On 14 May, I’ll be at Wembley with Liverpool for the umpteenth time. Some 48 years after my first visit, the magic remains. But you never forget the first time. In the spirit of Cup Final Fever, here’s the story of a teenager’s big day out.
It was May 1974 and so far this year we’d seen a Turkish Airlines flight from Paris to London crash in woods outside Paris killing all 346 passengers; Japanese officer Hiroo Onoda had finally surrendered, 29 years after the end of World War 2; Volkswagen had launched a new car called the Golf, a newfangled hatchback; and Abba had won Eurovision with Waterloo. ‘Probably the last we’ll ever hear of them’ I thought. Some people used Eurovision for serious purposes - the Portuguese entry doubled as a secret signal that launched a left wing military coup back home that ended 41 years of dictatorship. Although I was still too young to vote, Harold Wilson was back as PM, having narrowly beaten Ted Heath. With beer at 20p a pint and petrol 50p a gallon the UK remained ‘the sick man of Europe’, as we’d been labelled. Yet the only thing that mattered to me was the Mighty Reds were going to Wembley and I’d got a ticket.
Those early days of May I tried desperately to stick to my revision timetable with A levels starting in less than a month. But all week there were TV specials and news articles looking forward to the FA Cup Final. Even Radio 1 were playing two singles released to coincide with the event. Liverpool band The Scaffold was poet Roger McGough, comic John Gorman and musical entertainer Mike McGear - not his real name, his brother Paul McCartney had provided backing along with Wings on ‘Liverpool Lou’, an Irish folk song I’d heard Mum singing when I was little. From the North East came ‘Jarrow Song’ by Alan Price, former keyboard player with The Animals, something he’d written to raise awareness of the Jarrow Crusade in 1936, when 200 men marched the 280 miles from Jarrow to Parliament to highlight the collapse of industry on Tyneside during the Great Depression. As an old boy of Jarrow Grammar School, it clearly meant something to him and told the story brilliantly. Naturally it chimed with the strong socialist mentality of both cities.
On Cup Final day, this highly excited 17 year old set off early from Whitchurch with a friend and his dad. My mate Stephen had been with me throughout the season but lost out on the voucher system and so began a lifetime’s frustration with the inequities of ticket distribution. The M6 was a sea of red and white, the service stations heaving with supporters brimful of anticipation. Merging with the M1 meant joining the black and white of Newcastle. Fuelled by centre forward Malcolm Macdonald’s boasts about what he’d do to us, their fans were full of good friendly banter. Turning into Wembley Way, seeing the mass of people shuffling towards the stadium, flags and banners waving in the breeze, and the famous twin towers ahead, it was exhilarating. From the sea of heads there was animated shouting and sporadic outbreaks of singing. Burgers, hot dogs and sizzling onions filled my nostrils.
“Cam on, gentle-men! Get your Souvenir Cap Final programmes, only 15p! Thass three shillin’ in case you lot in the north ain’t been decimalised yet.”
“F**king hell, it’s Dick Van Dyke!”
“Hey, soft lad, where’s Mary Poppins?”
“Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-ee!
A sweep is as lucky, as lucky can be…”
The Cockney programme seller had a big grin on his face. And all the lads giving him stick queued up and bought one off him. The hum and thrum of the congregation shuffling towards their place of worship conveyed hope, possibility and expectancy. Students earned an extra quid or two by thrusting out leaflets promoting the Alan Price and Scaffold records.
After my two travelling companions went to find their entrance, I found myself staring up at those large turrets a few storeys up. Liverpool fans who’d been through the turnstiles and arrived at that level, had knotted together a chain of flags and dropped it down. Lads were using it to scale the walls to get in. This was replicated further along the wall and a guy who’d ate all the pies hung precariously as he fought valiantly against Newton’s Law of Gravitation, desperately trying to haul himself up into the famous old stadium. Nobody fell, not while I was watching. Five minutes later I clicked through the turnstiles and made my way up the steps. Seeing the pitch for the first time it was a lush carpet of green, like a huge snooker table - unlike League pitches in those days, which by May would have barely any grass left in the six yard boxes and the centre circle. My spec was behind the goal to the right of the tunnel as you face the pitch. Perfect.
We made ourselves heard as the teams came out to inspect the surface, the Band of the Royal Marines drowned out by two of the noisiest sets of supporters you’d find. A bit of marching was followed by an invitation 3,000m race for men, using the running track that went round the pitch. Surprise, surprise, it was won by Brendan Foster, the world record holder for two miles, who just happened to be a Geordie from Gateshead and who ran in a black and white striped shirt. Undeterred, we sang ‘Abide With Me’ led by Bruce Forsyth and I found it unexpectedly moving. I thought about my mate who’d been unable to find a ticket and wished he was here singing with me.
At last the teams emerged. The noise reached a crescendo and was sustained as they walked to the half way line, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Liverpool were led out by Bill Shankly, looking super smart, wearing a bright pink shirt with a red pocket square. Very dapper. The players and staff were introduced to Princess Anne and the Duke of Kent. Track suit tops tossed aside, it was time for kick off.
Thanks to the 100,000 crowd you couldn’t hear the referee whistle to signal the start but we were away. An even first 20 minutes, Liverpool gradually asserted themselves. ’Supermac’ - or ’Supermouth’ as we called him - had hardly seen the ball. MacDonald was thick set, muscular, a mop of dark hair with big sideburns, a powerful front man with a deadly left foot. Against him was young Phil Thompson, inexperienced but highly talented, blonde, tall and spindly - according to Shankly “he’d tossed up with a sparrow for legs and lost”. We moved the ball well on the greasy surface, supporting each other, winning the ball back quickly when we lost it. Newcastle’s early promise through Hibbit and Terry McDermott was fading. Hibbit was pushed further back, constantly forced onto his lesser right foot; McDermott was put in his place by a crunching Phil Thompson tackle, even if it was late and gave away a free kick. Both Thommo and Terry Mac were boyhood Reds from Kirkby. By half time we were well on top with no reward.
Fleeced by the Wembley prices, the sound of the Geordies singing ‘Blaydon Races’ reverberated round the stadium. We began the second half strongly. Full backs Smith and Lindsay were finding space on the flanks as Hall and Heighway drew the opposing full backs infield. Then a big moment. ‘Jinky’ Jim Smith advanced towards the half way line on our left but jinked no more when he was firmly dispossessed by Alec Lindsay, who brought the ball forward. Approaching a defender outside the corner of the area, he played it to Keegan, who cushioned it back into his path inside the box. From a tight angle Lindsay thumped a left foot volley past McFaul high into the net. What a goal! Oh no - the linesman’s flag was up, the ref had disallowed it. The linesman had flagged Keegan offside. Was this a sign it wasn’t our day? No matter, we simply stepped it up and turned the screw. Soon after, Tommy Smith was played into space on the right, his cross was dummied by Hall and reached Keegan. Chesting the ball down, he turned and rifled a volley that McFaul got a hand to but couldn’t keep out. At last, we were in front. Delirium on the terraces. Liverpool’s efficiency in closing down their opponents and in their ‘pass and move’ football denied Newcastle any chance of recovery.
It took until 15 minutes from the end before a second goal arrived via route one. Clemence kicked long, Toshack rose to head on, Heighway controlled the ball and rounded the defender in one movement, then swept a cross shot right to left into the bottom corner. Time for some exhibition stuff and we’d saved the best until last. In a move involving eleven passes and seven players, it concluded with Smith exchanging with Hall on the right, a one-two with Heighway took him to the bye-line and his low pinpoint cross eluded all except Keegan at the back post who stabbed in his second.
It crowned a great display perfectly in that Tommy Smith and Kevin Keegan were the game’s outstanding performers, the Anfield Iron showing off his football ability from right back. As for Ian Callaghan, Mr Perpetual Motion now had another medal to add to his Footballer of the Year award. After all his talk, Macdonald had been anonymous. Young Phil Thompson gave his post-match verdict:
“What about ‘Supermac’ now? I’m going to take him home and put him on my mantelpiece for our kid to play with.”
So, the last ten cup finals having been won by a single goal, this had been impressively comprehensive. The players whose photos were plastered across my bedroom wall were led up the steps by Emlyn Hughes, displaying his trademark beaming grin to Princess Anne as he was presented with the trophy. The Kirkby lads swapped shirts and Thommo picked up a black and white striped bowler hat from somewhere for the parade of the Cup. The Geordies stayed inside the stadium to applaud everyone, even though they’d lost - sportsmanship that has largely disappeared. As our heroes approached, the band played ‘Congratulations’ - a long way from ‘One Kiss’. We showed our appreciation.
For me, this game appeared significant. Won on the wings without wingers, it was a blueprint for the future. Stylish, compact and expansive as circumstances demanded. Superb running off the ball meant the man in possession always had an angle or an option. Phil Thompson was a midfield player installed alongside Hughes at the heart of a back four designed to build play from the back. Bill Shankly explained his thinking in an interview with John Keith.
“We realised at Liverpool that you can’t score a goal every time you get the ball. And we learned this from Europe, from the Latin people. When they play the ball from the back they play in little groups. The pattern of the opposition changes as they change… So it’s cat and mouse for a while, waiting for the opening to appear before the final ball is let loose. It’s simple and it’s effective.”
And there was the template for the modern Liverpool, laid down by Shankly all those years ago. If Alf Ramsay was watching, only three days after being sacked as England manager, how he must have wished he’d had his team playing like this. Newcastle might have been distraught in defeat, but Terry Mac and 19 year old left back Alan Kennedy would both one day become Liverpool players and each would score vital goals in European Cup Finals. Life is full of upsets, it’s about how you respond.
Outside the ground, fans had mixed emotions as they traipsed through the discarded food cartons and leaflets, covered in footprints; plastic cups, bottles and cans strewn everywhere. Yet the Geordies were magnificent in defeat. Although one or two were crying, there were men applauding, telling us how good we’d been, how much we’d deserved to win. And many of these guys were wearing full Newcastle United football strips, one even wearing boots with studs in. What a day. Back in Whitchurch by around 10:30 and starving, I went to the High Street chippie. Ten minutes later, there was Stephen, loud and proud, happily drunk. We shared a big hug. I so wanted to tell him how good it had been but didn’t want to rub it in.
Many big Wembley games have since faded from my memory. Not this one. What none of us knew was that this would be Shankly’s last game in charge. Unthinkable. But if ever a performance could be a fitting tribute to the great man, this was it.
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