Boxing Day, 1975, Stamford Bridge. Charlton away to Chelsea. I was going to the match as a young girl, along with my dad and my sister's boyfriend, Charles. Charles is Scottish, a tall and imposing character, at the time working in London as a detective. Chelsea were his new, local team. Dad and I meekly followed as he led us to the stadium, through the turnstiles and straight into The Shed, the heart of Chelsea fanaticism.
“I guess we’d better keep very quiet when we score, Dad,” I whispered into his ear, stretching up on tiptoe.
“Chance will be a fine thing,” he muttered under his breath, as he pulled me round to position me safely right in front of him, tightly gripping my shoulders. I prized up his fingers and shrugged off his hands.
“I can’t jump up to see if you do that, Dad.”
“Well, what do we think,” said Charles loudly to all around, “3-0 to Chelsea?”
Dad and I exchanged a complicit glance, and glowered back at him. Strangers of motley shapes and sizes, but mainly wearing leather jackets, denims and Doc Marten boots, nodded back at this imposing character in their midst. “Yeah, no bother against this lot,” seemed to be the general opinion. Then the chanting, shouting and swearing started along with the match.
2-2 would have been a very respectable result, and probably a point more than Charlton really deserved, given the balance of play. But football is not always a fair game. A long punt from the Charlton goalie and finally the ball was in the Chelsea half. One lone Charlton player ambled after it. Two towering and imposing Chelsea players, goalie Peter Bonetti and centre half Eddie McCreadie, zoomed in, pincer-like. And collided. The ball ran free, leaving Derek Hales with the Chelsea goal at his mercy. Killer struck. Dad and I bit tongues, dug nails into hands and trod on our own feet in the interest of personal safety, whilst inwardly shouting with joy...against the odds, Charlton had triumphed over Chelsea...and we emerged unscathed from The Shed.
Heather
Memory added on October 22, 2013
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