choice was Bryan Flynn - who never gave the ball away and was always in space to retrieve a pass from a colleague in a spot of bother). However, halfway through the second half we equalised courtesy of Alan Curtis, before Rushie, with just seconds remaining, scored his first goal for over 15 months from a tight angle having appeared to have pushed the ball too far past the keeper. The title had been clinched for Wales. However, Wales' overall success in the Grand Final was just a bonus. As Stereophonics sing: 'As long as we beat the English, I don’t care'.