Stoke City verses Derby County, 22nd October 1995, the first game I saw at the Victoria Ground. I was thirteen and can remember the day, or at least parts of it, as if it was yesterday.
Living in West London I’d only been able to watch Stoke away from home, mostly at Brentford, my local team. I always felt like an infiltrator at Griffin Park, sitting alongside scornful, mocking home fans, secretly willing Stoke on. But that day in October was different, I was at home. As I walked to the ground with my dad and my brother, I felt I was marching with an army.
As we walked down narrow winding streets, terrace house after terrace house, we saw the Stoke goalkeeper, Mark Prudhoe, casually walk out the front door of one of the houses. With his kit bag under his arm he cheerfully joined the train of fans snaking its way towards the ground. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was it really him? My dad confirmed that it was Prudhoe. There were a few cheers for the Stoke goalie, a slap on the back, the odd message of good luck, but no-one seemed that surprised to see him.
Inside the ground, I remember the dark, wooden seats we sat on. I was used to the red plastic seats at Griffin Park. These wooden seats were thick and lined deep with time. They made the ground seem ancient; sacred even. I’d heard about all the old greats and their fantastic deeds, my dad had schooled me in them. Matthews, Greenhoff, Hudson, Banks. Waddington’s great team in the seventies. Now I was taking my place in the very same hallowed space. I can still remember the strong smell of tobacco and the thick, syrupy local accents, so different to what I knew. Strange, almost lyrical voices. Their words seemed to be glued together. I felt at home but knew I was separate still, just as different as I felt at Brentford.
As soon as the game kicked off I was back with the home supporters around me, as one. The thick, broad red and white striped shirts emblazoned with ‘Broxap’ in bold black letters across the chest. I’ll always remember the line-up that day, so many became favourites of mine. Prudhoe, Clarkson, Sandford, Sigurdsson, Overson, Potter, Keen, Wallace, Peschisolido, Carruthers, Gleghorn.
The game whizzed by. I remember watching Graham Potter on the left wing below us, taking on the Derby’s shiny-headed right back, Lee Carsley, shifting the ball from left foot to right foot and skipping past Carsley’s scything tackle. Potter’s wayward, spiralling cross and the Derby goalkeeper Hoult scampering back to tip the ball over the bar. I remember Ray Wallace flying into tackles, Nigel Gleghorn’s neat and tidy close range passes and Kevin Keen scampering up and down the right, probing and scheming.
My favourite player had always been Paul Peschisolido, even though I wasn’t quite sure how to say his name. Asking the lady behind the till in the club shop for a print-out of his official team photo had been a traumatic experience before the game. By the end of the game I had a new favourite player though: Graham Potter. I was drawn to his direct, uncomplicated endeavour that day, buzzing up and down the muddy left flank with his bouncing blond mop of hair, combining well with loping left back Lee Sandford. I also noticed the crowd were particularly impatient with him, groaning after missed passes. Perhaps they were unsure about him, he’d only just broken into the team after all. Their reactions only pulled me closer to him though. I wanted him to do well and willed him on whenever he got hold of the ball.
We scored in the second half in the goal furthest away from where we were sat, just on half way. It was a cracker, Gleghorn clipped over a free kick for Keen to volley first time from the edge of the box. The stand around me erupted, creating a great boom of sound that I thought would never break. I’d never experienced anything like it.
It was all going to plan. Derby hadn’t had a sniff at goal all game. Until injury time. A long arching ball down the middle parted the defence into two, and suddenly Robin Van der Laan, Derby’s ex Port Vale midfielder, was running clean through on goal. One against one, Van der Laan versus Prudhoe. The day had started with Prudhoe, we held our breath and prayed he would have the final word and save the three points.
It was like slow motion. The ball rolled gently into the corner of the goal and Van der Laan wheeled away in delight. I remember his funny celebration, rotating his arms over his head in a circular motion - but most of all I remember the sound of silence that followed. No-one said a word all around us, the entire stand had fallen silent. All I could hear was that chilling sound which all home fans dread to hear: the muffled, bottled-up hum of the away fans celebrating.
The Derby fans were delirious. I was completely crestfallen.
It was my first game at home. My first proper Stoke game. Despite the result, despite the late equaliser, I now felt like a proper Stoke supporter. I was a real ‘Stokie’. This was the game that started it all.Memory added on February 21, 2015
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