Excerpt from the book Blue Moon by Mark Hodkinson
So quiet. Just the odd twitter of birds, otherwise a sleepy, sprawling silence. A church steeple rises in the distance above a cluster of trees. Potato crops are fanned by a cool breeze. There's not a soul around. This is the place to which football managers come home when all the kicking and screaming and stressing is finished. Joe Royle carries stress well. Win or lose, he'll have a laugh with the press lads - and we're all "lads", even the girls; they don't seem to mind. Look closely, though, when Manchester City have lost, and note the tilt of his head, or the way in which he holds his body as he leaves the room. Not quite slumped, but bowed, as if two of the four strings holding him upright have snapped.
Only now, as he dances across his driveway, a smile like car headlights in the darkness, does it become clear just how much stress he has been under. Job done, City promoted, he is a different man. He had spent the previous night at the home of Willie Donachie, City's head coach, after the staff promotion party. They are great friends, in the peculiarly devoted way of disparate personalities. It's easy to imagine the scenario after lights-out, both of them giddy: "We did it Willie, we bloody did it." "Och, Joe, will yer get ter sleep." It goes quiet for a minute.
Suddenly, two voices in unison: "Blue moon, I saw you standing alone ..." Seldom does football transcend the prosaic. It is routinely banal, predictable and monochrome: pass, tackle, pass, punt upfield, miscontrol, tackle, pass, throw-in, corner, pass, stay awake at the back. City's Nationwide League second division promotion play-off final against Gillingham last Sunday was thus, until one minute before the end of normal time. Then, for no good reason, football became your favourite record played at the youth-club disco; the night you first realised you were in love; the afternoon when - elbows in the breeze - you drove your first car; the birth of your first child. All these things. At once. At least. "It still feels surreal," Royle conceded. "I don't think anyone can believe we came back like that. We went through such a gamut of emotions. Someone clearly decreed that if we were to get promotion, it would have to be the hard way."
To recap, City, through Horlock and Dickov, made it 2-2 with goals in the ninetieth and 94th minutes, and then won a penalty shoot-out 3-1. Nicky Weaver, City's 20-year-old goalkeeper, saved two penalties and was so pleased with himself that his profuse and erratic celebrations drew concerned glances from members of the St John Ambulance Service.
As Royle has emphasised since, it should not have seemed such a big deal.
It was not a cup final, it was merely City completing a job of work that had
caused them unnecessary labour in the first place. "I think I seriously
underestimated how much it would mean to the fans. It was as if we had to
exorcise a lot of ghosts," he said. Much has been made of the delirium
at Wembley, but when Dickov's equaliser hit the roof of the net, there was
briefly an extraordinary silence. Supporters were apoplectic, unable to believe
their eyes. Shirt-sleeves were tugged, affirmation was required.
"Did I just see what I think I saw just then?" "Well I saw
it, too."
Strangers hugged like brothers, children were lifted off their feet; a blue
moon had risen.
The season was long and arduous for City. At Christmas, they were twelfth, the stroll had become a six-mile hike, uphill. "It was as if all the other teams were out to ambush us," Royle said. "They played so much above themselves it was unbelievable. We'd have them watched the week before we were due to play them and the report I'd get back would be worthless.
Likewise, we noticed their results for their next match and they would invariably lose. I had a few low moments, but I never doubted that we had the players who could do the job." The run of form that Royle had defiantly forecast duly arrived and they lost just twice in their final 24 matches of the normal season. He was dreading the play-offs and did everything possible to maintain an air of normality. The squad stayed in their usual London hotel for the match at Wembley, arriving just the day before and leaving for the ground as late as possible. He kept his pre-match pep-talk to just three or four minutes on Sunday; all the preparation had been done. "I always try to keep a cool head during the game, but I must say that was the most dramatic match I have ever been involved with," Royle said.
When City conceded the first goal, Royle's 28-year-old son, Lee, was too
distressed to remain in the stadium. Distraught, he headed back to the
hotel, a walk breaking into a dash for the television as various cabbies relayed
the sequence of goals. Back on the pitch, Royle gathered his players just
before extra time. "I just told them: 'We've got them here, we've got
them'," Indeed they had.
Within seconds of Weaver's match-winning save, Royle was approached by a Wembley official. He wondered if City minded prolonging their on-pitch celebrations while they cleared the stadium of Gillingham fans. "I told him I didn't think that would be a problem!" Then, in the midst of the noise and madness, Royle slipped away quietly to the dressing-room with Donachie for a can of beer and a few moments of reflection.
Over the next few weeks, there will be more time for reflection. Royle will walk his three labradors through the country lanes around his home. He plans a holiday in Sardinia. Donachie is also going away, for three weeks. When he returns, the two pals will soon be on the phone to one another: "We did it, Willie, we bloody did it."