28th April 1992, perhaps not a remarkable day.

In fact, compared to 1914 and 1960 not a remarkable day in the history of Burnley Football Club. In comparison to my wedding day and the birth of my son perhaps not a remarkable day in my life. However, 28th April 1992 was the day Burnley were crowned Champions of the Fourth Division. It is also a day referred to on many occasions in our house.

28th April 1992, a pleasant Spring morning. I had taken the whole day off work. I had picked up a toe injury, probably playing football at the weekend. It was fairly painful when I put my shoes on, but I didn�t worry too much. I went to my girlfriend�s house. She also had an injury, a thigh muscle she had pulled playing squash. OK when she was moving around but prone to tighten up when she was in the same position for too long.

We made our way to the station and caught the train to York. Fairly early on a Tuesday morning, more empty seats than I imagined was normal, plenty of room to stretch out in comfort. We decided to have a look around York in the afternoon, filled the time easily, museum was good, was that a replica of coach that took the Clarets to Crystal Palace in 1914?

As the afternoon wore on, we became aware that York was filling up with trans-Pennine travellers at an alarming rate. In a rare moment of sound judgement in matters related to awayday travel arrangements, I decided we ought to make our way to the ground; by now it was around 5.30 pm. As we neared Bootham Crescent, every shop and pub seemed to be overflowing with Claret & Blue. It was (hopefully) going to be party-time, and as no tickets had been issued beforehand, everybody had decided to come.

There was an air of expectancy but also apprehension, Burnley a point clear at the top with three games to go were not yet assured of promotion. A point would do the trick, a win would bring the championship but defeat would give fresh hope to the chasing pack. The spectre of the play-off lottery, where our promotion challenge had floundered last year, still loomed large.

This game should never have carried such significance. But for the tragic death of Burnley youngster Ben Lee in a freak accident at Turf Moor, the game would have slipped less conspicuously into the busy month of March. That postponement, as a mark of respect, meant that the Clarets had been left with a fixture backlog which was not cleared until after the season had officially finished. As it turned out the Clarets went into this game having already won nine times on their travels (for those younger fans I should point out that an �away-win� is where Burnley play at a ground other than Turf Moor and score more goals than the opposition) scoring 32 times in the process. So there was every reason to be confident. York had a reasonable home record, but they were still hovering around the bottom four.

By the time we got to the ground the place was buzzing and it was still more than an hour and a half before kick-off. The team coach arrived. Roger Eli was first off, happy to oblige the autograph hunters but unhappily suited and booted. We soon learnt that he hadn�t recovered his fitness and wasn�t playing. In a season where a good half a dozen players were outstanding, Roger Eli was exceptional. He weighed in with around fifteen goals and surely would have scored more but for injury limiting his opportunities. He was brave, strong, awkward and good in the air. With his appearance and physique he would have looked at home in the West Indian pace attack. What�s more, the story about him singing �No Nay Never� pissed (allegedly) on the table of a Morecombe nightclub, whether true or not, made him a hero.

The players having entered the ground, we did likewise. The away end soon filled to capacity and there were obviously huge numbers still trying to get in. I don�t know if it�s still there but in the right-hand corner of the ground was a one storey flat-roofed building, probably a groundsman�s workshop. Anyway about twenty fans had managed to get on the roof. The police, who did a good job bearing in mind they were more used to a Nissan Micra full of supporters when Exeter were the visitors, told these lads to get down. The lads argued that (despite having got up there unaided) they needed a ladder to get down. In a short while a ladder was produced. The policeman climbed on to the roof and shepherded the fans down, ensuring they were all off. Unfortunately for him, the last man off decided to take the ladder away, leaving the embarassed young P.C. stranded. Fortunately, due to the good-natured mood of the evening, he was soon rescued as the ladder returned, climbing down to loud and no doubt embarrasing cheers.

There was no way the game could start on time. The police proceeded to move the home fans from two areas of the ground to create extra room for the travelling hordes. Fortunately everybody was looking forward to a party and the weather was great, so no-one from East Lancashire was too worried about what was going on. After the second postponement of the scheduled kick-off, the teams finally emerged a little after eight o�clock to a fantastic reception. It was more like a home match with the York supporters confined to one end of the ground. Jimmy Mullen was visibly moved.

As for the game itself, the whole atmosphere and the air of expectation seemed to affect Burnley in the first half; they never really reproduced the kind of fluent attacking football that had been their trademark over the past six or seven months. As is often the case, York, to whom the result effectively meant nothing, lifted themselves by the occasion and played nothing like a team languishing near the foot of the table.

Just before half-time, Burnley �keeper David Williams was only able to parry a Jon McCarthy drive and the loose ball fell at the feet of Dean Blackstone, who had the simple task of slotting the ball into an unguarded net. The mood of the crowd, well about three-quarters of it anyway, became more apprehensive. My good lady and I thought about making our way back to the station as the delayed kick-off meant that we were almost certain to miss our train. Thankfully, common sense prevailed.........Sod the train!

As the second half wore on, Burnley started to treat this just like any other game that season and began to assert their authority. The equalising goal resulted from a speculative Mike Conroy through-ball which Dean Kiely badly misjudged. He came too far and lost an aerial duel with Robbie Painter. In the goalmouth scramble that ensued, John Deary, tirelessly supporting the strikers from midfield, smashed the ball into the roof of the net. Kiely, angry with himself, swung a boot at the jubilant Robbie Painter. Deary, in true style, decided to sort out Kiely before celebrating his priceless strike. Whilst pandemonium broke out on the terraces, Deary was giving his name to the referee.

The whole atmosphere inside the ground changed. The relief was massive. Promotion was now virtually assured. At last we were leaving Division Four. Everything was set up for a party. All we needed was the winning goal. I think we would have settled with the draw all the same, but well into injury-time a York attack broke down and Burnley attacked down their left flank. Mike Conroy got wide and beat his marker with a clever turn, he crossed low and John Francis netted from six yards. Players and supporters celebrated as one. John Francis almost scaled the fence to get into the away terrace. It was so close to time that it was only a question of when the inevitable pitch invasion would commence. The final whistle blew. It was the nearest thing I could imagine to the end of a prison sentence. Surely no team of our stature and size has ever under -achieved for such a long period. My mind scanned the previous seven years and some dismal days. The worst? For me, a mind-numbing 1-0 defeat at Lincoln in their shed of a ground the year before. The game was played in January 1991, during the Gulf War, the Clarets pushing for a play-off place were playing for a 0-0 from the start. Lincoln were one of those teams who demolished half their ground before realising that they hadn�t got the money or planning permission to put anything in its place. As one guy commented:
"We�ve come t�only place in Britain hit by t�Scud Missile!"

But that kind of day was surely now a thing of the past, we had only the future and Division Two to look forward to. We didn�t bother to go onto the pitch. From our position high on the terrace we had a perfect view of the celebrations including the inevitable re-appearance of the team and the manager. It all came to an end too quickly. How can you possibly express your feelings at the release from seven years of football hell in a few short minutes?

We made our way slowly out of the ground, trying to soak up every last drop of atmosphere. The transition into the streets of York was a smooth one. The party continued. Cars and coaches awash with claret and blue, horns sounding made their way towards the A64. Hardly a local in sight as the the place was alive with singing and dancing.

Eventually we made our way to the station. Unfortunately it was now a time for practicalities - getting home!

28th April 1992, 10.45pm, York Station was not exactly full to bursting with trains waiting to carry the happy hordes back home. Everybody we spoke to had missed thier train. A couple of lads decided their best option was to try their luck on the overnight sleeper to Aberdeen that had just arrived. Their theory was to get on, have a sleep, get off at Newcastle, get on a south bound train, have a sleep, get off at York and catch the early morning train back towards East Lancashire.

Those of us waiting for our scheduled trains laughed at the idea. I could put up with waiting another hour or so for the next train to Doncaster that would connect-up and get us home. I just about sold this idea to the good lady as the temperature was dropping and the immediate euphoria of the evening was just beginning to drop-off slightly. Midnight arrived but our train didn�t. Apart from us there was a guy trying to get back to Scunthorpe who wanted the same train. We decided to find out what was going on.

When we got hold of a guy who must have been a guard or something , he helpfully told us that the train had apparently skulked away from some obscure platform in a dingy corner of the station and not come through the East Coast main-line as scheduled. Why this happened and why no announcement was made remains a mystery, but unbelievably the Station Manager admitted the fault was with British Rail and organised a taxi to take us to Doncaster in an attempt to link up with the train.

The taxi driver embarked on his task with some determination. Occasionally all four wheels touched the A1 at the same time. Despite this magnificent effort, the train still eluded us. The guy from Scunthorpe somehow managed to persuade the taxi driver to take him home. We, meanwhile, were left with the prospect of night in not so �Sunny� Donny.

No train until 5.00am. They had at least left the heating on and we managed to find an indoor waiting room. As we settled on our luxurious wooden benches we both realised that the sporting injuries we had both shrugged off earlier in the day weren�t very well suited to the conditions. We occasionally lapsed into unconsciousness, however freight trains full of coal, chemicals or similar passed through regularly on the half-hour. Eventually the 5.00am train arrived, we got home and went to bed at about 6.30am.

Amazingly my girlfriend subsequently married me (my best man even managed to arrange for Jimmy Mullen and all the boys to send me a card!) 28th April 1992, therefore, was a remarkable day. It must rank as the finest day the Clarets have enjoyed in fifteen years. It is certainly the most emotional day I have experienced as a lifelong Burnley supporter. Furthermore, if ever I am less than keen to do anything, my wife reminds me of what she went through on that day, ("for me" as she describes it) and who, of those present at Bootham Crescent on 28th April 1992, can disagree that this a very powerful argument?

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